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As summer bursts through its edges
with the promise of warmth,
endless days of reverie
and stretches of sunshine along the horizon,
the trees shiver with melancholy
as though their leaves anticipate
the chill of autumn
to fracture their very existence
only to be left  s c a t t e r e d
on the pavement
later swept away -
    kept away -
then bitten by the raw winter,
seizing the only
existing solace in spring
However fleet i n g
this consolation may be
Because as summer once more
avouches to bring euphoria
With it will come a desolation
that hasn't been hoped for
but nonetheless expected
It has become solely comparable
To the love that was lost
Among the whispered promises of forever
Like the thrumming of the raindrops
on a summer's night
Greetings, Hello Poetry! Happy to be here. It's nice.
Elizabeth Zenk Jul 2018
The distant thrumming
the rhymic ticking
a sound I used to hold dear.
washing away
the squeaks
the squawks
of a home too broken too share.
The taps
The tocks
of an old analog clock
washing my life to sleep.
Some can call to the wind,
Be entwined by its breezing,
Hear it whisper it’s thoughts.
Some can speak to the earth,
Feeling it’s thrumming pulse,
Hear it deep in their veins.
Some can converse with plants,
See them wave in the breeze,
Hear their sweet voices grow.
Some can whisper to water,
Control waves and rivers flow,
Hear the trickle of it whisk by.
Some can talk to the spirits,
They speak to those long gone,
Hear the echoes of memories.
There are those who have magic,
Those who have powers and skills,
Those who are helpful and knowledgeable.
I am not one of those people.
I have no skill, no power, no magic.
I am painfully dull, I am nothing.
I can not talk with spirits,
I can not control water,
I can not converse with plants,
I can not speak to the earth,
And I can not call to the winds.
I have nothing I can do.
I believe in magic and spirits.
But I’m hopeless and don’t have a clue.
veritas Dec 2018
you curl your fingers around the nape of the
passenger seat and the cold
metal stings but you can feel the
ghost of the prey brush your body
like the streetlights on the backseat last night
before you clutched the headrest and
you reach in the dark but
your hands miss the leather

the warm body heat of the car
thrumming up beneath you slams
your head into the dashboard where
the light turns from a bruised yellow to a crippled red
you are awake again
the steering wheel is cooler than you remember
smoother, sleeker, stealthy the wheel
will turn the predator around in a circle because
it seems to mimic itself where
in mimicry it is found
oh tyger tyger simmering out
you drive.
the gear shift does not obey when you
push it up rough and messy but it
locks in gear while you
wrap your fingers around the curve
and grind to a halt in the road
you cannot make this cliff.
the light in the dash blinks.
the trunk is opening and the vehicle is still moving
you roll down your window to ask the night a question in the glazed white of moonlight that is
so much like forgetting
will this road take me back to Del Sol and the Girl Who Lost Her Lover on Route 66?
she doesn't respond but
that is okay because the vehicle is still moving
and the leather is slick between your thighs
and you are going down
tonight you will descend.
the night will draw you home.
goodnight lover.
this was started out as two simultaneous stories but obvious i digressed (again?)
Sophie Oct 2018
It's been long enough, chained to you by my heart
My bones are sore beneath the weight of these bonds
I tried to shake you free with the loudest of drum beats
Running with pounding heart and thrumming feet
With the hope of losing that which was never given
I will run until my love for you leaks away into the night
A glittering trail that will mark my path into escape
I will free my soul and pluck you from my chest
When my lungs claw with starvation I shall not stop
Not until my love for you leaks away into the night
James Floss Sep 2018
A muscle in my metacarpal twitches
A metallic smell pervades the air
I think I hear a high-pitched whining
Hairs rise on my arms and neck

Heart rate slows
Thrumming in my ears
Pores perspiring
Pupils dilating

Something’s coming…
Or someone…
(Or something wrong?)
What!

Flight or fight has me
A finger twitches and
Eyes flicker
Stay or go?

STAY!
STAND!
BALANCE STANCE!
PREVAIL!
Atoosa Aug 24
Where my softness meets your hard body
Curve and angle merge to one uneven line of truth
Your arms entwine and protect me -even from myself
Melodies pulse in the open window... echoes of our reawakened youth
Savor the thrill of your heartbeat thrumming against my breast
Passion flows and overwhelms me but I come tumbling as you fall
"I'm yours only" you breathe, your eyes blazing with candle flame
Earnest gifts of respect and loyalty in every whisper of my name
How can a heart be unmoved by such open offerings?
BB Tyler Aug 2018
they say
"absence makes the heart grow fonder"

that sad, beautiful music,
that thrumming in my chest
can only be played
when the heart strings
are taut
and strummed
by the long fingers
of memory

That sad, beautiful music
is heard
somewhere
by an audience
all sick with anticipation
.
.
.
unsoothed by the sound

I hear that music
when you are away
and my only consulations
are the poems that stay
the poems that come
unburdened to my mind

I, audience
holding my breath
gleaming
and the poem goes
and i'm left without enough words
to gum the grips
slack the strings
so the music plays on
Micah Apr 25
Most days

bleak

are just the tidal wave hum

of hands on a clock

Waiting to wake up

Waiting to go to work

Waiting to go home

to sleep

and I just want to be

wiped from existence

But I live

for the small moments

Watching strangers on the train

warmed

give soft kisses

A cook singing as the radio

thrumming

plays because he loves that song

A girl laughing

airy

at a book she's reading

Me daydreaming

breathless

about his hands

on my aching skin

Just

for the little moments
Pétra Hexter Nov 2018
A skeletal stag standing ten trees tall
Hanging moss adorning His wide antlers, patches of rocky lichen covering His driftwood bones
Large cloven hooves stepping carefully yet purposefully among the bleached remains littering the forest floor
He alone reigns here, in this place beneath ours
Even the pines fall silent as He passes
Even the stones
The air is old here
Thick with a power lost to time
Only He is left; a dimming flicker in a collective consciousness
Keeping a lonely vigil in an ancient forest a thousand miles deep and a hand's width beside us
No breath is drawn here
The soft rattling of His timber ribcage is the sole sound as He moves
Ceaselessly
Without rest
To a place always changing, never quite there
The ossuaries lay in a heavy silence
He assures the eternal slumber of all who rest here
The hollows in His skull seem to observe them, undisturbed
He moves on
His name has been forgotten for millennia
This sacred ground has become but a fleeting memory
Few old gods remain, lost to the quickening of time
He remembers, as He stands keeper of this place
Of an age before ours
When they would polish the skulls of the hunt with holy oils in His name
Dancing wildly and unburdened around towering flames
Primal sounds ripping raw from reverent lips
Now He is all but a wavering in the annals
He pauses in His endless march
Raises His great antlers to the thick canopy above
He listens
Feels the shift -- another one has faded
He will most likely be the last of His kind
A somber sentinel tasked with ensuring the dead wake not from their final sleep
Ensuring the silence is suffocating
A deep, weighted vibration
As if the place under ours was itself thrumming with power
Though none remain who once spoke His true name in fearful whispers
He will outlast
For all will eventually come to know
The one they now call death
I don't slam well on love
It slams on me
A drumming thrumming arrhythmia
Ba-bump ba-bump ba--- bump-ba-bump
A little loss here is a little gain there
Only, it doesn't work that way
My stopwatch heart hiccups then echoes
Like odd flats and sharps
Seemingly out of place among the expected
A beat that needs to be acquired over several listenings
Like a new food that needs to be tasted up to 12 times
Before you can truly decide if you like it.
It take more than 3 licks and a bite to get to my center
One, two three, you're not for me
Four, five, six, a few more licks
Seven, eight, nine, out to dine
Ten, eleven, twelve, you can delve
And yet... Here it sits in my chest with its arrhythmia
Patiently waiting for that defibrillating current
That shock that will set it right
Or perhaps it's never meant to be that way
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps
It's perfect in it's imperfection

My heart's a stereo,
and we can dance if you want to,
because the rhythm is gonna get you,
on re-pe-pe-pe-pe-peat.
jayanti pandey Aug 2018
As she hears the voice of rain, tapping the window, thrumming the roof,

the song of rain with leaves and stones and woods, 

 and as she opens the window, the fresh shower of rain touches her face.

She gets filled with joy and happiness like a little child,

holding her skirt, she jumps in the rain and opens her arms like a bird.

----------------------------------------------------------­-------------------

And she starts dancing, calling her little sister to come out and join the rain dance.

Come out, the rain is so fresh and nice, we will dance together,

 No, I will catch a cold. 

 Come, can you hear the song of rain, it's so soothing, we will dance,

 No, I will slip, mama will get angry. 

 Come, it will be fun, we will splash together and make the boat afterwards. 

 Ok! coming, follow my moves,  

Turn, turn around!  

As she turns, she notices an eye was watching her from behind the wall.

----------------------------------------------------------­-------------------

The eyes she had never seen before, that sight, she had never noticed before, she had never felt so awkward by someone's sight. 

Suddenly she finds the rain very unpleasant, 

Oh! it makes my blouse too tight, it makes my skirt wet, my hair clumsy, and she gathers her skirt and goes downstairs, 

what happened, come let's dance. 

No, let's go down, change, as we might catch a cold. 

 And from that day the rain dance stops. 

--------------------------------------------------------­----------------------------

Did she notices that she is no more a kid,  or the sight made her realise that she can't act kid,  

Will she ever, can do a rain dance so carelessly and shamelessly.

Will she ever, be filled with so much  excitement to dance in the rain, 

Might me someday, but never be so carelessly, as she knows some creepy eyes might be watching. 

An innocence is lost and a young confused teenager is born.

            
Writers note: As a girl enters her teenage, she has to deal with a lot of changes that are going inside her and also in the outside world. The girl here is coping with the same, hope she finds the answer to her confusion.

P.S.Parents be friend with your teenage boy or girl, they need you.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 10
safe & sound in sounds beloved


<>

in a chalk dust soft whisper, barely bit more than an
eyelash fluttering tonality, she requested her playlist,
favoritism shown, partial to certain poems, poet,
safety in the sounds of familiarity, melded into verses and poems

“works,” how she nat/notated them, smiling,
for they were not works, but labors, safe sounds,
on a palette synthesized from emotive words coloring all of
her drumming, thrumming skin beating, eyes singing,
lips tingle reverberating, echoing my weeping

I read her the collected, the sure ones, made to eye-tear, her lips,
pleasure poutiest before turning corners upward,
in a haven’t-smiled-for-awhile,
a plush blush so pale red, pores of pavé chips of rubies glistening
each in a tearful diamond setting

one more stanza to remember, mark the page, the collective
of this moment,
what shall we call it, this essence of timing of
lifetimes glory glorious;
a hallelujah crossover, suggested, hints of death after life, no,
I nod, no, vociferously
gifting it to her as a quiet,
safe and sound,
safe in sounds beloved, words, beloved,

beloved for being loved and she, beloved



10/08/19
nyc
early morning
Ken Pepiton Aug 4
Hearing history whisper in the background

in an aural realm
I hear enkidu bled
ink
to fill the pens

of ready writers after
ever
lasting word
forms
a name
Enki, wisdom and life
flowing

into length of days
ancient
days
long

remembered, visited
in daydreams
featuring

all that may have been,
then.

Some soporific drink drunk
in old Uruk

vicareate, those in lieau of you.

Dying for you to go into the
realm
of knowns past
knowing knowns now in this

realm

make your mind reach mine.
Stand under my lines and

lean toward joy
good and calm,

gentle waves of peace
swirling fibrating threads
forming

woven things, matrices,

see the points crossed over
and under,
see the edges wound around,
to keep the rubbing of

reality from fraying ends.

did the fingers gno the math,
the ciphers we see
in carpets woven by magi
families
for centuries, ere

The Prophet were told to Read,
and he refused
to learn,

but chose to teach that which
an angel of light,

warned against by Paul the Gnostic Jew,

taught? Told to read, but never learning to do it, because angel said,
say exactly what i say...

Teachers once learned by teaching, but
never has reading been masterd
sans
sensibility of the graphemes
re
presenting the noises

common in every human ear
hearing in
sapience, abruptly

Hear!
Easy to be entreated. You have ears?
Hear.
How is never asked, why is clear; ears hear,
we all have ears.

Not all ears hear.
But eyes can learn to read, with some effort.

I magine it your task. You the first speaker of your
magic tongue-lung-teeth-lips, epiglot-tonsil-nasal

noise making system, engineered
to permit

song in accord with this, our shared realm of
noises, common.

Ha. This tale of an angel telling a messenger to read,

is this a famous story? Have I not learned of a war being
waged,
i.e. fought with stand-ins paid to fight, live or die.

Soldiers formed from hearers of empty songs
stretched to cover eyes, as well,

push and pull, hot and cold, balance value
weight and worth

imagine knowing no written tongue

you, dear reader, this book of lives in life per se,

who could see this coming?

Papyrii and clay and stone

cities are inventions of men

men who would be kings
imagined
delegating

knack for knack *** for tat

this for that all
for me,
the man wombed or un who would be

like the most high god I can imagine

ah the danger of falling into anachronism

you first must imagine, dear reader, that
writing is an invention

intended to bher the burden of learning to
remember, really,

no po'etic license claimed or blamed

famine of the written word
negates not the worth of rhyme and dance

masques and noises of roaring bulls

thrumming, thundering herds

screaming hawks, squeeling rabbits,
caw
cawing crows or ravens if that
distinction is
ever
necessary...

as the story is told, some time after ever starts.

This has been a chapter in our history,
dear reader from the times before the pictures
were scratched on the rock Sisyphus rolls.

Twixt now and then lies a realm of stories locked in idle words
never written for never having a reader
who grasped the message to the prophet,

read.

-----
Uruk, was there a ****** who watched you rise and learned
to make a city sufficiently

enslaving to raise a king from the son of a king

to the level of luxury allowing

reading all that writing demands

suggestive is the fact that the written word for C2H5OH
is a spirit ual thing caught in a word
as old as the earliest writing
remaining

alcohol, spoken now, would call for a drink in old Uruk and Akkad,
as would reference to kohl warm eyes,

be cool

as are we all, we living words spoken in times past,
listing in lusting vacuums of empty songs

ah, you shall not surely die, poor Gilga-
mesh, the net

spread in your sight, you never thought

networking and weaving were skills teachable, thus
this witty idea, the best potter makes only one pattern of ***,
all for me,
I take them a ll and feed the potter meat. Mighty hunter, am I.

I feed many with one mammoth

I am worthy of all they make with strength taken as granted

while chewing the carcass of my
****
--- here it comes,

civilization---

things in abundance might be made,
and traded
for
that which we lack the knack to make

so soon does some medium of exchange manifest

as witty inventions emerge from seeds carried from the garden

How? Now, off-scour, **** of the earth, us-all,

poor you have with you always,

we, the feeble-but-not-un-minded, people, whisper

when we sing,
shuffle when we dance, fly when we dream
and live until we die and leave mere words to live ever after in the wind,

making peace for the heirs of the earth.
J.M Roberts history of the world in the backgound listening to Sunday in my valley.
Lady Grey Aug 2018
Energy rushing
             Adrenaline humming
             Sweat dripping

No one on the street
Hear that beat
Pump that pedal
Feel that beat

             Air rushing
             Engine humming
             Rain dripping

Alive is the night

The music
              Throbbing/thrumming

So loud
                             Brazen beat
                             Boiling blood
             Feverish

Alive is the night

                      As am I
Pearson Bolt Apr 13
i live to watch the words spill from you,
hot and sticky as your fingers work
their magic. slick from sweat,
frantically flicking, thrumming
out another string
of syllables,
eclipsing me with ellipses
blinking in the bottom
left corner of the screen
keying me in:
you’re still typing.

i am a ******,
afforded
a first-class seat
addicted to the way
you tease me
with your words:
gently.
slowly.
and also all at once.
i could hang
myself from the precipice
of your fingertips—
plying secret messages,
peep shows
for my eyes only.
you’re showing off,
and i can’t get enough.
ali xoxo Jun 15
it's not likely
that i'd ever get tired of tracing
the topography
of your skin,

or housing myself within the confines
the breath of your memory
provides. it plays like
an old jazz record, filling
the crevices of this room,
the cavity within my rib cage,
thrumming in its slumber.

i remember
how your forehead would rest on mine,
beads of salt and longing
finding solace on my skin,
my own eyes two chambers
for your mammoth-like sorrows.
and so the needle drops,
this melody plays, and i know it
so well,
your crooning voice crackles,
spilling narratives of afflictions
ages old.
Starlight Jul 2018
She holds her hand
to her heart
ears thrumming
like beating drums
from the thumping
that courses like
drugs
under her
golden
skin

She lets air
flood her
lungs full
her eyes
open wide as
she
lets the
tide of
darkness
filter down
into her
vision

she is
monster girl
is
child of
night
is star flecked
freckles and
evening soda
luke warm and
bubbles that
drip
sticky
like blood
down her
cheeks

the tears
taste like
ruined salt
unfiltered and
*****
like her
coarse tongue

she wails
to the
evening moon
which
shines with such
mellifluous
glee
cruelled
amusement
tenderised by the
beating down
upon her
soggy and
dribbling
heart

red paints
the
nails like
polish
she
puffs hot
and
heavy breaths
against the
metallic gleam
her teeth
shine like
canines
from the
howling terrors
of the
engulfing
forest

she howls
to the moon
which shines
with such
jealousy
for she
is more
mysterious.
Path Humble Aug 2018
the count starts now (tired of tired)


I read your outcry at 3:00am
posted on Facebook

you are
tired of tired
sick of sick
the only question, will it ever end...

rise this day,  start another way...

count your blessing
count against all odds
for there are more than merely one

use both hands
both hands chested to feel the heart thrusting,
for living is a wondrous blessing unique
an unbelievable to believe than so many beats,
born and borne,
by you, a strength unequaled,
you a richness possessed

count that one first.
count my hands holding your shoulders.
count that as two, one for me, one for you.

more? more.  

mirror.  find the tiny light in each eye against a yellow backdrop.

add two more. for they are a sparking confidence of confirming.

you felt the heart thrumming
go back, feel the breathing warmth breaching forth.
add another. for now known you can never ever be cold.

wash the face, wash away the caution that sleep leaves,
the coverlet of fear that fears you not to dare,
amazing that tap water plain is sacred when it
miracle breaks you out and anoints thy forehead with pure oil like the kings of yore, be a kingly human being.

go out. do not return
until one act of kind is performed and
count that as a thousand blessed, a sum recurring recounted

walk humble and the path will always appear.
walk contented for you can be both king and servant,
there is no difference - you must be both to be the other
one.

and if you still cannot raise the head,
call me.
that would be a blessing for me
and I will hear your blessings sounds mine merge,
dear friend and no more stranger,
that is the simplest definition of our learning to count to
infinity
4:00am I read your cry on facebook
nightdew Mar 4
thrumming my hands against the table,
i sit tightly with patience running,
the spark of hope ever fading.

i await for the day to call you mine,
to run my fingertips down your curves,
and to kiss every inch of perfection.

to hear the soft groans that echo into the night,
to feel the sheets between us,
and a hearty laugh shared over a ***** joke.

i shall await for the day,
where i can grasp your hand freely,
with your head upon my shoulders.

sacred whispers of flirty jokes,
and little i love you's,
between you and i.

because no earth,
no lightning,
no air,
no flaw,
no one,
can tear us apart.

through thick and thin,
you and i belong together,
even if you dare not to accept it.

— The End —