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False Poets Oct 2017
does the moon get tired?

~for the children who never tire of moon gazing upon the dock,
by the light of the fireflies,
till the angels are dispatched by Nana,
to sprinkle sleepy dust in their eyelashes so long and fine~


<•>
while walking the dog I no longer have,
a happenstance glanceable up over the River East,
there you were, mr. moon, in all your fulsomeness ,
surrounded by a potpourri of courtier clouds,
all deferentially bowing, waving,
passing past you at a demure royal speed on their way
perhaps,
to Rebecca's northern London,
of was it south to grace of  v V v's Texas^,
in any event,
the cloudy ladies, all bustling and curvaceous,  
all high stepping in recognition of your exalted place,
Master of the Night Sky

We,
the word careless, poets excessive,
sometimes called silly poppies, old men,
left footed, still crazy after many years,
most assuredly poets false all of us,
without a proper prior organized thought train,
outed,
bludgeon blurted,
an inquiry preposterous and strange,
strait directed to the sombre face,
to mister moon himself!

tell me moon, do you ever tire?*

the obeisant clouds shocked
as that face we all uniform know,
unchanged anywhere you might go  to gaze, be looking upon it,
watched the moon's face turn askew.

He looking down at our rude puzzlement,
with a Most Parisian askance,
a look of French ahem moustacheoed disbelief,
while we watched as the moon cherubic cheeks
filled with airy atmosphere,
then he sighed

so windy winding, was it,
so mountain high and river deep,
that those chubby clouds were blown off course,
from a starless NYC sky
all the way past Victoria Station,
only to stop at Pradip and Bala's
mysterious land of
bolly-dancing India,
on their way to Sally's Bay of Manila,
magic places all!

Mr. Moon looked down at this one tremulous fool representative  
(me) and in a voice
basso beaming and starry sonorous,
befitting its stellar positioning,
squinting to get a closer look at the
who in whom
dare address him in such an emboldened manner!

Mmmmm, recognize you, you are among those
who use my presence, steal my lighted beams, my silver aura,
my supermoon powered light, borrow my eclipses,
reveal my changeling shaped mystery without permission,
only mine to give, you tiny borrowers who write that thing,
p o e t r y

head and kneed, bowed and bent,
I confessed
(on y'alls behalf)

we take your luminosity and don't spare you
even a tuppence, a lonely rupee, no royalties paid
to you-up-so-highness,
and we hereby apologize for all the poets
without exception,
especially those moon besotted,
only love poem writing,
vraiment misbegotten scoundrels....

with another sigh equality powerful,
mr moon pushed those clouds across the Pacifica,
all the way to the  US's West Coast,
up to Colorado,
where moon-takings from the lake's reflecting light
so perfect for rhyming, kayaking,
and moonlight overthrowing,
once more, the moon taken and begotten,
nightly,
as heaven- freely-granted

yes, I tire
and though  here I am much beloved,
usually admired though sometimes even blackened cursed,
seen in every school child's drawing,
in Nasa's calculations,
of my influential gravitational pull,
moving human hearts
to love and giving Leonard a musical compositional hint,
and while this admirable devotion is most delighting,
would it upset some vast eternal plan,
if but one of you once asked,
you fiddler scribblers
my prior permission,
even by just, a lowly
mesmerizing evening tide's tenderizing glance?

yes, I tire,
even though my cycles are variable,
my shape shifting unique, my names so at variance
in all your many musical sing-song dialectical languages,
my sway, my tidal currents so powerful a deterrence,
unlike my boring older sunny cousine  who just cannot get over
how hot looking she is,
I,  so more personally interesting,
yet you use me as if I were a fixture,
on and off with
a tug of the chain string,
never failing to appear,
even when feeling pale yellow and orange wan,
and worse,
mocked as an amore pizza pie,
do you ever ask how I am doing?

yes, I tire,
of my constant circuitous route that changes ever so slowly,
but yet, too fast for me to make some nice human acquaintances, especially those young adoring children
who give me their morn pleasurable squeals when they awake and my presence still there,
a shining ghost of a guardianship protector still
watching over them

how oft in life do we presume,
take for granted
grants so extra-ordinary
that we forget to remember
the extra
and see only the ordinary

how oft in life do we assume,
the every day is always every,
until it is not,
only an only
a now and then,
till then,
is no longer a
now*

<>
oh moon, oh moon,
our richest apologies
we hereby tender and surrender,
our arrogance beyond belief,
what can we offer in relief?

silence heard loud and clear,
mr. moon was gone,
a satellite in motion,
so our words burnt up in the atmosphere
unheard

we did not weep
nor huff and puff,
blow those clouds back to us,
for we knew
the extraordinary
would return tomorrow,
we will be ready,
better another day,
to prepare
a lunar composition,
a psalm of hallelujah praise,
for mr. moon
of which
mr moon will never tire,
for filled with the perma-warmth
of our affection
for the one we call mr.moon
False Poets is a collective of different poets who write here, in a single voice,
hence the confusing interchangeable switching of the pronouns.    sorry bout that.


^ HP - give them back the claimed  V name!
The photograph hangs on the wall by the window,
Three judges appear (one carries a folder)—
A tarot card reader, embalmer, engraver,
Without much to say and not much of it said
About the boot in the crib and the tire in the bed
The round faced man and the *** on his head
Painted with flowers and chipped on its edge.
And the cat near the door with its collar and bell
Flailing and airborne and mid caterwaul.
And the three-legged dog with her leash on
And sweater, jubilant, leaping— Mon Dieu! Grand jeté!
And the crow— O the crow! In its cage cawing “Fire!”
The crow crowing “Mayhem!” and “****** most foul!”
The dog and the cat and the crow and the tire
The cage and the crib, the *** painted in flowers;
All in a frame with a sign alongside—
“Self portrait. Around the Ides of July.”
A ribbon is clipped and then hung for its owner.
It bears the word “Mention” and then the engraver
Makes a note on a form he hands to the embalmer.
The tarot card reader turns— She and her hat,
And addresses the room, “Ain't no card made for that.”
.
An ekphrastic poem.

Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle and in paperback. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry by common means.)
Jordan Rowan Dec 2015
White water dreaming
Behind pale velvet curtains
I sing the same song to you
Sweet summer steaming
As the wind was swirling
Your hair and your tune

Songs from the masters
Of love and laughter
Sung as the record spins 'round
I get lost in the chatter
Of what really matters
It's that I have you around

The types not romantic
Are the types that I meet
Like a lost wanderer in a storm
Before I get frantic
And cry in the street
I've got you to keep me warm

Cool, comfortable breathing
Beside the fire
Silent and perfect and still
I'm barely believing
Of you I will tire
If you want me to, I will
PoserPersona Aug 2018
Gaze on that woman by the train.
With curves like gunpowder
that will shoot fireworks again.
As her and I once were.

Since then, of women, I've abstained.
My chest is a pyre
to the damsel I couldn't retain;
fondness that won’t expire.


You say I could never attain
and imply I'm a liar!?
Or you think either me insane
or least she's miswired?

The evidence on my brain -
melancholy, ire -
the despondent husk that remains,
need you more enquire?


...True, of her, no displays of pain;
eyes that jolt not tire,
poker voice tipping no disdain,
legs that feed desire!

For her, gone love is not a chain
hidden by attire
or flushed down a forgotten drain.
It merely retired.

Love like hers was the wind and rain
to my earth and fire.
"My woman says that she prefers to marry no one
over me, not even if Jupiter himself should seek her.
She says (these things), but what a woman says to her desirous lover
is fitting to write on the wind and on fast-flowing water."
Poem 70 - Catullus
Marla Apr 20
This flame grows higher
As the days march on,
It shan't ever tire
For it rages much too strong.
In my heart, yes, in my heart
The immortal heat yearns,
Bring thy kiss and start
A sensational sweet burn.
CK Baker Nov 2018
Covenant park central
parallel, east-side west
waiting on the
print defender
(and Lichaten queen)
he appears randomly
and distorted
with a broken smile
shuffling down
the Smithright trail
in his Mac Tack
and cinnamon shades
(sun bags and thrift ware
stacked three high
on a rusted rat trap)

An open ended
panel van
crashes the curb
as a long-boarder
dodges the tail
and kicks up some dirt ~
the plumb tree
and sunbeam double wide
hold steady in the fish eye
as the warehouse carny
and tire-less 510
shine brilliantly
on the dull and
dripping scene
ryn Feb 2015
.
•they'd               
come at night•               
these footsteps are               
never light• always                    
heavy and running ar-                      
ound•...they are annoy-                        
ingly creepy..., these aw-                       
ful sounds•every night,                          
after eleven without                        
fail•into rooms,                        

us they would                        
tail• making a                        
din overhead                        
•when all                        
                         should
                        be quiet inste-
                         ad•like barefooted
                          children i would ***-
                          ume...•wandering and
                          exploring into every ro-
                           om•...could they come
                            wilfully•from the cou-
                                ple who live above
                            me•i very much

                             doubt so•bec-
                             ause this much
                             i know...•that
                             the neigh-

bour up-                    
stairs, they're                        
old•frail and meek;                            
never bold•they'd re-                            
tire early•after late, ne-                            
ver a party•now... there                            
the feet go again•drivi-                            
ng me almost insane•                            
on my ceiling now,                            
they're pacing•                        

they know i kn-                        
ow and they are                        
playing•these                        
invisible                        
                        feet•ne-
                        ver would we
                            meet•one thing for
                           sure•this is not a friv-
                            olous tour•determined
                            to tell•that they exist
                              as well•nothing i'm
                               certain but it is clear
                               •i think they really
                              like it here...•

                              •i don't think
                               they're leavi-
                              ng•they're
                 ­              bent on


staying...
.
I live in an apartment on the 2nd storey. My family and I would hear these footsteps every night.

Initially we would dismiss it to be the neighbour living upstairs but that became very improbable simply because the couple who lives above us are far too old to be jumping and skipping in the wee hours...

We have tried ignoring the sounds but they would intensify. We'd hear intentional heavy footsteps, running, jumping between rooms but most of the time they would follow us to whichever room we're in.

Lately these sounds had progressed to rapping on the concrete walls in my bedroom. I could hear them as I lay in bed knocking and tapping on the wall by me.

The thing is... I live in a corner apartment and beyond that wall is the exterior of the building... There is no way anyone could be on the opposite side of that wall...

Creepy much?
.
A Simillacrum Sep 19
Lose a tire? Tires,
they come and go.
Do you have a grip?

The wheel works, but,
what's the point
if the blue sparks fly?

Some words stuck
well inside this
sternum of mine
just need be said.

What's the point of
you and I, then?
Are we always safe?

What's the point of
this fear of life
when I'll soon be
nothing more than dead?

Hold your eyes, then,
til the heart arrives.
Sparks cannot fill
me up inside with dread.
Sheikh Muizz Sep 2015
Ben stands deliberately imposing,
his arms crossed and his stern face
reminding us all we’re x minutes late.

We are each a cell.
Circulating the city’s veins
by foot, tyre and train.

The city doesn’t die, but it does grow old.
And when its veins tire from carrying its load
necessary roadworks interrupt its flow;

Like open wounds. Each yellow hardhat
a fingernail on the invisible hand
of an omnipotent surgeon.
Spenser Bennett Jun 2016
And that man swung like
the tire we rode into the
golden sunset of my youth
a stranger to beauty

I can still hear them
Calling out an empty name
Once you're gone do
you keep your truth

In quiet moments of
Crystal reflection
I often wonder if
I could be him

A soul so lost
Forgone the waiting
Choose my last and
Step away into nothing

But I remember
Those empty smiling eyes
That shrill wailing proves
Nothing beautiful may stay
Rain Jan 20
"Do you ever wonder if a painter ever tires of his colors?"

Does a painter ever tire of his colors?

Well, here is what I consider;
Does a bird ever tire to sing?
Does an instrument ever tire of its tune?
Indeed, does a poet ever tire of his words?

I, though I am surely no expert, say that it is not so
For as a bird may sing a hundred songs yet speak no lyrics,
As the instrument may contain a thousand songs therein, whilst keeping its tunes the same,
As a poet may conceive of an abundance of lyrical wonders, poems so sad or sweet to make a grown man weep, but only the order of the words he uses may change

As all of this is so, I say this:
A painter may yet tire of his colors, but all artists are only given so much
So if a painter and a creator he truly is,
They shall surely find again a new way to use that which they were gifted
For colors, words, tunes- these are all limited, and infinity does not present itself in any
Yet that is the unique power granted to artists,
they create a multitude of works from the most limited material

And isn't that what sets us artists apart?
The ability to make something beautiful from but a few colors, from but a few words, from but a few tunes

Essentially,
To be able to carve infinity from something finite.

So again, I say it is not so - a painter should never tire of his colors, but only think longer on how he should next arrange them.
This was written in response to poet Eleanor Sinclair's work titled "Wonder", which asked the question of whether or not one thought a painter ever got tired of his colors. You guys should totally go check out her other poems - they're really good!!
Caio Consoli Mar 2018
In a Strike
Lightning in Dice
I'm no Psych
Just a Mice
~
With a Slice
Be the Treasure
There's no Rice
But whole Pleasure
~
It's a Measure
To be Safe
Y'all Immature
Learn to Strafe
~
You a Wafe
Me a Pure
This is Chafe
I am Sure
~
See is Azure
Trust my Gut
The must Alure
Who can Cut

~

Battle will Begin
Their's no Mercy
Who can Win
With no Trirsty
~
Don't be Nasty
Ships will Fire
They are Classy
Like a Choir
~
With no Tire
We will Roll
Do not Retire
That's out Goal
~
Burn the Soul
Fight with Urge
Do your Role
Let's Purge
~
We won't Merge
Enemy is tricky
To the Verge
Give them Hickey.
Pirates
Flashing lights from the window
How they blanket on my face!
A calling back to reality
That leaves without a trace

of dreams and of fantasies
and of bright morning stars
as memories and fragments
lead us back to the start

ringing bells, closing doors
and two-hour dates
long walks, without a tire
no, we don't to race

in and out the halls we go
as i try to tell you something
chasing tails - back and forth
to ropes we still keep clinging

Ah, tethered souls! Yes, you and i
Search deep in each other's eyes
as the mourning wakes my soul again
reality becomes my prize
see the fire in my eyes
see my heart without disguise
mira Mar 2017
i am so dizzy and i must have vertigo
the harem girls tire me out real nice
it's all good and well in the south until someone goes and cuts their hair
please come with me
am i as you wish me to be?
our time is so short and i must be dreaming
give me some tylenol or something
the more i move the less i can
please come with me? please come with me and cuts their hair she said
Scarlet McCall Feb 2017
They came for us with tanks and guns.
We stood our ground—the old and young.
All our troops had mustered round
our Capital--Sacramento town.
A New Republic, we’d declared,
and its defense,
among all would be shared.
With the Bear Flag flying high
we all came to fight and die.
Young men in their combat boots
repelled the dictator’s first wave of troops.
Civilians came from South and North
to resist the fascist ruler’s force.
From Frisco and from San Jose,
from San Diego and L.A.,
from Calistoga and Marin,
thousands had come pouring in.
Then US bombers burned the city,
for the orange Fuhrer had no pity.
They won the battle, but we all know
from history, how these things go.
An occupation cannot last
against a people whose strength holds fast.
The tyrant’s troops will tire, while we
will fight on, until we’re free.
It's inevitable. We aren't all the same country anymore. A country of 300 million cannot be a democracy. California has more than 30 million people and can grow its own food. Why would they stay?
Arke Sep 2018
early, I worried our love was ludus
that you were merely playing with me
it was hard for me to believe that anyone
could love me when I did not love myself

or that I could allow someone to peer into me
and that they would hold me the way you had
with sincerity and beauty as deep as the oceans
and passion and fervor as strong as the waves

love, please know that my poetry is affirmation
a constant reminder that what we have is more
that it's persistent and real and infinite
my love refuses to diminish or disappear

if I must write a dozen poems for you
declaring my undying love for the world to see
I will continue to do so week after week
until I run out of words in the dictionary

yes, our love was ludus -- and eros, philia and agape
if I'm fortunate enough in the months to come
for the gods to smile at me and grant me bravery
I will find a way to break my chains

and if I'm lucky and you still want me in the end
if you do not tire of my over sentimentality
or the way my eyes become honey when they see you
I would get on both knees and beg you to be mine once more
We are enslaved by the daylight;
They expect us to work nine-to-five,
And submit to the social mire
of this subjugating machine.

In me rages a fire,
A being, unwilling
to tire. A pyromaniac.
Yes I've been known to
incinerate things, ****.

Who wants to see some pyrokinesis?
Can't you feel it? None of this is real.
Andrew Rueter Nov 2017
Your rapid fire
Heart's desire
Is a high octane
Bullet train
Bouncing between destinations
At widely varying elevations
Stopping at mysterious stations
Where I experience deflation
In between these stops is a track
Where everything is black
And you attack
Until the merciful sun finally shines
You then say you'll always be mine

There are quick flashes of light
But also sick gasps of fright
And it's a big task of might
So the trick is to grasp right
When the speed of your movement
You claim to be an improvement
Creates fire extinguishing wind
So the flame you lit you rescind

Your ride was aridly adrenalized
Which is why I was penalized
In a poison prison incentivized
By your many mental lies
Eluding my sentinel kind
No love I find
Only tire marks
In entire dark
That lead to nowhere
While I scream no fair

You were an explosion of pleasure
Whose interest I tried to measure
Instead of being happy
I saw your train lapping
Familiar phantom spots
When emotions ran hot
Through my heart you shot
At a velocity I once thought
To be completely impossible
Proven wrong by bullet holes
And only lonely bullets know
What's inside my heart
They take those contents
To make me repent
Your speedy intent

That was fast
Smoking past
Things that last
Into broken glass
Until we were cut
By our rushing rut
I couldn't take anymore
So I sped to the door
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