hazings Dec 2014
"are you okay?"
yeah.
"are you sure?"
yes.
"are you telling the truth?"
oh trust me, im lying.
Justina Ikehi Mar 2013
Home that's where I go
To recalibrate
To recoup lost energies
To recount all those tales
That filtered in so much lies
To the sea by the shore
Traipsing on the sand
Salty air clears the head
Of false thoughts lingering near
On the bed under clean sheets
Looking at excel worksheets
Joggling figures in thousands and millions
Trying to close in all the gaps
All but creative accounting lies
With books under wraps is hidden more lies
Officers here to uncover gave up their find
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2013
For veterans day

she posted a note

I wrote this for a Irioc vet's wife it wasn't what she said this was my interputation when she said you don't know me you only know what I let you know to me it was a person hurting trying to be tough



Telling

The telling by night and day she stands in the dark glen her
Thoughts and troubles make the surroundings turn from airy to thermo brooding dark and mastic a
Black stallion stands near with its hostile significance obvious as a nightmare colt now full grown it paws
The ground deep and wildly like her own thoughts the night changes from different shades of black as
She reels in the tumult that varied troubles bring the wind begins to rise the branches begin a violent
Torrent of complaint great torment is displayed outward calm belies the war within how quickly time
Changes things long ago in another time and place blue and white clouds could be seen through the
Blazing foliage an aura highlighted splendor tinged all elements that were in conscious view the black
Stallion was replaced by the grey gentle even the face gave wonderful expressive peacefulness its stance
Was as if it gave an outline to mellow you could see her standing as in an arching trellised gate blossoms
Now gently blow where before only thorns gleamed as lighting flashed and you could see in her eyes a
Wounded soul that had to bear up under sudden hardship not the kind you grow into but that which
You Are thrown into you have to leap to your feet and try to convince all onlookers you have control
While actually you are just a little terrified girl that must make great strides to become a woman of
Empowered senses the war front defenses are made now in the living room not in far away scarred
Lands soldiers are trained women are the soft spirits that must learn to make armor from brokenness
That is well fitted and enduring while she is the lone sentential in an emotional fragmented world you
Will find love is the greatest weapon in this hidden world where illusion of peace mocks openly but
Freedom is the stronghold of those that love peace and fair play for all.

I was given the ability to stand in the stormy wind that broke over her life her life and others like her are the defining torches blazing within outward glory leaps from the darkness in the crackling stillness home knows no greater spirit from the weight she bows and by this we are afforded a bridge that carries us even beyond Chattanooga I look at the bullet holes and think they put extra armor on tanks but they don't put in bullet proof glass there is no simple answers but this would be a great step to stop such cowardly acts enough tragedy befalls all who loves peace
celey Jul 2015
he's the kind of jackass
that tells you you're not special
without actually telling you
because he gives everybody
his 'fuck me' eyes
but you wouldn't want
to ever be special for him, anyway
Hal Loyd Denton Aug 2012
This was written for a young woman who posted she was having trouble being what she should be for her soldier husband who returned from Iraq.

Telling

The telling by night and day she stands in the dark glen her
Thoughts and troubles make the surroundings turn from airy to thermo brooding dark and mastic a
Black stallion stands near with its hostile significance obvious as a nightmare colt now full grown it paws
The ground deep and wildly like her own thoughts the night changes from different shades of black as
She reels in the tumult that varied troubles bring the wind begins to rise the branches begin a violent
Torrent of complaint great torment is displayed outward calm belies the war with in how quickly time
Changes things long ago in another time and place blue and white clouds could be seen through the
Blazing foliage an aura highlighted splendor tinged all elements that were in conscious view the black
Stallion was replaced by the grey gentle even the face gave wonderful expressive peacefulness its stance
Was as if it gave an outline to mellow you could see her standing as in an arching trellised gate blossoms
Now gently blow where before only thorns gleamed as lighting flashed and you could see in her eyes a
Wounded soul that had to bear up under sudden hardship not the kind you grow into but that which
You Are thrown into you have to leap to your feet and try to convince all onlookers you have control
While actually you are just a little terrified girl that must make great strides to become a woman of
Empowered senses the war front defenses are made now in the living room not in far away scarred
Lands soldiers are trained women are the soft spirits that must learn to make armor from brokenness
That is well fitted and enduring while she is the lone sentential in an emotional fragmented world you
Will find love is the greatest weapon in this hidden world where illusion of peace mocks openly but
Freedom is the stronghold of those that love peace and fair play for all.
AS Jul 2011
An empath and a mirror walk into a bar

and the empath says

I see myself in you.


Let me buy you too much wine and

kiss your collarbones and

twiddle my fingers on your skull.



and the mirror says,

Yehoshua (what a beautiful name)

Yehoshua, the prophet. I am so tired

of doing the right thing

My knees are sore I

want

my field of poppies.



So the Prophet says You can rest in my field

if you let me know you, the parts you keep

tied to your hips like bells, or like weights

that clinking prisoner's hymn strapped to your chest.

Know that I know you, even

the parts you left unsaid (Especially those.)


He says  

I want to have

my parents' strength.

I want a stranger to vomit in my bed.

I want to crawl into your head and hurt you with

your reflection. Open up your mouth and

I can put the words in myself, but I can't promise my

tongue won't taste like 20 years of forged metal

(And I

can't promise every pretty girl in town doesn't have

my metallic tinge behind her teeth.)



(So she says)

Why can't you stay still?

(and the Prophet says)

I'm always running late

(and she says)

*I've stopped running
Nickols Sep 2013
The old forgotten unwound clock
                                                         is still at least right,
                                                          ­                                twice in one day.
Short and honest
Luna Nov 2014
not roses nor tulips
not the smell of the wind rushing through your face
on the first day of spring
not the smell of newly cut grass
that fills your lungs with a new day

freshly squeezed orange juice
in the country side
not lemonade
even with the aid
of the scent a bright summer's day

not lazy sunday morning
when the rain would fall
and you'd scurry to the crook of your bed where you body fits
perfectly

not the earthy scent
of bonfires when the sun shys
from the twilight sky

not the afternoon walk you take
with all the time you have to yourself
you see a butterfly
it flutters
and you suddenly feel it in your stomach again

not even the scent of that four-letter-word in the air
can compare
and even above
all of that, i'm telling you
nothing smells better
than the person you love
how was i even capable to creating such cheese
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
The telling by night and day she stands in the dark glen her
Thoughts and troubles make the surroundings turn from airy to thermo brooding dark and mastic a
Black stallion stands near with its hostile significance obvious as a nightmare colt now full grown it paws
The ground deep and wildly like her own thoughts the night changes from different shades of black as
She reels in the tumult that varied troubles bring the wind begins to rise the branches begin a violent
Torrent of complaint great torment is displayed outward calm belies the war with in how quickly time
Changes things long ago in another time and place blue and white clouds could be seen through the
Blazing foliage an aura highlighted splendor tinged all elements that were in conscious view the black
Stallion was replaced by the grey gentle even the face gave wonderful expressive peacefulness its stance
Was as if it gave an outline to mellow you could see her standing as in an arching trellised gate blossoms
Now gently blow where before only thorns gleamed as lighting flashed and you could see in her eyes a
Wounded soul that had to bear up under sudden hardship not the kind you grow into but that which
You Are thrown into you have to leap to your feet and try to convince all onlookers you have control
While actually you are just a little terrified girl that must make great strides to become a woman of
Empowered senses the war front defenses are made now in the living room not in far away scarred
Lands soldiers are trained women are the soft spirits that must learn to make armor from brokenness
That is well fitted and enduring while she is the lone sentential in an emotional fragmented world you
Will find love is the greatest weapon in this hidden world where illusion of peace mocks openly but
Freedom is the stronghold of those that love peace and fair play for all.
White dawn. Stillness.When the rippling began
          I took it for sea-wind, coming to our valley with rumors
          of salt, of treeless horizons. But the white fog
didn't stir; the leaves of my brothers remained outstretched,
unmoving.
                    Yet the rippling drew nearer – and then
my own outermost branches began to tingle, almost as if
fire had been lit below them, too close, and their twig-tips
were drying and curling.
                              Yet I was not afraid, only
                              deeply alert.
I was the first to see him, for I grew
                    out on the pasture slope, beyond the forest.
He was a man, it seemed: the two
moving stems, the short trunk, the two
arm-branches, flexible, each with five leafless
                                        twigs at their ends,
and the head that's crowned by brown or golden grass,
bearing a face not like the beaked face of a bird,
                    more like a flower's.
                              He carried a burden made of
some cut branch bent while it was green,
strands of a vine tight-stretched across it. From this,
when he touched it, and from his voice
which unlike the wind's voice had no need of our
leaves and branches to complete its sound,
                                        came the ripple.
But it was now no longer a ripple (he had come near and
stopped in my first shadow) it was a wave that bathed me
                    as if rain
                              rose from below and around me
                    instead of falling.
And what I felt was no longer a dry tingling:
                    I seemed to be singing as he sang, I seemed to know
                    what the lark knows; all my sap
                              was mounting towards the sun that by now
                              had risen, the mist was rising, the grass
was drying, yet my roots felt music moisten them
deep under earth.

                    He came still closer, leaned on my trunk:
                    the bark thrilled like a leaf still-folded.
Music! There was no twig of me not
                              trembling with joy and fear.

Then as he sang
it was no longer sounds only that made the music:
he spoke, and as no tree listens I listened, and language
                    came into my roots
                              out of the earth,
                    into my bark
                              out of the air,
into the pores of my greenest shoots
          gently as dew
and there was no word he sang but I knew its meaning.
He told me of journeys,
          of where sun and moon go while we stand in dark,
          of an earth-journey he dreamed he would take some day
deeper than roots ...
He told of the dreams of man, wars, passions, griefs,
          and I, a tree, understood words – ah, it seemed
my thick bark would split like a sapling's that
                              grew too fast in the spring
when a late frost wounds it.

                                        Fire he sang,
that trees fear, and I, a tree, rejoiced in its flames.
New buds broke forth from me though it was full summer.
          As though his lyre (now I knew its name)
          were both frost and fire, its chords flamed
up to the crown of me.
          I was seed again.
                    I was fern in the swamp.
                                        I was coal.
Love In Hiding Jul 2013
Standing barefoot on cold floors, i watch the plant in the window as i swallow the white capsule whose job it is to terminate the throbbing in my membrane, and i am a spinning blur, and i am wondering can you hear the voices that are screaming out of me at this time.

at this moment, the rain has stopped and i am finished with my deed, the window looks like  soil with paint thrown into watery waves.
walking back to my territory, i drop on both knees, suddenly and face first i fall into the couches cushion. repeats: "take me out of here take me out of here take me out here." until my breaths gives up on playing dead, and my face is purple and red.
I stand on wobbly knees, face feeling like a Southern summer day, I am thinking of you  and I move on.
Kurt Kanawa May 2014
Jesus.
I have a huge dick
But I don't go around
Telling everyone about it.
"i'm cocky, alright."
Tom McCubbin Jul 2015
I tell the stillness
of an inner hand
to listen for the
celebration of clapping.

I tell a hand
that holds and spills
temple thoughts
to drink from a
pen of communion.

I tell an incomplete
fist to discontinue
angry tightening
and grasp the best
possible opposite.

I tell a bending
orchestra of knuckles
to discern the source,
and the difference
between imprisonment
and blessed solitude.

I tell a waving
wrist to genuflect
for the safe passage
of afternoon thunderstorms.

I tell a pointy index
to return the wild indication
to a form that is
acquainted and most
familiar.
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