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Alyssa Underwood Dec 2016
O morning sky of endless blue
Tinged with purply-pinky hue
You tell me of His mercies new
Whose heart pursues my own

O geese in wingèd winter's flight
Your honking cries arouse delight
And lift my gaze to seek thy sight
As wooing from His hand

O softest breeze which skims my face
And stirs with such mysterious grace
My soul to reach for Love’s embrace
You brush me with His kiss

O snowflakes falling to the ground
You pierce my heart without a sound
To crave a purity only found
Beneath a bloodied cross

O setting sun in half-light glowing
Waning day’s last glorious blush showing
You paint with fire my spirit’s own knowing—
This life is fading fast

O stars of midnight’s blackest sky
Paraded forth, you pull my eye
Toward One Who speaks this ceaseless cry:
“I’m coming back for you.”

O creeping fog to dawn’s light clinging
You whisper, Love’s veiled message bringing,
With haunting echoes faintly singing,
“Lose all of you in Him.”
~~~

"The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of His hands. Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they reveal knowledge. They have no speech, they use no words; no sound is heard from them. Yet their voice goes out into all the earth, their words to the ends of the world."  ~ Psalm 19:1-4a

~~~
English Jam Apr 2018
Each time a dark thought to sin gleefully entered me
Every one of those days blurred into one another that were tinged with blue
All those nights insomnia took hold, and I wished to end my life
Well, I'm glad I didn't

I'm glad because I was waiting for the day
The day the sun bursts into a kaleidoscope of light
The day the sky quickly parts itself, making a path
The day the clouds willingly sacrifice themselves to hold a gleaming white horse
And on the horse's back, sits The King
Holding a sword that shines magnificently
Wearing a crown that dazzles for all to see
I can't wait to see Jesus
Still I wait for that day
Still I wait
observation
lady in red
imagination
in my head
flirtation
“someone said,
in a book I read,
that men are misled:
beauty kills us dead.”
frustration
get out of my head!
jubilation
“To where shall we head?”
hesitation
“my creaky twin
or a hotel bed?”
migration
our minds are led
by hurried legs
pulsation
as her lips, red,
push me to the bed
excitation
tinged with dread
salivation
ventilation
transpiration
saturation
*******­
annihilation
Rapped version: https://vimeo.com/286097673
(password is "stand").
Alyssa Underwood Nov 2015
O morning sky of endless blue
Tinged with purply-pinky hue
You tell me of His mercies new
Whose heart pursues my own

O geese in wingèd winter's flight
Your honking cries arouse delight
And lift my gaze to seek thy sight
As wooing from His hand

O softest breeze which skims my face
And stirs with such mysterious grace
My soul to reach for Love’s embrace
You brush me with His kiss

O snowflakes falling to the ground
You pierce my heart without a sound
To crave a purity only found
Beneath a bloodied cross

O setting sun in half-light glowing
Waning day’s last glorious blush showing
You paint with fire my spirit’s own knowing—
This life is fading fast

O stars of midnight’s blackest sky
Paraded forth, you pull my eye
Toward One Who speaks this ceaseless cry:
“I’m coming back for you.”

O creeping fog to dawn’s light clinging
You whisper, Love’s veiled message bringing,
With haunting echoes faintly singing,
“Lose all of you in Him.”
Thom Jamieson Jul 2018
"Over here"...
but nothing.
The scene continues
unabated by my presence.
Plastic smiles and lustful eyes
bountiful but not for me..never me.
In the mirror' s unforgiving gaze
I am unrecognizable
Replaced with a crude rendering
of my previous likeness
fashioned by children
with lumpy imperfect clay.
Silence replaces loving laughter
that used to follow my witty banter.
Silence and stares.  Sympathetic stares
tinged with smugness and fear.
"Over here...over here..."
still nothing.
I recently received a message from a composer named joe drzewiecki who was interested in putting this poem to music.  Here are the results.  I didnt know my words could sound so good. Thank you joe drzewiecki, I am flattered.

https://soundcloud.com/jomama-2/invisible
Danielle Suzanne Apr 2017
Leaves wilted
Roots dry
Hidden in the unlit
corner of the room
You miss the brightness
of the morning sun

Put there
to pretty up this
bare space
Unaware
that you need more
than admiring looks
and shards
of fading light
to survive

Where did your green-ness go?
Once glorious
now brown tinged
and limp  
Walking past you  
I can't help
but look away

I know
I should do
Something
About you

A leaf falls
Feelings of thirst and
Engulfing darkness
Take their toll

Soon
There will be
Nothing left
But a shriveled up stem
And you'll be tossed outside
Discarded
With the rest of them

Really, I'm a terrible gardener.
celestial Jan 2018
i set my body alight
in searing hellfire and pain
just to feel your warmth again

then i buried myself
in a fading silhouette of you
a glow tinged in cobalt blue

blue like your shirt
as i breathed your ashes in
let them absorb into my skin

into my bloodstream
where our roses become rust
and we disintegrate into dust
sati (noun): a former hindu practice whereby a widow threw herself onto her husband's funeral pyre.
Nathan Wells May 2016
i feel the sun
and i'm slowly burning
but it feels good
so it's not concerning
no school
no learning
time is turning
joint burning
i wish i could live in the summer
where it's still warm when it gets dimmer
i wish i could live in the summer
where everythings tinged with a glimmer
i absolutely love summer, the sun puts me in such a good mood
jane taylor Sep 2016
hints of auburn drift creating a soft cadence against the autumn wind
almost heard in lieu 'tis felt somehow awakening souls buried long ago
giving birth to falling crimson leaves tinged with maroon and gold
abandoned dusty roads transform under enchanting spells cast by fall

burnt orange pumpkins standing solitary on wooden porches threaten to reveal
hidden secrets held by dusk’s luscious cinnamon seasoned air
once fulgent sunflowers begin to slumber softly beneath the harvest moon
whilst autumn’s trance brushes all it touches with honey colored hues

i stand pensive as an amber leaf gently twirling falls to the ground
bewitched by thine supernatural powers; thine gifted artist’s hand
who with one stroke turns to butter amber all that once was forest green
and imbues my soul with thine exalted essence forever ripening

©2016janetaylor
jane taylor Jun 2016
his writing caught everyone’s attention
like an artist i once saw on the street in québec
he stood out amongst the crowd in montréal
i asked to take his picture
he obliged

this writer is also canadian
and paints masterpieces
with words

his colorful lines sometimes float on jagged edges
brushes of sticky sugar coating are exchanged
for starker strokes of reality
tinged with weathered wisdom
creating shadows in his work
accentuating the light

there’s not a write of his
that does not stir emotions
his words linger
rolling around in your head
bumping into each other
morphing into new connotations
his easel alive

you wonder if he did that on purpose?
could anyone have that kind of talent?
yes…..his brush continues flowing
even after the paint is dry

suddenly at midnight i awaken
and hear another morsel
a word, a phrase, a color
that only made itself known
in the dark of night

understanding he's a favorite
i imagined audibly hearing a collective sigh
when he contracted cancer
would he now leave his canvas dry?

no, this courageous artist
bravely took his palette
and continued painting
his words that us awaken
now e’vn more radiant
with tragedy astride

and ‘tho he talks of dying
i pray that he will stay
but should his spirit fly
we have seen a master show us
how to walk into the light

©2016janetaylor
this poem is dedicated to fellow poet chris who just passed away
we love you chris!!!
http://poetfreak.com/705083/chris-vaillancourt-rip.html
Pagan Paul Dec 2018
.
Rider On The Storm of trances,
LA Woman led through ritual dances.
A Poet just Waiting for the Sun,
when The End was where it all begun.
The Spy trying to Break on Through,
a native sharing his Shamans Blues.
A Ship of Fools tinged with mirth,
destined Not To Touch The Earth.
Mr Mojo Risin', the acid dream rover,
taking rest When The Music's Over.




© Pagan Paul (04/12/16)


James 'Jim' Douglas Morrison
(Poet and Rock Star)
8 December 1943 – 3 July 1971.
.
Where Shelter Aug 2018
my second fight today with god

the first involves gods correctable errors of judgement

the second,
am asked to deliver a eulogy for someone
I never met and no is not in the range of acceptable answers

alone and misperceived as forsaken, despite calls and poems
glorious and galore, I was slow to realize, now fast,
was I meant to be
her here,
where shelter,
the first, will always now be
too late

you break off pieces for the needy, forlorn,
the ones you might of loved, it’s costly for
both the giver and the forgiven, but I am the unforgiven in giver,
a redeemer failure, the question mark and the short dotted flat line,
uniquely marked human,
the Cain marker forehead now forever a
carved minus sign, meaning I am lessened, lesser and
insufficient was

read out loud, an old soft tender, hers, a missive sweetness tinged with affection, writ by a human savior who did not
do a good enough job, nonetheless,
everyone slaps my back later saying beautiful bespoke,
and when you going home, stay a few days, she’d appreciate

a thank you smile but can’t, though the dead will follow you,
that goes unsaid, but you will know
grander grief yet, as guilt continue-us,
and the tune playing non-stop stop isn’t yours,
but you spoke it  to her once as a justification explanation,

it was true but a nile river-red-colored plague
that added to her dissatisfaction, come disastrous for one  
who didn’t ever get to leave egypt

guess i’m admitting its my fault not gods;
so I let the  ******* off the hook on this one,
but I’ll get even I swear, it/he just laughs,
but this will be one of life’s allusions I will recall and wonder when will that tune cease,
but get no answer from nobody

that tune?

Go 'way from my window
Leave at your own chosen speed
I'm not the one you want, babe
I'm not the one you need
You say you're lookin' for someone
Who's never weak but always strong
To protect you an' defend you
Whether you are right or wrong
Someone to open each and every door
But it ain't me, babe
No, no, no, it ain't me babe
It ain't me you're lookin' for, babe

Go lightly from the ledge, babe
Go lightly on the ground
I'm not the one you want, babe
I will only let you down
You say you're lookin' for someone
Who will promise never to part
Someone to close his eyes for you
Someone to close his heart
Someone who will die for you an' more
But it ain't me, babe
No, no, no, it ain't me babe
It ain't me you're lookin' for, babe

Go melt back in the night
Everything inside is made of stone
There's nothing in here moving
An' anyway I'm not alone
You say you're looking for someone
Who'll pick you up each time you fall
To gather flowers constantly
An' to come each time you call
A lover for your life an' nothing more
But it ain't me, babe
No, no, no, it ain't me, babe
It ain't me you're lookin' for, babe


by Bob Dylan
farewell babe

12:48 pm a blustery Saturday
Jayesh Jul 2018
I hear of your struggles
In every way
You tell me of them
Over and over and over
And I feel mixed
Twisted

On one side honored
You trust me enough to tell me
But on the other side worried
For how this consumes you

I found you in the midst of Dark
Shining as the brightest Light
Undeterred by the greatest of evils
And I was forever in awe
As a moth to its light

But instead of finding my solace in your warmth
You dimmed
Once withstanding anything thrown at you,
But instead finding darkness to come
From a place least expected:
From those closest
And the Dark took you
Elated in its clever nature

Now you complain
Over matters you would have brushed aside

I can see this aura around you
While once filled with the greatest Light,
Now lies tinged with specks of black
And I can see it consuming you

Perhaps I was naïve
Searching for something different in our world
A source of Light
Rather than a consumer of it
I’m glad I was able to witness your brilliance
As it taught me many things

No matter how brilliant your light,
The greatest Light
Only shows in times of the greatest darkness
Beaming into the Dark
A hopeless task
Yet filled with the greatest Hope of all
labyrinths Jul 2016
she screams "SILENCE DOES NOT EXIST" at the top of her lungs but there's no one around to hear her

her brain pounds against her skull and she can hear the sound of drilling through bone she can smell the sweet stench of human bone meal she can taste the oozing sawdust textured drips of her own blood and she can see the back of her eyelids, tinged with red from the florescent lights  of the hospital room as her fingers twist in the thin coarse blankets she tugs at so desperately writhing in the cot they've graciously provided her with if only to remove her stillbeating organs with the promise of a cure

she screams "SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME" at the top of her lungs but there's no one around to hear her
alone alone alone so tired of being alone, i wish this migraine would go away and has anyone found the cure for tinnitus yet?
jane taylor Jun 2016
fly
born in illusory chains
gnarled metal
encrusted in my broken skin
the copper colored dust
of rusted steel
infectiously envelopes

shaving off antiquated layers
of fundamentalist religion
encrusted for generations
unpeeled until raw
an unsophisticated method
unveiling
ancient lodged glass shards
colored with deceit

brought before their court
interrogated
unfathomably skewered
an eerie salem witch trial
in modern times

barbarically they shun me
banished
i wander aimlessly
smelling the rotten decay of deceased community
as splinters pierce my feet
from the crooked wooden plank
i walk alone now

an unfathomable inner ache
kindled a residue within
igniting a wildfire from the darkest shadows
uncontainably erupting
i dance savagely
naked in the orange moonlight
and in every shaded edge
lit my soul ablaze

i am a nomad sheep
‘tho not one of their color
no pasture to contain me
no shepherd i can follow
theological safety nets
no longer there to catch me
bohemian-like
i plunge

free falling
plummeting
stripped wide open
magically
fearlessness
reverses gravitation

floating
untethered
i soar amongst
apricot tinged clouds
my skin still wet from rebirth
and rise with the flaming coral sun

you cannot destroy me
i twisted in your decrepit pencil sharpener
and with fresh mettle
cut through the chains that bound

you can have my ego
but you cannot have my soul

dismantling domestication
transcending limitation
wildly untamed
i fly

©2016janetaylor
my husband and i left the mormon church and lost many friends, family, and community
rgz May 9
I just went to bed
left you on Read
I did it on purpose to mess with your head

Laid in gossamer sheets
tinged red
with the blood of words
unsaid
I got myself caught
in my own spinnerets

Distraught with rotting thoughts
locked in my own stocks
stalking twisted halls
the clocks have all stopped

Stuck in my head
kicking myself
in the struggle to free
myself from myself
with broken knees
and buckled legs

Entombed by one I never could deceive
darkness abounding when all I need
is to catch the right light
and stop trying to fight
Oh, what a tangled web we weave
The prompt was to use Walter Scott's "..tangled web.." line in a poem, this was what came out.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2017
still be on my feat

oh Joni you showed up at my door once more, Saturday morn,
blonde bangs and ***** voice, two octaves below shrill,
right about where the register intersection of
heart piercing, me humming, memory smiling,
poetry inspiring, yeah memories crying, that too

together, we have had more than many,
one case of you, a million sips, and I am writing
to see how you're feeling and to let you know
I never drank a case of you that left me,
being still, left me standing on my feat

my feat?

drank de-feat like it was the sea, boundless but not soundless,
sweet waves repeating, sea tears tinged with bittersweet cries of
Tupelo honey,
cause you were one of my angels,
lifting me higher when love was saying
not*  this time kid,
place, babe, not this peculiar particular apparition,  
wrong rendition,
and at last, finally, long time later, sheepishly, sweetly only,
what was her name*

your voice stood me up, your words still slap my face with
cases of kisses upon my neck, tune-turning prophetic notions of
what's next still  be only just around the corner,
waiting on a new, simple twist of feat,
another song, poem, lover, and yet another,
case of you, so we can always see both sides,
and when I think of you my mind seesaws,
and I, still be on my feet, and thanks to you
ready for my feat

<•>
10:59am 10/28/17
elizabeth Feb 2018
you said you were good,
a month after our end.
i'm unsure if you meant it
or if you were just trying to get in my head.
    
i want you to be better
to learn something from this.
but i also want you to miss me,
to ache for my love,
the way i ache for yours.

maybe i'm too weak,
maybe my body is overly full of
warm black tea tinged with sugar
and fuzzy, naive hopes for the world.
maybe my heart is so soft
that i cannot heal at the same rate as you.

your actions and abandonment
broke my gentle bones.
the injuries i sustained are patched up
with multi-colored bandaids.
you left me with gaping wounds,
all while i was trying to help you fix your own bruises.

you said you were good,
a month after our end.
it worsened my pain,
but i doubt you care.
bythesea Jan 2018
resilience is built in yellow
golden stars against organza.
my resilience was bred in me
blood tinged gold by stars.  


(you've left my heart too many times
for me to trust you)


and like the cold of january i fought you.
i faced your burdensome eyes
and walked along frozen streets against you
just to feel
the resilience you offered me.
through fight,
nails and knuckles and your cold days
i fought
until I knew this was
how I would leave
With the words that I speak
I conjure the joys of our youth— now past
Immortal on the condition of our delayed mortality
Emblazoned in the collective memory of our twin souls—
/
As my sight goes soft at the edges, tinged gold
Reality makes way— we advance into the void:
A cabin of logs, on a lilypad of golden light
Floats in the sea of the Ancestors, their august trunks
Shed snowdowned twigs for the Hearth—
/
Stones picked from the hillside, stacked high—
/
The fire is gentle, we warm our hands
And the light of the Ancestors spreads, makes shadows
On the walls, dispels the night’s cold darkness
There is warmth, and us, and home
zebra Feb 2018
she likes to dance in cemeteries naked
warring little but jeweled ***** bells,
ankle bracelets
toe rings
bingles, bangles, piercings,
through ******* and nose

her tongue split
each side wiggling independently

she gives head on a head stone
her blow jobs
like two undulating mouths
her skin inked with
black and blood tattoos that say
Satan's little ***** *****
double penetrations preferred porfavor
the more buttery big ***** and pastry puffy ******* the better


she
all purple hair tinged red
and antler horned hat
with silver toe and finger nails
a crazy saint sane
adored by the popes of the lascivious
eyes wide open over a crimson mouth sneer
cherry pout lips
gods gift to ***** and vaginas
a temple of relief exalting
Eros
a **** it bucket list of lust
her heart
cotton candy in flames
****** like a river of smashed potatoes
in cream

she like
phases of a corpse moon
begs to be used after death
like pigment on canvas
smeared red globes and chiaroscuro
she playing dead
living it up

do you know her
she keeps her secret hidden
on her sleeve
while you keep yours
from yourself

bless me father for I have sinned
and loved every minute of it
yet dare not be happy
for fear of Gods rage


my soul saved
turned fertile earth to sand
and shrouding vistas of light
till the bed is the bed
of the living dead
so there's nothin left but work and sleep
and dreams of drunken **** madness are buried
under the weight
marked forbidden

black sun curse
hips sway in ashes
a forbidden dance
Wk kortas Jan 2017
Not much happens in these parts, he would demur,
As if he’d be asked in the first place,
He one of the dwindling few remaining in this dwindling town.
Nevertheless, he has seen his share in four score and change years
From the vantage point of his place
Which sits just off the corner of the Penoyer Road:
Boom times and bust,
Snowdrifts threatening to lick the roof lines of houses,
Boys running through the embers of fallen leaves,
Shirtless and barefoot on improbably warm October days,
Young men in hay wagons and rattle-*** Chevy pickups
Laughing and singing, confident and carefree,
Making their way to the old train depot down at Apulia Station
First step on their way to show the jerries or the VC
Exactly how Upstate farm boys took care of business,
Windows adorned by placards with a gold star
Illuminated by a solitary light bulb at odd hours.
Here and there, younger types have begun to dot the landscape:
Professors with a romantic hankering to get back to the land,
Neo-hippies with their own reasons for embracing the rural life,
Each in their tune walking about their yards
Holding keyboarded and wi-fied replicas
Of that which Moses carried down the mountain,
Their fixer-uppers or double-wides adorned with small dishes
Pointed forlornly at the horizon in search of some satellite supplication.
While he has seen enough not to be too ******* sure about things,
He suspects that complexity and contentment
Rarely walk hand-in-hand,
So he keeps his needs simple enough
To be met by the ancient radio
(Huge, wood-cabineted shambling thing,
More attuned for Amos and Andy than All Things Considered)
The three-checkout grocery in Tully,
The Morton-building sheltered family practice over in Cazenovia
(The squalid, sooty skyline of Syracuse,
Split by six lanes of high-octane madness,
As remote and slightly terrifying to him as Mars itself)
As he has learned enough from thickets of trees
Which all but shriek with torrents of crows in September dusks,
The subtle changes of stream banks
Tinged by the stubbornness of frost on early May mornings
Or blanketed by the pig-iron forge heat of July afternoons,
To know that there are sufficient and possibly necessary limits
To the places where two legs or four wheels can carry a body.
Anyone Sep 2018
"My head's a whirlwind" you said.
And I was at the centre.
Blown apart by gale forces, we were,
Without escape, rendered

Crippled. We had to be
Euthanised, so you say.
Whatever happened to
A brand new page

To the chronicles of us?
There was no ink
That blotched this page.
Who was to think

A whole  pen cartridge would snap
And spill tar black paint
On this clean white page?
And then you hesitate

To wipe away the river
On the paper, and streaming
Down, from your eyes,
Tinged like the ink, screaming

At me, no words being spoken.
Your salty cheeks
Were never neat. But the eye
Of the storm, is a quiet place to be.

It wasn't the decision that hurt.
It was the reaction of inaction.
And the now set in feeling
That I was never more than a distraction.
Happy anniversary.
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