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Samuel Oct 2012
What came first, me or
the harmony words?

sometimes I wonder
Catriona E Jun 2015
Sometimes, my skull fills with water
And I forget what we are
We are not.
We

Typewritten letters punch holes inside my mind
Beams of light sifting through sand.
Or rainshowers
impregnating truth
where there is none

My physical realisation
wants for nothing.
Nothing
in us carries the weight
of our waters
like the ebb and flow
of life’s tide.
Lunar Oct 2014
i might have become
         h o l l o w
         as the bottles i drank
                       numb
             as my cold fingers
      e m p t y
        as the inbox on my phone
         disoriented
  as how this poem is typewritten

how much more naiveté
do i have to go through
in order to realize
because i know im hurting
yet i dont know how to explain the pain
Orange Zest Oct 2011
it's kind of like antharax; vanity;
it's in the air in your eyes in your lungs in your walls

someone else put it there
you're breathing it in and you're not even aware
it's killing you, you know

and the only reason you're reading this now
is because something drew you in.
maybe it's because this is typewritten
...
hell knows if it were in my handwriting
you wouldn't have gotten past the third letter

but back to the killing
back to the dying

the vanity that someone has put in the air and is filling your lungs,
it's curable.
all you have to do is realize

;
this poem is not about you.
No, I was torn naked and bleeding from the mouth of a death star
and woke to find mountains laid bare by the sea.
In the shallows of blood baths and craters, where the crushers of garlic and the harlots all meet
and the stiflers of dreams, dream on (right up my street)
that's where you'll find me.

In the 'Benbow' with pirates and pieces of eight and with cords tied to timepieces
(don't want to be late)
and the show starts at nine
when after drinking two bottles of cheap German wine
Salome appears with a head in her lap
we clap
because that's what we do.
(Lost innocents are few and we ain't none of all that)

But the ship sailed at four carrying whalebones to Spain
to tighten the corsets
for those Senoritas
who put me to such shame.
What's in a name that it's spat on the floor
by crimson clad virgins
who won't leave the doorways of bodegas
and Degas paints on.

A shanty
a song and the night carries me along on a wave of cheap scent
where oft' I have spent a weeks earnings on unsatisfied
yearnings.

In the end someone will send me a typewritten note or a telegram
to let me know just who and what I am
until then
in the 'Benbow' 'til ten and the crows crow at midnight when the lights all go out.
k e i Aug 2020
my feet are planted on these wooden planks,
the very separation of the soil beds and the stream. your hand’s quick to envelope mine in its warmth. dandelions dance with the cacophony of the breeze. the lighthouse stands tall a few distances from where we stood.
the sky gets littered by colors, sons and daughters of the sun bidding their farewell
everything within the expanse of the lakeshore showered in their translucence-
and quite frankly darling, we’re left with no exception.
you were staring off the distance
and in that moment you were almost miles away-but i didn’t mind,
for i was too mesmerized by the calmness
you were pulled under, the amber gold canvas bleeding in with the havoc it was pierced with.
i swear it was there where we’ve been in our safest state.
maybe that was our arrival to the once unknown destination we were targeting to be in all our plans to run away, fake our deaths.
we were a world away back there
and despite the sun sinking,
it breached the start of a hundred different voyages.
your presence was the closest i’ve felt to home.

in the expanse of a moment we were something more-something more than our sadness and all that we’ve stored in folds within the silhouettes.
and to a random onlooker,
we were just two kids content on being stupid and naive out on a chase for an i don’t know why the **** i’ve been put in this sick sad world but maybe we can stick together and make it ‘til we’re grey sort of happy ending.
to anyone else we weren’t anything but misfits, a pair lacking sense, knowing no better, junkies screaming out pent up emotions to rock songs on rooftops
or taking hairpin turns on 4am roadtrips that fueled the adrenaline.
thrill seekers, jaded
to anyone else, we were nothing more than a reckless pair almost making their way to the big screen or a typewritten poem the paper creasing on the edges.

but there we were made out of the sunset way past sets of bones and fractures by the sky,
the sunset looked like us.
now it’s months later, and we’ve let everything fade,
scratched out all that we’ve casted on the future, of long forgotten lullabies, null whispers- you’ve erased all our texts and chats,
in turn i have thrown out the flowers you picked and your book recommendations, the diy polaroids piled up in a box.
i stopped listening to all the songs you’ve sent. the curtains in my bedroom no longer match the shade of your hazel brown eyes.
the places i once brought you to are now ghost towns you’d get glimpses of in postcards 50 years from now-
at least that’s how they’re portrayed in my mind. but not without taking a drive, letting my footsteps baptize the ground they trample on with a feverish kiss,
one more time, one last time
clearly you’ve chosen to vanish, no traces left for a breadcrumb trail after that night at the diner where we spilled our closures
delivered with so much declaration,
leftover longing left caged in glassy eyes the whole time.
you stormed away with the last pieces of vulnerability, everything done with one final cruel exchange, just like that,
all my drunk texts a non-stop desperation reeking of “i love you’s” left to no reply;
that should signify that we’ve gone unto depths just to burn all our remnants
-maybe you more than i did.

here we are, free of the artifacts pointing back to each other,
from everywhere we’ve ever been
only to be proven of its blatant wrongness;
for we’ve forgotten about the sunsets but it sure as hell wouldn’t allow itself to be put to rest,
and it does the same thing with everything once marked by it.
you’re no longer here and our shadows have long unlearned the dwelling
once found on each other’s spines.
and maybe this you that never vacated my head even now, the one i couldn’t just bring to hate even after you’re no longer the you breathing softly beside the girl with twilight underneath her eyes.
but darling, the afterglows would pursue each time the sun sets;
each time, it unearths the glass shards from our fights and the longing and the butterflies crumbling onto chaos, our aftermath.
i no longer have an idea if you still marvel at the quiet like you once did,
as i stood there in the shades reflected by the currents under rushing with their beating.
“now we’re worlds away but sunsets still look a lot like us.”
Mon Nov 2014
I wish
To look at the waves of old memories
(Are they even mine?)
of brushing rough fingers against
misty hands―salty like sea foam
(Are they even mine?)
Or typewritten words
(Are they even mine?)
because I simply despise my own mark of pen
because ink stains this day
will never be as fascinating
as the way the sea makes your sky-speckled shirt
as dark and as deep as it is
forming waves against your stomach

Stop,
Ask myself
(Are they even mine?)

And sigh,
not heavily
nor curse myself,
with the words
I so carelessly throw around
like this
like the sea of letters
pulling me away now,

but whisper,
"That was beautiful."
(Were they even mine?)
Ashley D Escobar Jun 2015
am I even supposed to be in love you? your thick horn-rimmed frames and curly hair never cease to leave my brain and remains engrained in my thoughts from when I first wake up, to bus rides on my way to school, coffee in the foggy afternoons, and when I lie awake at night staring at the artificial stars spread out on my ceiling. I miss you so much and I am not sure why we had never spoken before you moved but maybe it was fate that led me to finding you through the internet and let us become lovers in such a modern age. it’s easier now with our computers and iPhones yet I know that we both still crave romantic letters in swirly handwriting or ten paged typewritten letters from across the country in the back seat of a bright mustard, gypsy caravan with a peace sign engraved onto the license plate. I wish you could just easily come back instead of having to wait for opportunities to visit during school breaks, since we are constantly in town when the other is not. do you still write passages about your childhood memories and about “love” because they were equally as beautiful if not equally true. what are you thinking about when you are passing through the golden gate bridge as the window is halfway open and a vampire weekend song echoes through the car, mixing in with the sounds of the sea? do you still hold your breath in the old rainbow tunnel we used to make wishes in? or do you not even bother to try. I hope we can make things work since this love is anything but unrequited, and I am craving your freckles more than anything in the world. no, maybe even more than anything in the universe. I am going nowhere soon so come back whenever you would like before time runs out and we head our separate ways. please, for your name is starting to appear in my notebook too many times and I am madly in love with the idea of being with you, even if for only one day.
Kier Patawaran May 2017
Poetry is beautiful or so they say
It's just ink - filled paper
Or typewritten chatter
Much to my dismay

You see, I think I now know what is true
Baby, word after word
No matter how absurd
Could be beautiful if made for you
For Ayn
Brian Fahey Mar 2016
I live to dream
Up here where the writers can share their time in imagined peace,
Duly thought out greatnesses, and the squeezing in
and about
and around
in rampantly quiet fondness, sometimes (often) of one another.
Spending infinities, tireless hours, slaving in their castles in the sky,
-composing
Constructing life from billions and trillions of words
that happen on small forms of paper that slip and toss themselves like dumb flounders,
Sometimes to the ground,
Spiraling slowly to their deaths,
15,000,000 feet below.


The abused dreamlings are meant like rain to slick and refresh the ancient, strained making of
a typewritten play,
teaming with the brilliance of enamoring flytraps, teething, eager to consume you and make you seed,
a story
continuing from now and forever,
as it were,
crushed up into passing word,
gyrating on the systems of (wr)etched meaning,
crafted in the hot,
rusty, moaning gears that power such
our upward descent into a dense and bitter (sweet) Sky.
new and rough poome
Vernarth, after rescuing Valekiria, entered the Sacred Planetary Path, right here and later before 700,000 thousand souls who were lost in the Forest of Hylates, they were released from prison and they were given the offering of flowers in their hands agreed by a goblin on a Sycamore, going to the vicinity of Kourion, and then attached to the ship Eurydice, where the Auriferous Medallion was.
Hylates, was a worshiped god compared to Apollo, his name obeyed Apollo of the woods. Being a god of the forests, who were ritualized by their knowledge, they were condemned for harassing Vernarth. Much of this site of worship had immense monumental gardens, an atrium leading to the architecture of the Kourion and Paphos gate columns surrounding the grove sanctuary. Vernarth bathed in circular leaves in procession after Valekiria's chimera, after indulging him in the bath of golden holm oak flakes, which were shaped in dihedral cloisters of an invisible abbey. It was the appendix of an intuitive poetics molding the titanic epic fibers of Hylates and his spiritual nervousness that was extreme in the tectonic conditions of various continents on his sturdy anatolic layer; peroration of the afiolite rocks of the Troodos mountains, adorning itself on the oceanic mantle, as an idealistic geological process in the Hexagonal Birthright as a testimonial zone of Judah, which would be elongated from the earth's crust, here shortening and thickening by deformation and fracturing as a consequence of lateral tectonic forces. In this ****** over the Hylates Woods, the apparent calm of the island was seized, in earthquakes that Vernarth captured under the soles of his feet, taking him to the ocean bottom where the medallion guarded by the Christians rested. The concomitant range is a rigorous hodgepodge of cliffs and very heavy cliffs, incoherent and scattered that hung from the edges of Mesorea as a backdrop. The beauties he possessed were found in his hidden villages, nestled in hollows and valleys on the slopes, some rich with apple and vine trees, others higher up, covered with ferns and pines. The Troodos mountain range, once green abode of gods and goddesses, is now green with Vernarth Hetairoi.

Alikanto circles the foundations, dancing on them and their groves of sacred trees, procreating archaic altars in votive flagstones with their hooves, digging up terracotta and ceramic figurines with their hooves, riding below on a long street that goes from south to north leading to the Temple of Apollo Hylates, which was built in the Late Classic or Early Hellenistic period on the ruins of the Archaic temple, close to an arena where Alikanto cut off small roots of jubilant hemlock, trying to join the lacerated dance. Vernarth was still surrounding himself with his steed, in him he was overwhelmed by periphrasis by a sacred garden pilgrimage in alchemy of Hylates, that the priests who would carry from the treasure to the bottom of the sea, down the Eurydice with new codes of life.

While he could Vernarth brooded with the Mandragoras that were bellowing, dislocated by the black poplars and the willows that were linked to the winter solstice, and therefore with Pluto and Persephone who made solicitous incantations. But the nearby wells were burped, smearing the wooden and stone columns, causing structural damage, not being harmful determinants, only generating romantic and incorruptible their Christian apology.

Some decay falls in the temples, the reborn species collapse enslaved by the wealthy, unbalancing the mystique of Judah. Macedonian figuratives interviewed the epic narrative of past customs, based on familiarity and didactic Ionic customs. Vernarth illusively begins to decode the architectural relevance, to concentrate it on Patmos, fostering Ionic art, an ineffable inheritance after the arrangement of Etrestlés in the Koumeterium of Messolonghi, to the effect of the capitals that were preening again, since he generated it in the background sailor to approach the theologian. Vernarth as a builder and bricklayer retouches with his golden hands the public agoras, the pritaneion for the Hexagonal Progeny, in accordance with theaters of epic and religious scenic art, to render them to the funerary emissary. All this typology will be specified in all the circular planes, some called tholos, to be rectangular in Patmos with the prototype of the temple of Asclepios - epidaurus; God of Medicine, who will help him for his subsistence and final recovery of his epic chest. Here is the prosaic typewritten sphinx, which tends to bind him defenseless from his scattered objective time to the joys of building, badly shaping the inadequacies of fallen works, a product of his worn out neurotransmitters, a remnant of the most utilitarian and unencoded for greater time and investment of utility of limited period and space. They are felt in some surrounding areas, drums and major percussions, noticing how the changing of the guard of the Eurydice gold medallion took place.

They fall from the vital instruments of Asclepios, secreting certain neurotransmitter synthesis substances, giving Vernarth the peace of mind to stand inspired, as parallel to the exogenous architectural, to vindicate the architecture of his body shaped by lymphomas, receiving circular and rectangular axo shapes, traveling through the torrent of their innovation that wounds the iron of the fractality of their hoplite neuro architecture, having to redesign themselves before they travel to Rhodes, using the target stock target that stimulates their immune system. Upon being freed by this immediate precept, he communicates with the theologian Saint John to take note of the lines of architecture that will have definition once they are presented to Procoro on Patmos.

Says the Theologian: “the diffuse window that we have opened here in the forests of Hylates, characterize neuro-architectural communication, the destination of clairvoyance on other distant unofficial Eucharists. What ceiling supports the ubiquity of its origin, if the temples do not communicate with each other? Outside the dogmas and the interstitial space of the cells with agility they make the concessions demanded earlier, they are cells that carry missives between torrents of senses of nervous love, that neuro-build the bodies according to nature and the body that identifies the substance. We have already synthesized the phylogeny and that of its pre-classified chronogram in Gethsemane, now we will be teleported theologically through the ramifications of the Olive Tree Bern, towards the vesicles, which hope to be precursors of the body and soul of our progeny”

Etréstles joins the Ionian synapse channel, a precursor of sensuality and sensory politics that will end the ideological stores, releasing the parasitic cells that would drive the thick limestone and terracotta embankment that Alikanto had unearthed, of all the calcified particles that spread over the membranes of the Bern Olives, phosphorizing in the ranks of Christian gladiators, who emerged from the sea after the change of the medallion guard and their filamentous seats, unleashing the overrelief of the vices that fell from their moistened bodies, depolarizing and reacting with openings inhibitory to those who tried to observe them, as if hiding them from their past of slavery.

Leaving the Forest of Hylates, in the chronological sense of the classical orders of the Aegean, the sea currents moved like rafts towards the Cyclades, leaving the gale torrent of the Animoi and the Meltelmi, leaving the memories of the primogeniture graceful slender, like a great Canonical example burning in its stay like an acropolis, carrying the distant peculiarities of all molding, to touch a new one when passing through the winds massing on the boceles and enthais, anointing itself with occasional prismatic pieces, which made it seem the outstanding union of Trees with columns with stone roots base. The Ionic gaze of the forest of Hylates was modulated by channeling in the psalms of Saint John Theologian, like a filet of poetic urges increasing the size of their oval prayers, which intervened in the coral lights, engaging the sixth order of primogeniture, before of going for the medallion, causing the superimposed escape meditations of the Ghosts of Shiraz, who were still entrenched in their purposes, and of the rivalry with the Saltimbanqui, staggering through the submerged architrave, bathed by faint waves, transparent in the near the middle of some temples that could be seen submerged, a few meters submerged in the Kourion bay.

Heartless and devoid of new stereotypes, they passed by crossing the garlands of the Eurydice, which was already getting ready to install itself in the mask, Raeder and Petrobus perfectly recorded the images of the ship that floated on the string that held its bow together, pointing to the neat symmetry that met the expectations of being reunited with the precious gold medal, showered with new feats to those who redeemed it. Raeder was flying on Petrobus, but this time they plummeted to the bottom, where the massive gem slumbered, giving them praise for all who lined up like a great Miracle anchored in Limassol. They leave the Forest of Hylates, drenched in the golden sun, staining the sheds of the upper hatch that the Eurydice exhibited for them, with iridescent colors to take their captain.
HYLATES  FORESTS
casper Nov 2020
My writing will never be nice.
It will never have rhyme or reason or hold iambic pentameter.
It is not typewritten on aged paper bought from a small bookstore, carried home hurriedly under a black coat in a downpour.
My experiences are not universal,
on the contrary,
they are painfully singular stories.
My writing will never be featured in a book,
or on the front page of a trusted source,
it will be buried away in a desk,
dormant with the other scraps of musings once cherished.
I am not one like Keats, Byron, Frost, Dickinson, or Poe,
I, for all intents and purposes, am a fawn lost in the forest,
admiring the sights and sounds around me,
listening to those wise ones who can describe them in such perfect tone.
It would be fair to say that I am not even a poet,
I am simply a brain that thinks,
A body that moves,
And a soul that feels that very special something.
Dated for the day it was written.
Nahal Apr 2018
Do not forget how healing poetry is
a simple free verse of jumble and ramble
let it become your addiction
it is healthier than other tar-filled junk in your lungs.
Never underestimate the power sketching out words
as though your brain is a map
you want to travel around it
finding its cold and dark places
and basking in its glorious sunshine
when you feel light and content.
Whether handwritten or typewritten
the words flow from your lips
or your heart or the depth of your soul
with a yearning to be heard
shouting, increasing in volume
please hear me, and don't look back!
Even though your body is never illuminated inside
your brain is illumined with ideas,
bounties you never imagined you could muster up.
I don't know how I feel right now
Donall Dempsey May 2020
"AGHHHH YA...GOT ME!"


I chase
the thought

only to see it
yet again...escape.

Dissolve back into
the nothing it came from.

My poetic footsteps
echoing in the attic of my mind.

Like trying to grasp
a ghost that laughs.

Language playing
hide and seek.

I, a bounty
hunter now

hunting down
a meaning

prepared to show it
no mercy.

Cornered
the word panics.

"Well, punk..."
I tell it

as
it
is.

"Do y feel lucky...
well do ya punk?"

The word eyes me
as I eye it

as if we are
in a Spaghetti  Western.

That chant of...
"we shall fight...we shall fight"

and that lonesome
Leone whistle.

"Do ya feel lucky enough
punk to be in a poem?"

I spit the phrase out
it pings in the spittoon.

The word tries to make good
its escape

but I imprison it
on the page

with an angry
clack of a typewritten

full stop
"Aghhhh ya got me!"

the word gasps
with its over the top act.

"Thanks fella!"
I smirk.

"That will be
the title."
When writer's block strikes then use writer's block itself to defeat it and write a poem about being not able to write a poem. That will teach it to come around here and tie up my head in knots!

— The End —