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the hapless half-life of our limerence
hemorrhaging hope in the waiting room

                          “take a seat”

      “the doctor will be with you shortly”

to chart up my insides

      luminescent display of shortcomings

                                                   ­                    reasons
       you'll find to walk...
*rough rough draft, just looking for feedback while I edit*
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
What poem will you wear, when first we meet?

How will I recognition-you,
when you transverse my land?
Unknown our faces, our voices,
Only silent words electronic exchanged

Will lantern, it be: one, if by land, two, if by sea?
Will your ID badge, passport stamped and state,
Your chest bear a witness-sign?

The Arrivals Board flashes:
                    une poétesse est arrivé
                    eine Dichterin ist angekomme
                    a poetess has arrived
                    una poetisa ha llegado

Will there be a haiku in your hair,
A limerick exposed by raucous grin,
Or just ten words
allotted for your entire visit?

Desperate to locate
Urgent to sensate
Matters I take
Into two cupped hands,
On the shoeshine stand
Climb and recite-shout

Know me by my words,
Know me by the lilt lyrical
Of my American accented,
Canadian Tongue of my mother

Know me by my words,
Carved by time on my forehead,
Poetry is the blood of this fool's soul,
Hear me, find me, look upon me slamming

Poems are the thorns in my palms,
See me crucified, bleeding stanzas
Upon my shoeshine stand cross
Recitation resuscitation welcoming:

Benedicting Gloria, Gloria, Gloria

But if this should fail your attention to secure,
Or the TSA unappreciate my second coming,
Look for the crowd gathered round,
A man of moderate height, in a tall hat,
Beard scraggly, looking sorrowful
Reciting the Gettysburg Address

Either way,
Should be easy peasy to find me,
Grab your bag, off to short-term parking

This is how an Americana poet meets n' greets
Arriving poetess from a foreign land

Is there any other way?
Alas, five years on and I know in my heart
that you are not coming...
Aug 2013
By Farrah Murphy

Please say a prayer for the children who are hurt each day. They didn't ask to grow up this way.
They don't deserve the bruises and pain. What is happening to them is insane.
They want to have fun, laugh and play. But their innocence and childhood has been taken away.
Children need to be protected...they are a gift from above. So many of them have never known love.
This is an urgent request....please pray!! Abuse is happening everyday!!
patty m Jan 2018
Through the Looking glass
Alice stands in all her splendor.
Her hair a curtain of silver rain,
her soft skin aglow in subliminal light.

A compelling fever rises
as Thomas tries different ways to pull
her up in memory
while writing himself into the tale.  
Poor Thomas delirious in his dilemma, he knows
this will be no easy seduction.  
How fiercely urgent his desire rises
as he longs to end our heroine's self-imposed abstinence.  

Hot April morning ambush,
and our intruder has beguiled our sweet Alice
with heated kisses sweeter than ripened fruit.  
A wildness stirs in the bloodstream.  
Now he slowly and lovingly explores her pristine body
as she shivers beneath his delicate strokes
until high trills rise to fevered pitch.

Pleated line of sky
muted corners softly come into focus.

Loathe to let her go,
passion stirs in his depths
slowly now he tastes her secrets,  shares her pleasure.

Tight buds of anticipation tenderly plucked,
his fingers find the stem, a measure of moisture;
Nimble fingered harmonies play pleasure symphonies
accompanied by soft echoes of youthful delight  
Warm and breathless, crystal rainbows paint the inside of her eyelids as she grows sleepy in afterglow.

Soon he's torn away, his pale poet's face conveying pain
received from this  now cool disconcerting beauty;
Though he touched folds and frills of every petal,
his chapter is immediately erased and the
original story reappears.  

She may have slipped down the rabbit hole,
but forever ladylike and pure is our sweet Alice.
Tanay Sengupta Aug 2018
Let the clouds invade the sky,
As my mind takes me to another land.
Today, I feel so high.

There is no reason to be shy,
The wind is my best friend.
Let the clouds invade the sky.

I feel so dreamy; I wonder why,
So many notes and letters to send.
Today, I feel so high.

I sit at the window as the heavens cry,
The tears that seem to have no end.
Let the clouds invade the sky.

I sit as my thoughts fly,
I have nothing urgent to attend.
Today, I feel so high.

I don't want it to stop; I will not lie,
But, everything must come to an end.
Let the clouds invade the sky.
Today, I feel so high.

Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2018.
All Rights Reserved
I think you will be able to figure out what it is the moment you read it. Happy reading!
Wade Redfearn Aug 2018
wind like a south wind carrying a plane south
deposits him, beneficiary of a backwards current
on a branch with nothing companionable in sight -
no answer, no voice to answer, no voice,
no alarm, no succor - just an afternoon
and nothing pressing. No urgent business,
maybe only the rigors of trying to prevent
there being urgent business later.
He's not all smooth. A little feather
cowlicked on his narrow jaw, and I don't know
how he bathes, what he eats, what he wants,
who would want to eat him. I don't really understand
anything that is going on around me. But look,
I understand more than him:
  the tree is dying.
Oak wilt blew in from Canada,
took a long time coming and finally cracked the veins
and this one is all bad on the inside, a meal of
corked-up flesh, big spongy patches and tainted roots
at the search.

(Amateur diagnosis. The tree is probably fine.)

There is a similarity neither tree nor bird know about.
Or his legs know it, and that message
is stuck somewhere. Or he's afraid.
The blighted oak is all fungus and refusal, and he:
his skeleton is spun from delicate copper.
If you open him up, he's like a penny -
pretty, and useless in this economy.
People and things always trying to get rid of him,
and he's listening because he knows it,
and he's singing because he knows it.

Open the tree up and the whole food chain comes down with it.
(Listen to your sweet flesh that wants to go on living.)

It's not a curse, not specifically:
just one fragile thing standing on another
but - count mercies -
too light to break it.

A basic brazier licking behind a splash of yellow, he chirrups.
His song comes from the throat.
His song is about something he saw once.
His song is unquestioned, muscle moving
without will.
  His plumage is mostly air
  And the tree is anchored in the ground
  by the very thing that chokes it,
and we're all standing together:
me, tree, bird. At least until
I finish my sandwich, packing the greasy paper in
a rectangle, with unquestioned neatness,
and leave whistling.
Hygor Marques Jul 2017
News, news, urgent news!
An ultraterrestrial was found
at 5:45 on the New York subway.
The ultraterrestrial has schedule.
The ultraterrestrial has salary.
The ultraterrestrial does not have a hat.

News, news, urgent news!
Contact the WORLD, spread the word:
The ultraterrestrial is pale!
Science can not clarify
If the ultraterrestrial thinks or survive
The ultraterrestrial does not talk to the press

News, news, urgent news!
Protect the USA!
The ultraterrestrial is insane.
He does not care about Russia, Prussia
Lucia, or Lucian.
The ultraterrestrial has no ***
The ultraterrestrial is a disconnect.

News, news, urgent news!
We have the first interview:
Prefer to be in formula
than informed.
The ultraterrestrial knows History
(But can not tell stories)
The ultraterrestrial is weird.
He does not crave the car of the year.

News, news, urgent news!
Close NASA, forget Al-Qaeda:
The discovery of the century is here.
The ultraterrestrial is a Messiah.
The ultraterrestrial is a trend.
The ultraterrestrial is the greatest.

News, news, urgent news!
If the ultraterrestrial is now a contagion
so the universe has become wasteful.
(Hygor L.B. Marques)
I'm a brazilian, so this piece was translated from Portuguese(BR).
*The 'ultraterrestrial' term is being used as a joke to (extreme/very) terrestrial.
Ben Jones Dec 2016
Billy loved his parsnip
He'd tend it day and night
To keep it safe from prying eyes
He stashed it out of sight
But one eventful morning
He awoke to such alarm
His parsnip had gone from puny
To the size of a baby's arm

Such growth was nigh unheard of
In a vegetable or fruit
So he bore it proud before him
Grasped expertly by the root
When he showed his doting mother
She was mightily impressed
So screamed a lot then swooned a bit
While clutching at her chest

The people at the bus stop
Shared his mother's admiration
But advised him that his tuber
Needed urgent relocation
So he took it in a taxi
Wrapped up in folded gauze
To the Guinness book of records
And he pushed apart the doors

His parsnip held protruding
With a confident advance
Like a knight atop his charger
With a huge organic lance
But security had seen him
They quickly knocked him flat
A policeman saw his parsnip
And he hid it with his hat

Billy served his sentence
For unsavory displaying
He changed his name to Danny
There's no record where he's staying
The moral of this sorry tale
Is far too dull to write
So learn your ****** vegetables
And know their names on sight

Lyn Senz 2 Apr 2018
by Danny Smith

The old man rises from his chair
gently cursing the ache that crept into his bones
when he wasn't looking

His slippered feet scuff the carpet
making a journey they know without him
to the window

He watches down on the cars
as they flash through the rain on an urgent journey

Leaning forward to rest his forehead
on the cool damp pane that shields him from it all
his prison wall

The cars seem to softly merge
as fragments like a broken mirror
tease and torment

A lifetime of dreams and tomorrows
that somehow became painful yesterdays
much too fast

Squeezing his eyes tightly closed
he remembers her face and the soft scar on her cheek
a perfect imperfection

The laughter and cries of children
running to him with chocolate smeared mouths
grown now, gone now

All of them to different worlds
ones where he was afraid to travel to
out there

Plenty of time to make it through
but the nights seem to skip the sunshine days

he shuffles back to the chair
lowering himself with limbs that can't be his
removes his slippers

Reaches for the polished shoes
years old but hardly worn and still uncreased
laces them

Moves slowly through the house
turning of lights, collecting a wallet
a pack of cigarettes, a photograph
pocketing them

The old man stands at the open door
just a fragment of someone elses memory, as he walks
into the rain

©Danny Smith
one of my favorites. it may be the only
copy on the internet. I couldn't find it.
it used to be on the 'Poemish' website
which is gone now. He had maybe only
12 poems in all that he submitted, and
they were all good, but sadly this is the
only one I decided to save. He lives/lived
in England as I remember.
Marisol Quiroz Jun 2018
ill never forget that night.
we were laying in bed,
eyes closed and half asleep,
teetering on the fence between
the world of wake
and the world of dream.

we’d been quiet for awhile now,
understandable in this hour of the night.
the room was lowly lit
by the dim glow of light
cast off computer screens,
and the air was filled
with white static sound
and your soft rhythmic breathing.

eyes closed,
i could swear you were beside me,
half convinced by the hum
of the speakers softly snoring
that i’d roll over to your body,
even though i knew
you were far away from me,
sleeping alone across the sea.
but it was something i could believe,
nearly there,
slipped into sleep.

and suddenly
you split the silence,
waking yourself up,
you called out my name with urgent pace
and i mumbled a reply
as you pulled me awake.

you spoke again,
and the words spilled from your tongue like nectar
and dripped from your lips like honey,
said with such haste
like you couldn’t get the words into the world fast enough,
as though holding it in any longer
would bring down the world burning.

it was then in that night,
one of many moments yet i’d find,
that i knew i was going to love you forever,
no matter of land or sea,
of sun, stars, or skies between,
could ever change that,
or keep you away from me.

―  “i love you more than anyone or anything i have ever loved or ever will,” 12:37 am, 10.08.17, what you said to me.
The deer trail is more still than quiet
Scents becoming louder than vision
Eyes close in deep temple breath

There is no more beautiful rain
     than forest mist
Sprigs of fog that are at once
     barely seen barely felt
Bundled moss like hyssop soaked
     in holy
     flicked with urgent intent
     soft wet sprays make clothes
     my nakedness
A baptism that fills my lungs
     with the spirit I belong
> May The Forest be with You.
> As published in Dark Horse Appalachia
> As published in The Indiana Gazette
> Listen to me recite Forest Spirit at
             DarkHorse7 on Bandcamp
The cricket's  rhythmic chivalry
slows to Autumn's droning crawl
like an unwound eight-day clock
unconsciously neglected by time

The Sounds of summer that fall silent
are never really noticed until gone
things we often take for granite,
a mistake rendering life benign

Dreams living only in our minds
beheld within, the love that keeps us alive
never caring, never needing to know,
"fifty ways to leave your lover" behind

So many miles spinning faster,
so much weight to weigh you down
it never really was a simpler time
just a window with a different view

Fleeting time may shine like shooting star
an irreverent kind of blinding light come to pass
a different hue of colours cast and sown
an  eerie silence may befall unprovoked

As if you found an urgent message
in a bottle drifting through your tides
you can spend the rest a lifetime trying
to catch lightening in that bottle thence

Don't look away from a moment
      too long ... in the blink of an eye
             it'll all be gone

someone you used to know ... September 16, 2017
Notes: "fifty ways to leave your lover"...Paul Simon
Me Nov 2015
The sweetest trait in humans is their painfully urgent wish to remain.
They have forgotten that infinity is only for stones and ghosts.
Or is it...?
Robert G Page Dec 2011

in this late hour on a mid-august night
the day's torturous heat now just a trace.
with heaven's dark sky splattered star light bright
and with the moon's help, how they now illuminate.

naked to the night on a blanket she waits
from a crystal flute she sips her wine.
its acrid taste makes her body brace,
and her silky skin to shine.

our lady awaits anticipates the night of love to be,
she's made her nest in secluded style
away from prying eyes, alone in the night
she patiently waits for her lover to arrive.

her warm body bathes in the evening breeze
eyes closed she lets her fingers roam,
her half-***** ******* she'll gently squeeze
'til engorged with blood they flush fully grown.

laying a hand to her most sensitive spot
the cradle of life's onset if you will,
her first finger eases itself into place,
and deftly a second does follow.

slowly and softly in clockwise rotation
wishing it were her lover's trace;
the effect was good with her hip's gentle motion
her soul now wrapped in silk and lace.

with quiet stealth on an old forest path
her mate breaks out of the tall trees cover,
spotting his sensual prey's silhouette
naked and silent he slips toward his lover.

feeling his presents her eyes slightly open
towering above her as tall as the trees,
she sees her muscular handsome young swain
in time to see him drop to his knees.

leaning in he gives her soft kiss'
his hand tracks her ******* with a gentle lover's mirth,
slowly and gently he brings her along, with a
touch as soft as a feather's fall to earth.

reaching forth and touching his face
and gently pulling him down to her lips,
they lightly touch then drift apart
as he makes his way to her ******* and hips.

the time is not urgent there's no wasted efforts,
every inch of her skin he greets with a kiss,
as a hungry lion studies his prey
not a single sound made, nor morsel missed.

seductively firm he leads her to ******,
she honors his every wish and whim.
knowing his every move leads to pleasure
from pleasure to rapture time and again.

as the moon crosses over making way for the day,
and the star's disappear in the sun's early light.
our lady awakens alone where she lay
her mysterious lover is gone with the night…
Outside Words Sep 2018
I was awoken from a dreamless sleep
     By a boy with short brown hair,
     Who, with an urgent stare,
Told me to head to the showers!

As my eyes creaked open to recognize,
     The orange glow of this unfamiliar room’s lighting,
     In front of me, in handwritten writing,
A page on the wall showed three in the morning.

When I glanced around a room of shared bunks,
     I saw all sorts of people and things,
     Running around with things to bring
To these showers I had yet to see.

In a winding line down a high ceiling’d hall,
     I stood with so many,
     Who like me, hadn’t any
Idea what was going on.

With a whirlwind flurry of commotion
     Steam crawled from the showers and water sprayed,
     As we were told in a big disarray,
To wash off the place from whence we came.

In a neat little stack, I was handed my clothes
     A tunic, with a sash
     And a captivating mask
To “celebrate our exciting return home.”

Down dark rustic stairways, I watched like a child
     The vibrant light and affinity,
     Radiating with enchanting divinity,
From the otherworldly people and creatures below.

Through that noisy, jolly crowd,
     We were led as a group
     And the boy said with a whoop
That we were all to stand up and dance.

His eyes glinting with excitement,
     The brown haired boy explained
     That our spirits would be ordained
Through a celebration of our inner light.

Onto the stage I was led
     As I stood with my class,
     Nervous amongst the mass
Of silent, numerous spirits before us.

As the boy hit the music
     I felt something from deep inside
     Rush out like a tide
And through tears of joy, I danced.

It was at that gleeful moment
     That my friends and I,
     Realizing we'd died,
Knew we'd returned to the forest.
© Outside Words
karin naude Feb 2014
in you child of 9 i see my unconquered vices , demons, wars, battles and countless insecurities i carry with from a fiery adolescence into uncertain despised adulthood. i desire to forget my baggage at the terminal but somehow my baggage always find my door. this is not a life i wish upon you. if possible i would cast your pure and innocents in an unbreakable cast to last you a life time and then some.
once i wore your shoes. they fitted me perfectly and i loved them, but i could not stay in them for urgent was the call for me to mature beyond my age. the war trumpets blew and off i went to a war i could not comprehend,. never realizing possession of my soul was the prize.

i would trade my victories for your uncertain battles for my armor has seen the worst and the best of days, you still don't have one, but it not either of our decision to make all i can do is watch and pray and hope and pour my heart into faith that in the end you will be ohk
SJ Nov 2018
The house was perfect
No matter how small.
Forget the broken window,
The stain on the carpet floor.

The explosion of toys over the floor,
The tea parties,
Cubby houses,
And Zombies at the park.
The urgent rush to tidy up
Before mum walked in the door.

Stories with Dad
A run-away lawn mower,
Bruce the shark.

On Christmas mornings,
When we would wake up,
To find map,
Guiding us to the treasure

In this house, I learnt what having a brother was like,
lots of cars
lots of trucks
lots of blocks

Where I learnt to walk
And talk
And laugh
Where I discovered the power of words,
The importance of doing your best
Taking pride in your work.
Treating others with kindness,
Not putting yourself first.

All the memories,
Echoes of laughter
The photos of a happy family
Like trophies on a shelf.

Clocks ticking,
Moving fast
Too fast.

Until one day,
We outgrew the house,
Small was just too small,
Where would we find space,
For the things that needed a place?

So, we packed up and left
Shutting the door
On memories and expired dreams
That weren’t around anymore

But we set off,
To make another house of bricks,
a perfect home.
LGY May 2018
I grew weary of the world around me,
for it deceives me time and time again.
How do I know i'm not a prisoner,
out of desperation,
hallucinates he's at home,
cosy in bed, with
nice warm soup at the desk,
waiting for his master to devour it dead.
How do I know I'm not sleeping,
and this is a all a dream.
I could be a King,
under a spell casted by the devil,
fogging my vision from god.
I can't look back now,
and have to move forward,
discovering the truth,
a task too urgent to be discarded.
Braving through this nightmare,
kudos to those made it through.
Nadia Sep 24
Greta sat alone that day,
Presence more than words could say.
And in the time that's passed since then,
Greta's warned us again and again
The time is now, we need to act;
Earth is in danger, that's an urgent fact

Power tells us there's nothing we can do,
We're too small to see changes through;
But Greta won't cower for lying buffoons,
Their disdain of her only self impugns;
The earth is for all, from tiny to massive,
Those who can speak can't remain passive

If one girl's message can gain velocity,
One girl's uncensored words unveil atrocity,
It's hard to feel that hope's not there
When together we act, together we dare
To demand action, demand accountability;
Then maybe we'll survive past this century
Ian Mackenzie Aug 2018
Tonight, as the languid heat settled upon us, though far apart, an unexpected turn of events took place

For reasons unknown a voice spoke out and you were there to hear it's note

At first a soft voice of uncertainty, but then a more urgent call

A call that you heard upon this soft summer wind

And for a moment or more I felt the join of us
July 2016 - about JF
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