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shamamama Apr 29
Gentle silence unfolds into chaotic cacophany
My eyes once dry
open wide to watering
the rain outside
the tears inside
washing away debris
from the forest
of confusion
watering my seeds
of awakening
to this truth
now
The once quiet night turned from pattering to battering, pounding and sounding --more like the rain of jaguars and wolves awakening me into my thoughts...
zebra Feb 9
palace of lights caved
blooms through the body
like reality pitted against a comic book
not knowing where life came from
not knowing how it will end
food tubes or road ****

is creation substance-less?
24 carat nonsense,
or pure wisdom?
perhaps bad therapy
for lab animals
and store front dummies

monkeys shudder at needles
unless candied with a heroine syringe
chemistry a science of belligerence and euphoria
pleasure before despair
and than a sea of pain

and a ****;
impaling her

the lushly contoured female
a frictionless exchange of power
for ******* ecstatic death
as her eyes bob and flutter
like cascading echo's

my birth tarot card
**** of swords
her favorite when I push through her
like blood bubble gum
b l o o d b u b b a b u b b le g u m

a **** cathedral of lights flicker spit
guttural diphthong
like a vipers castanets
uterine fire bursts like an appendix bomb
her **** a zoo
******* z o o

i am peanuts worms and hay
her face a mask to hide behind
breath play
sibilant ****
specter or nightmares
shadows and villains aphrodiac

gagged and drugged
hot ***** bound
a big eyed ****
s l u t l o v e

*** cannibals turn me on
her ****** a goddess
a Russian roulette
for shtttty kisses
sploosh
she shot me

cuckoo spit
k o cuck  k o  k o o
twizzles willie milk
in a drowning
moss draped moon orifice
under a shattered zodiac

wrapped in tentacles of night
she turns me on
Äŧül Sep 2018
Happy days are here forever to stay,
Always by our side find them we may,
Parting ways is never a thing to say,
Practically we are fitting each day,
Yolk is this of ours, getting prepared.

Best of both worlds are we two,
Imagine a life together with me,
Rid yourself of that negativity,
This space here is only for our love,
Happiness will always come on,
Delayed it may be but surely it comes,
Always remember that I'm here,
You wanted a mother again, I'm here as your lover.

Thanks for sharing your life with me,
Over the decades of my caring, healthier you will be.

Yes, we shall complete each other,
Of phoenixes, you will be a mother,
Up next is just our Love & only Love.

Part ways never with me,
Overcome health issues,
Overcome them with me,
Just absorb all of my love,
And just imagine my Love.
On 15 September 2018, Pooja Shah completed 22 years of age.
My HP Poem #1722
©Atul Kaushal
sara Aug 2018
I'll see what I can make
out of the leftovers I have.
Although, it's never too long
until the milk turns bad,

until a love turns sour
in an online second;
since, an online minute
wastes a real-life hour.

But in a snap-shot moment,
I can find life for weeks
on my stash of sugar truths,
until I forget to eat;

forget to breathe;
'til I don't even need to sleep
because the lovehearts on my photos
sing such soft melodies.

And despite the fact
that often I can't sit at ease,
somehow this perfect madness
always tastes so bittersweet.
a poem about the addictive nature of social media
A horror movie scene as the heroine escapes.
Everything is still besides her convalescing breath and the distant, chasing wind.
Not a noise is heard except the fall leave's rattle and the birch wood's moaning bark in the moonlight.
Her body slouches into the protection of a lone shed, and shrouds itself in the aroma of cut grass.
A tense brow relieves and tired eyes close, thankful to receive the momentary peace.

A possible misstep turns the wary peace on end with the jagged cut of broken leaves. The once relieved brow now concedes surprise as wild eyes are cast towards an opaque barricade.
Sly pieces of garden equipment leash a weathered jacket in place as she attempts to stand.
A cackle is heard, a shriek undone.
To spite the brittle wood, the formulaic jump-scare-skeleton-hand bursts through the shed's solicitous walls, set to declare the last of a weary soul as his own.
The wind catches up and spearheads any hole it can find.
It begins whistling around the dim room like a tornado elated to havoc behind a castle's walls.
The tree bark howls, the leaves, now delight.
We learn there is no reprieve for a begging champion.
The camera slowly backs out of the splintered hole, and pans over a silhouetted forest to face the waning moon.
The hero succumbs with muted screams to a gore far below and out of frame.

Our only closure, a black screen, with bright white letters, slowly scrolling up.


The end.
Just something I had fun writing, figured not posting it would be a waste despite it not being "poetry", just an experiment I guess. I feel like it would be good, in like, a high-school, short story competition. *****.
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
I
A flower that smells of pure bliss keeps an ear to the ground
It's a serene one sitting beneath the stars down on earth
The moon, far, far, seven seas away, loves to drop into her lap.

The Bay of Bengal billows, music has gotten beneath the skin.
The leaves furl out off the deep wood with the birds
singing out to the top of the trees, rhyming with the leafy dance.
Heavensent, that was in one sanguine day in the spring.
The Mother’s Language Movement in 1952 sprouted like this
on the eighth of native Falgun month—oh magic did it unleash!

On that day our beloved brothers were shot dead
They could swallow the bullets with smiles but won’t give up
demanding the official status for the Bangla mother tongue.
Angels wrapped round the martyrs amid lamenting mothers
Laid them on Falgun’s perfumed ground bleeding corpses
Seas of roses bloomed and blew them out red, red kisses!

They are gone not the stone wall of consciousness they raised
Ah, at the sprout of the spring what were they echoing?
Ingrained deep in the soil the pre-designing voice in the planning?
Who can tell? The world gels on February 21 in celebrating!

The angels then snapped up our martyrs’ souls off the land,
placed them on a piece of Heaven where they can hear the jingle.
Down on earth, a nation springs up, has gotten its wake up call!
Stepping on the sweetening arc of the mother tongue melody
the stone turns a flower, all in a butterfly moment soaring to victory.
Thanks to the movement - Bangladesh itself later comes to be!

II
The sun comes down to the rose painting on the land
In the heavenly Falgun hues it nibbles some wild summer dreams.
“Serene songs of earth stirring the water,” like it comes into play,
rowing the cloud bubbles singing in southern breeze.
Ah, a walk on the sun-kissed kaleidoscope land is a pure bliss.  
Every blossom spray of the wind is soothing sweet
Hop on and play straight to the ruby heart, as if it's a flute.

Mother tongue means speak free, fearless, in full streaming.
Speak the heart to the world without the fear of losing the cloud
that will listen, bouncing back on the brink of the sky river.
Then what did one say, hear, or was awed by in the blooming Falgun?
Could it have been the spring humming in her native lingua
or King David singing in mother tongue by babbling brooks
what in any other language, even with a silver tongue, isn’t possible?

Allah has listened to our martyrs’ crying mothers and fathers
The martyrs’ souls whisk through the galaxies and starry fair.

Soar high over the clouds, take the rainbow's *** of gold away,
Like a hue turns 360-degree in the colourwheel bask into the colour.
Still, dip the toes in Bangla mother’s soil salted with perfumed art
Like Himalayan water swirling down melting deeper deep down
This magicland is polished for everyone be it you, a fairy, a star
or off the ploughed-out barrow a walked out wonder!

A pristine voice duo’s voiceprint gleans to the spring in muse,
Pops in a beauteous scurry and speaks in the mother tongue!
Hidden within the earthy depth, only emerges with time,
only dances in tangent, that day slipped out with the butterflies.
And finally the blue nymphs take the plunge drop down the sky  
That day the mother’s voice triumphed, whose is the most original!
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
Cné Oct 2017
The surf provides lullabies
as ocean echoes roll.
Too soon, the sunlight glitters
as the dawn turns gray to gold.

I wake and I rub my eyes
beside the sandy beach
My love beside me, languid lips
within an easy reach.

I whisper, sweet good mornings
as your dreams I brush away.
You stretch and yawn, responding to
requests to "come and play".

Lingered memories caress,
of last night's rising moon
with silver waves and ripples,
beyond the dark lagoon.

In shades of colors that mix and smudge
you take your time, no rush
My ******* tingle, at the thought
upon my skin, spreads flush.

In reverie, flutters reminisce,
your wanton body on mine.
Whispered moans in my ear, you ******,
"I'm yours", I hear on rewind.
When last night's... turns into this morning's
Nathan Jul 2018
Seductive wayward hands
Like silk, soft to the touch
Travel down her lustrous skin
Southbound too their destination
Lips, neck combine in passion
Warm breath on the neck
Turns into sultry slow kisses
She grips his hair tightly
Her soft moans reverberate in his ear
As his fingers glisten with her lust
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
Inside the great
big global village
not everything is rosy
even a cat knows it
a leaf can sniff it.
The Moon shines
not in every night
nor God promised
always a blue sky.
Still the roses bloom
Cinderella has the lot
the reasons to groom.

The richest among the folks
turns philanthropist in the globe.
The wisest among the men
celebrate the era for it’s
the civilisation at its peak.
Hooray what now triumphs at last
is the wisdom and humanity!

Really? O please tell me?
Not very far, nor for much,
just because some differ in faith
mothers and fathers left in pain.
Not because they are to lose
Rohingyan sun nor the land
beneath their feet but in no time
their sons and daughters
can be put to death into fire
that too before their eyes
before the silent established world!
Outside Words Sep 2018
We look like you all,
     but we’re not the same
With you, we live here
     on this meager plane.

We do not see in your way,
     have no concept of time
Although our bodies age
     we have infinite minds.

The realm from which we visit
     is filled with beauty and nature
With compassion and warmth
     we serve there as caretakers.

We were here to teach you
     in all of your ignorance,
To go back to simple lives
     of unity and innocence.

But you spat in our faces,
     and made us dismiss
You and your indifference
     in this bottomless abyss.

So here you shall stay
     until heaven turns to hell
And to the night sky we’ll ride
     to the place we once dwelled.
© Outside Words
Heavy Hearted Jun 2018
The river winds in from distant lands
With mercyless power it turns stone to sand
Through its mysterious life, the very earth it commands
And Yet the fearful river still runs through our hands.
In torrents of furry where the deepest currents flow
The rivers wild waters surge with woe. For
Onward, forever, its destined to go
A permenant home it won't ever know.

The river runs from each of us
As a refugee of fear,
It knows in a blink it will be somewhere else
Its waves are really its tears.
It runs from the audacity  
Of the selfish human mind
As Its massive life capacity,
Of flora and fauna combined,
Are threatened by our antics and helpless to our crime
So the river runs on their behalf, from everyone, in time-


even within its whitecap foam
Water's yearning for a home

So roam does the water- endlessly,
till its long gone out of sight
The essential droplets of the river-
Nomads day and night.
Tom Spencer Jul 2015
Summer morning -
pink jets of clouds
splash out
from the golden well of the east
falling just short
of an ebbing moon.

Streams of swallows
flutter and glide
over the garden -
they are all flying
in the same direction
as if erupting

from the sun’s waking pulse.
Just for a moment
one of the birds hangs
perfectly still -
like the top-most drop of water
from a fountain before it turns

to face the glittering pool.
Beneath them all
the hummingbird
makes her rounds
and a dove scratches the earth
below the feeder

keeping an wary eye
on the scribbling intruder.
So many summer mornings -
too many summer mornings
I have wasted
worrying about the world

and my place in it –
absent from my own body
and breath
the cage of my ribs
rising, falling, and pausing
without me. Meanwhile,

another swallow
stills her wings.
Buoyed by an unseen breeze
she is both feathered sail
and cresting wave as she slices
over my shoulder bearing west.


Tom Spencer © 2015
tetameta Sep 2018
if the sun is leaving now
i can follow it
even to the other side
i can swallow it
first i did my pride and then your ego
you couldn’t even face the truth
you killed your own libido

but have you ever thought
of what it did to me
my hand was always on my heart
how come that you was weary?

love should awaken love
my hips would shiver so i peeled off
every petal of the rose
while saying

“he loves me, he loves me not,
he loves me, he loves me so”

man like you love
when theres no desire
and when theres desire
you cannot love
i could unfold the curtains
i could let the sunlight in
but i can’t be the one
that will take it on the chin

now i got to think
of what it did to me
my heart was always in your reach
so who was cold, *****?

love should awaken love
my hips would shiver so i peeled off
every petal of the rose
while saying

“don’t let him, don’t let him in,
don’t let him reach now within”
Darryl M Jul 27
That look you catch in his eyes,
as he slowly thrusts in.
That rush he forces into you,
as your eyes display the gasp.

That moment where she grabs on him for her dear life,
Till she admits; 'she can't do this anymore.'
She has no signs of claws,
But those scratch marks she always leaves behind.

That cuddle he gives, as he feels her teats,
even better, when lowered to her ***.

His scalding fingers moving up for the hair pull,
Then down knot-tied to the neck.
A snake, fang-loose, be her moan.

That friction he gives her mental,
everytime he whispers a "shh" ballad...
                   -giving thought *******,
                   -just a little dose to make her flip!

"He owned me entirely,
And fed me my own soul,
At the palm of his imperious hands."

"At that moment I knew,
I was her whole world,
And my whole world,
Laid on her."

                  -Unto me,
                   She was an animal,
                   But she found a beast,
                   and craved for my claws.
Flabbergasted by Desire.

More on:
The World turns AWOL #wattpad https://my.w.tt/KzOBzqqyFY
Richard Barnes Aug 2018
In one hand time’s pencil, the other hand time’s eraser
and line by line, written events are  erased, forgotten in
history;  Read what love dictates, sweet thoughts of love
before time’s eraser turns words into forgotten dust.
Carter Ginter Jul 2018
I started writing a poem about them
And the beginning sounded like ours
The one where I told you that
Words aren't enough to define us
And yes words are limiting
But
They also have a way of telling you more
If you pay close enough attention
When "I love you endlessly"
Turns to "ILY" and
"I can't imagine my life without you"
Turns to weeks of sitting alone
And all the "I miss you"s
Turn to "how are you"s
As if you even cared
Your actions never matched your language
Were your words too limiting for you?
When I was still always there for you
And all you did was break promises?
Were the words you spoke too constricting?
At least that would explain why you broke them
Though still not why you said them
Maybe you were afraid to let me down
Or afraid to really be seen
Or just so self-absorbed that you didn't care
That you couldn't care
About yourself
Or about me
L B Jun 2018
Later at the same address
A storm of words reaches flood stage
A couch is bobbing in the currents
towards its mangled ruin-nexus
of matchsticks in cyclonic flow
among the renegade
trash
hanging
from the limbs like tinsel

Meanwhile
chair heaved through her door
Like the river
I am not above my rage
at this stage
of more than enough....
Clever daughter's got my goat
Turns my words on dimes
Lays into me
her score of blame
Each blow to drop me further

presses all my buttons at one time
despite the flashing
Warning! Warning!

“Fine! Fine!”

She blows-out through the afternoon
right past me
in a torrent of curses
A stubborn perfect storm
of words
has taken out parental dam
and blown out toward the Bay of Freedom
to the sorrows of her day

The river may crack its whip
But its got nothing on her

nothing is left standing
in her way
Pagan Paul Jul 2018
.
In a costume of conflicting emotion,
of crossing diamondic colour,
with regal posture in grief,
the Harlequin and the King,
a display of opposites
creating a composite being,
that eases her body
gently into the waiting water,
to float away serene,
on her journey to the nether.

Midnight blue and emerald green,
the regalia of ermine,
both ostentatious and humble,
robeing the aspects,
understated in crowning splendour,
the gentleman King bows,
and the Harlequin laughs,
the bi-polar reaction
to the tragedy of misfortune,
with a sting in the myth-tale.

With the dark hues of mourning,
a legend passes on her way,
across the streams of time,
on a voyage to discover herself,
carrying her Harlequin in a purse,
holding her King to her breast,
owning them both in her heart,
the medicine wheel spins,
knowing the grapes of wrath
yield the wine of spite.

The motley speckles of attire,
a starry parody of night skies,
lighting the decorated funeral barge,
gliding along the rivers of space,
worn with the mantle of sorrow,
and it sails into the sunset,
as the Harlequin and King observe,
the mandala turns,
the bier of the Queen departing,
bears their sadness forth.

The Harlequin laughs and laughs 'til he cries,
his heart grows cold, then withers and dies,
whilst the King, statuesque, memoirs his life,
lamenting the legend of a Queen, his wife.



© Pagan Paul (24/07/18)
.
Nobody Aug 2018
What an appalling desire,
your heart beats so fast.
An unsettling ritual,
which refuses to pass.
A nagging numb need,
you must feel something;
go make yourself bleed.
Get it out, act now.
You wait for the great release.
One slice turns into more,
and you need it to hurt.
No one must notice,
hence the morbid allure.
You can’t stop the impulse,
once the fuse is lit.
You tremble with sickly delight,
after every slit.
You’re almost done,
carving your skin.
The pain seems gone,
but it won't be for long;
still for one moment,
you heard that sweet song.
Amanda Sep 2018
If you only understood how dear you are to me
How much I've discovered about the world
You could show me it jn reality
Slowly explore sure planet earth as it twirls

Distant corners in tucked places
Because I need to escape
If have you close instead of blank spaces
Can hide in the feelings taking shape.

Fear growing into hope
This may be what I have waited for
All that time I couldn't cope
And the nights spent crying on the floor

Love you for taking all that away
Emotions I couldn't erase on my own
You helped tear apart dismay
Made sure I didn't fight demons alone

You are there to lead without question
Willingly sacrificing your hand
Many times pulled out of depression
Supported two legs until they could stand

Rainfall pours down heavier now
Swirling and spinning in wet assault
To you surrender, my head bowed
Journeys diverging and it is my fault

Thank you for lovely time shared together
Our paths will always intersect
I'm grateful you threw to me a line
For our two hearts to connect

The colors in your galaxy
Fade, in your arms become blurred
Tonight the first page of our story
Presence told without one word
This isnt my favorite piece. What do you guys think?
Ceida Uilyc Mar 23
I thought I’d learned all I had to
Turns out there’s a thing called getting better at what you do.

I thought I’d seen all them follies of life hitherto
Turns out there’s a thing called getting greater than what we were.

I thought I’d swept all them sins right out
Turns out there’s a thing called getting cleaner than what you are.

I thought I’d wept all them regrets inside-out
Turns out there’s a thing called getting calmer than what I was.

I thought I’d kept all them promises I made to my beau
Turns out there’s a thing called getting quieter than what I could’ve.
Jamie Riley Apr 2018
They look out from the terrace.

At the borders of sight
live rocky hills behind brown
and golden and olive crop
under a cloudless sky.

Sun beams brighten motley roofs
on tessellations which blacken beige
in blurry air.



























BANG!





















An artificial cloud.

































“Look,” she points, “Let’s go!”

She takes him and they fly down stairs,
diving like sparrows
into the street.

Boys sprint across pavements and climb;
men vault over fences in time
for news to reach ears.

“They’re coming!
"¡Ya vienen!"

Excitement and fear.

The rattling of cow bells
and galloping nears.

Men bait and dodge horns
and escape through doors
and up and over
red wooden bars.

Sticks beat on the concrete ground
and drive the mute beasts's sounds.

Seconds away –
until the last,
he side steps into a house;

indoors,

apart,

he runs through the foyer
and up the stairs
around a corner.

Long strides

too fast to follow.

She chooses left and
sings soprano
when doors won't budge
and
       a
           beast
                      crashed
                                       in.

She turns and the fear is paralysing.


"FERMIN!"






















He hurdles the stares
and explodes
when it rams her
to and fro,
thrashing her head
against the wall
where horns
sin and gore
cement and brick.

He clasps the tail
and heaves its hide from
side to side as
hooves smash
crates of wine -
they slip and slide
in fractured glass,
he finds a horn
and yanks the head!
He's yanked instead
half dead before the men
arrive down stairs
to punch and kick it;
strike and stick it
smack and hit it;
'til it
fits and quits
and flees the foyer,
fast and frantic,
flying flustered
by the frenzy,
finally finding
pattering

pavement

It


peters


off


into





the







street.





"¿Que ha pasado?
  ¿Quien ha sido?
  ¡El Balbotin
  y la Chicha!
  ¡Que una vaca
  les ha pillado!"





Hands bleed
and flesh breathes.

"¿Estas bien?"

Dizzy, she tends to him
with searching hands,
and scolding words.

"Podria haber sido peor"
This poem is about an incident which happened to my Grandparents, Fermin Yanguas Ochoa and Raimunda Ramos Frias.

It was during a bull run in their village (Fitero) in Navarra, Northern Spain. 1972
may May 2018
The person who always
knows when something’s the matter
But doesn’t pry because time will tell

The beauty you hold
doesn’t just come from the outside
But It is flowing within  

You have a kind heart that not everyone
Deserves to see but you show it to anyone
You think needs a pick me up

Everything you’d want in a best friend
Could be found in you
So I worry about you going away

I could never get tired of our late night talks
The ones where we just lay in the dark
Because I can tell you anything and everything

But as it turns out
Everyone has a different definition of forever
And I hate that I’m waiting to see what yours is
I don’t appreciate my best friend as much as I should. When you read this I hope you’re safe and I’ll see you soon :)
broken poet Sep 2018
Pretty girl with your silver hair
And smile that could outshine the sun
I’ve come undone just at the sight of you

I don’t have the courage to talk to you
So I don’t know what your voice sounds like
But I’ve heard your laugh and it’s most divine

I could never talk to you
You are a child of the stars
Your beauty makes me stutter
And me I’m just a mere human wishing for a star
I don’t expect for my wish to be granted
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