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CK Baker Dec 2016
The napalan man in a violet cape  
descended the stair with a lopsided gait
a wretched procession, subscribers in cue
rattling off as they stream from the pew  

sounds and smells from a shadowy place
a catholic priest to gin up base
lanterns strung from bolted doors
cobbled streets and wooden floors  

stepping stones and iron bell
fortified by the citadel
hallowed halls and sepulcher
dragon cane for the horse drawn tour

castle turret,  archer holes
centaur scribed in chamber bowls
garden columns in courtyard view
the blood ballet and hullabaloo  

ancient tombs on warrior grounds
gods and saints who made their rounds
goliath still with battered scythe
knelt in prayer and mummified  

battle fires and crowds that roar
gallows, caves, abysmal war  
gargoyles flock the terraced *****
pearly gates to bring on hope  

serpents, snakes and burning ash
lava bombs and trident clash
mariners drift in absentee
as neptune rises from the Tyrrhenian Sea
Daniel Quigley Dec 2017
A halogen glow
Condensation drips
Winter pressing on the glass
This tired bus rolls on
Bring me home once more.
Iz Jul 2018
There will be gloomy days when
you will look back at your old self
and think about this one choice you made that
changed your life in many ways
You will think about the day you decided to leave
You left family and friends behind
hoping to find a better future on the other side
You were young and naïve
you were that quiet kid that
no one thought could ever leave
yet, on that September 6th 2013
holding hands with Fear and Hope
you boarded a plane that took you miles away

There will be gloomy days when
you will wonder why
on that day Fear didn’t pull you aside
and tell you that life
wasn’t going to be as bright on the other side
You will wonder why that quiet kid
had this strong need to leave
You will look back in sadness
and grieve the loss of those happy times you took for granted
You will be drinking the same coffee
mum used to make you on a Saturday morning
and you will be listening to those songs
dad used to play in the car on a Sunday afternoon
You will grieve what it feels like a loss
of those you have always loved

It’s on these days that you will feel alone the most

Inside your head it will be as dark as the sky
on a rainy winter afternoon
and your eyes will be as heavy as grey clouds
ready to let the rain pour down

It’s on these days that you will grieve the most

Though, they say there is always calm after a storm
and no matter how brief it can be
you will eventually find some peace
and it’s within this peace that
you will find the strength to remember that
not everything is as gloomy as it seems
It’s within this peace that
you will honour that quiet kid
who is no longer as quiet as they used to be
and it’s within this peace that
you will celebrate their new life as a fearless kid
Alex McQuate May 2018
Great tragedy suffered,
Impossible circumstances conquered,
The warrior walks upon the field flanked path.

The wanderer's armor tells a tale,
Battle scarred and partially rent asunder,
A face of stoicism that hides the haggardness underneath,
Peeking out beneath the mask of a hardened soldier.

The clouds clap ahead, preceded by flashes of light brightly illuminating the world,
Accompanied shortly after by the rainfall.

A trickle becomes a downpour,
The battered individual trudging along as the road becomes a bog of mud and slop,
The message firmly planted within their mind.

Coming upon the dark outline of the castle ahead the warrior picks up pace,
Reflecting upon what would happen to those that the Warrior helped.

The pace is now fueled by a different kind of urgency.

The rain is cold upon the faces of those that it falls on,
The torn edges of metal digging in at places,
Some already wounded and tender,
As the final hilltop between them is crested.

The gates are closed,
And this loyal soldier is for the moment shut out,
A fist is raised,
The declaration of allegience given,
An angry detailing of the warriors achievements and adventures shouted,
And a challenge of one's path,
Building in anger and fury as the dam finally breaks and gushes forth,
Threatening to shatter the gate and doors to splinters and twisted metal.

A long ago promised gift to be rewarded,
For all the things endured,
Things that could be considered so cruel,
The storm picks up in force until it's akin to that of a hurricane,
As if brought forth by the warrior's grief and pain finally being released,
For the first and only time.

These things ringing out dispite the storms roaring wind,
Gathering force,
Perhaps in affirmation of the warriors words.

After a pause the gate begins to lift,
It's metal screeching,
The doors groaning as they begin to swing outward, and the embattered soldier is bathed in light,
Taking the weight from the warrior's shoulders,
As the threshold is finally crossed.
Abbigail Feb 2014
Mom makes you smile for a picture in front of the bus
on your very first day of school,
"You only have one first day of kindergarten!" she says.
But every time you hear the scratching of leather seats,
You are back to that day
When tears rolled off your tiny pink cheeks,
onto the front of your Lion King tee shirt
The first time you ever had to be afraid that you
would never see her again.

Brother tells you not to worry about the boy that bothered you,
the impact of a fist on his right eye is a warning
that guarantees he'll never disrespect a girl again.
But every time you step in the pebbles on a playground,
You're still struggling to run just slow enough not to slip
yet fast enough to keep from being caught and held captive
by the first boy to ever kiss you without permission.

Grandma tells you to "appreciate today" every day
because you'll never get it back.
But every time you hear the crash of waves against a shoreline,
You're there with her in your favorite place in the world.
And the sun is overhead with looks of never coming down,
But you'd be okay if it did because you swear these colors of
the sunset don't exist when you see it from anywhere else
And you never feel so close to God as you feel right here.

Dad is sad when you're growing up
because you'll only be little once.
But every time you get the surprising scent of metal and grease,
You're five years old again and dad is getting home from work
and he lifts you up in a hug and you bury your face in his shirt and breathe in,
And you're confident that he will carry you to bed later that night
on that same shoulder when you fall asleep on the couch.

You're told over and over to forgive
and your mother keeps trying, too.
But every time a green van passes by,
you're a vulnerable twelve-year-old with a record that says easy prey
and you're back at that police station and you're both still crying
and forgiveness still seems so far away.

Everyone tells you that "first love"
is something you only feel once.
But every time September rolls around,
You're still staring back into the first eyes to look at you in awe,
His palms feel sweaty in yours but you don't mind.
And you can still taste his lips and smell the sweet mint Stride on his breath
and you feel everything.

It’s strange how they promise that you can't turn back time,

yesterday is gone,

today will only happen once.

Because I go back all the time;
And I still feel everything.
Egeria Litha Aug 2018
Hello, Waitress in the sky
So long her fear to fly
She throws the world a smile
bats her eyes in a wink she's gone
hurling through the clouds
calming others through turbulence
**** the corporate scene
Type A personalities acting mean
humiliating her in a board meeting
so she trades blue for green

Goodbye Waitress in the sky
trade her wings for a diamond ring
So long her need for speed
racing on the runway


She was flying with the birds but now
she's swimming with the fishes

Deflated dreams of broadening horizons
a-popped balloon and a rolling stone
nowhere to go but everywhere
Oh Lord, she won't get the answer tonight
Oh sky, give her the strength to fly
Oh Queen, find her a smart place to run
and that's why she took US 66 for a drive
Jamie Jan 5
I am being scratched from the inside out
My ribcage bares nail marks
Wings are pushing underneath my back

And before I know it,
Black feathers are falling to my feet

A blanket made of night swallows me whole
And I'm free
pitch black god8 Apr 2018
”good night, good travels, pitch black”

depending on how one counts,
cause size matters,
do have I
one small blessing


though little do I get, more-less,
in each twenty four measuring cup,
when the sleep gas has come-for-inhaling,
lidded heavy with greatful/tearful anticipation,
it’s less than sixty seconds till
dispatched to where all poems
plead like unborn angels for
good parentage

the spoken good night ritual signaled and completed
with a perfect half turn skating axel onto ones side,
preceded by, a single solid smacking of
an innocent but flaccid, equally tired pillow,
then lost in pitch black galaxy travels
with other sleep-drunk little princes

instead of the wavering, singular word,
a traditional goodnight,
a parting and a haling simultaneous mumbling issuing,
undebated and a wish shot to all within dream-shot, a title,

“good travels”

to places where ferment the aging words under
the winemakers watchful caring eyes opening,
names or titles, same difference, for the newborn babes
JSL Mar 2016
Look at you; a carved beauty.
How patiently were you made?
Did you know the star cries for you?
Did you know the skies bend to you?
Are you lonely?
To be at such height no one dares attempt.
To be burning so beautifully.
To be fire.
To be the lion of everyone's heart.

I'm lonely too. But of a different kind.
You're alone at being perfect.
I'm lonely to be the thing you don't want to ****.
To the boy from Amsterdam.
Sergio Esteban Oct 2018
I’d like to be away
In a world far away
But that won’t escape
The world inside my brain

I’d like to stop the time
Live frozen between the lines
But that won’t bring me closer
To a picture perfect moment
That you and I never had

I want to live on your wavelength
Travel with you
At the speed of light
Penetrating
Any barrier
And travel parallel
To your sweet and endless path

I want to tell you that I love you
Have the courage
To make you mine
Too bad I lost the fight
That was going
Inside my mind

I’m endlessly falling
For someone like you
But I’ll gladly fall forever
If the destination leads to you

I think of you every night
And wonder where you are
Do think of me the same way?
Do you have the same thoughts?

I’m sure one day I’ll meet you
The moment won’t be perfect
But perfection is overrated
I’d rather meet you
In any way
As long as it leads me
To your mellow heart

My sweet nebula
Travel to me
As fast as you can
I’d do the same thing
If I wasn’t stuck behind
But I’m moving on
You’re my motivation
Even if met you I have not
Miss Saitwal Jul 2018
That workaholic lady who's always on call
& keep up with the market cells,
That newly married lady with chunky "red bangles"
talking to her husband with both earphones and blush on.

That man with a big fat stomach filled with his wife's love;
That teen who is on the edge of being deaf
because he can't do without the earphones.

That struggler who always stands at the back door;
That dreamer who's lost looking outside the window;
That person who's scared to get lost so stay active on the maps;
That disturbed mind who is coping up listening to George Michael;
That overworked soul who can crash anywhere.

That lady who choose to sit and freeze to death under a broken A/C unit, rather than stand with a five kilo backpack in a crowded jungle.
That girl who eats like a thief by hiding her food in the bag;
That tall enthusiastic freak who swings
and does gymnastics in a moving bus.

That granny who spot more trends than teens and follows them;
That old man who still can't keep up with the uneven roads
and the confused climate of Bombay.

That teen who lives with/on an Ipod,
instead of the 90s kids who survived on colouring books;
Those kids who believe their job is to fill the voids in the still crowd by surpassing like electrons to the magnetic field.

That man who is inspired by Raju Rastogi from 3 Idiots,
chanting to death and can't stop stressing on his responsibilities;
That entrepreneur with a head held high and red lipstick,
who never believes in a 9 to 5 corporate "mistake",

That blogger who can't think offline and is born to shine on the Gram,
That man who switches from Linkedln to South Indian action movie when the masses exit.
Long train rides
into new experiences.
The budding mind grows
with external stimuli.
Reflection waters the mind.
gotta write 'dem' thoughts down to make them real
Ztef Jul 2016
I like to travel like how one falls in love;
To feel everything deeply and cherish moments,
To understand what is foreign and appreciate its beauty-  
consumed by emotions all at once, and still be brave enough to explore...
For after all, travel and love are both deep forms of art.
Mystic Ink Plus Feb 2018
I’m a none,
Escaped from myself
Just to be an anonymous

A nameless face
Harboring a soul,
Inspiring reflection,
In a finite of time
Travelling in a circle
Over crosses and lines,
Budding path of life
Sacrificing all the senses
Truth is one, perceived it in a different way
Genre: Spiritual
Shared from my Anthology, Canvas: Echoes and Reflections, 2018.
Obscrea Dec 2017
I would kiss you on the battlements
I would kiss you below flying cars
I would kiss you in the rain
Or when we would dance
Underneath the stars

Just keep me close through time
And time again-
I'll never leave your side,
No matter what,
I promise.
Juhlhaus Apr 3
Fingers on the rails can feel
The pulse of steel and diesel
Engines, the working muscles
And sinews of a continent.
Ten thousand horses throb the air
And bear down on a mile of freight.
It rolls by like thunder
Under a clear blue sky, stirs the soul
With memories of lonely whistles
In the night, a desert wind, mystery lights;
When little fingers at the open window
First felt the pulse of steel and diesel,
A million iron miles ago.
For my father who loved trains from childhood and worked forty years on the railroad, traveling approximately five million miles by rail during his career.
Walking down the bustling street
Stopping, listening
An old man playing spoons
ethan gaskill Aug 2018
i walked down the stairs
and saw you at the kitchen table
at first glance i noticed you writing
but i couldn't see a piece of paper
i walked up behind you
and put my hand on your shoulder
you looked up at me
with a smile that could light chicago
and pointed to all the pencil marks
on the map you were holding
and said "these are the places i want to go"
until then i'd never seen
poetry that i couldn't read
but something about the lines
and all the plans they represented
brought a tear to my eye
"let's go then" i said
as we ran upstairs to pack a bag
reminiscing about memories
we didn't yet have
and dreaming with both eyes open
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