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Dead Rose One Jun 2015
Lush is the quietude
of the late Saturday afternoon,
rich are the silencing sounds,
as variegated as the shades of greens
of a man-seeded, nature-patchworked lawn

rays reveal some bright,
some yellowed spots,
all a potent color palette

resting worry wearied eyes,
untroubled by the gentle fading light's illumination,
that soon will disappear and seal officially,
another week gone by

the lawn,
acting as an ceiling acoustic tile,
absorbing and reflecting
the varied din of disharmonious
natural sounds orchestrated,
an ever present reminder
     that true quiet
is not the absence of noise

I hear
the chill in the air,
insects debating vociferously
their Saturday evening plans,
the waves broom-swishing beach debris,
pretending to be young parents
putting away the children's toys for the eve

the birds speak in Babel multitudes of tongues,
chirps, whistles, clicks and clacks,
then going strangely silent as if all were
praying collectively the afternoon sabbath service,
with an intensity of the silent devotion

this moment, i cannot
well enough communicate,
this trump of light absolutes,
and animal maybes,
that are visually and aurally
presented  in a living surround sound screen,
Dolby, of course,
all a plot of
ease and gentility,
in toto,
sweet serenity

here to cease,
no more tinkering,
leave well enough,
plenty well enough
for Sally and Rebecca, who love the lushness best....

JUNE 2015
Seanathon Mar 2017
The clouds racing across the sky
Remind me that my chance to live
My window into this varied life
Is rather short-lived
And that one day, as I certainly know
I'll be able to fly across the sky
Beside the clouds
But never high enough to look down
At least with this particular set of eyes
Can't wait...
For all the earth in the world,
For the varied chunks,
shapes and shades
of brown, keep an eye out!

There, somewhere in the dirt,
Next to the writhing worm,
Gasping at pockets of sunlight,
Green life ruminates, and
pushes, pushes up,
through the soil,
intrepid, unlikely.  
It abandons it's old husk house,
what little safety it knew,
and, daring to dream,
thrusts itself into existence,
and feels the day's cooling kiss,

a multi cellular masterpiece,
when yesterday, there was only
dirt.
Allie Dotson Aug 2018
I was not born with fear
fear was put into me
I was not born with insecurities
society skewed my mind to believe In beauty

I'm was born free, curious and untrained from formal normalitys
why must an individual become
parallel
normal is varied
so why do we try to be alike
and we try to fit into a illusion that a society creates
a society that changes and grows
but how is so
people can't be different and unique
a double standarded we so apparently have to keep

we were born at different times and different hours
we are raised in different places and situations
do not let yourself be finalized by an acceptance
and become one of many of society's prisoners
pressure might turn coal into a diamond
but for others it shall break them
jane taylor May 2016
towering gently overflowing with heightened awareness
subtle hints of blade’s keen glittering chiseled edges
untamed rugged surface powerfully averts gale’s acrid tempest
vigor pulsating that doth persuade the cloud’s reflections
if i shall not again embrace a meager glimpse; a demure echo
of thine towering mounts my soul shall ever suffer

my spirit soars with e'er one glance of thine majestic presence
replete with reminiscence seasons stir and beg thine tender mercies
to house the changing leaves at dusk of autumn’s auburn portraits
and give birth to crystal snow cascading peripherally in winter
which melding into spring then begs thy bluffs to cover
in soft amethyst of columbine blossoming first light of summer

‘tis not paramount to scale high aloft thine peaks in escalation
for small sheer glances stamp forever with imperial impressions
and ‘tho i’ve traveled ‘round and savored nature’s varied essence
none can compare thine evergreens laced in aspens nuance
my breath is gone and shan’t return ‘til in thy shadow casting
i stand and look upon thine hallowed face the rocky mountains

©2016 janetaylor
little Sep 2018
He fell asleep on my floor
The air is different for me

He opened a door
And then a drawer
I grovel on your knees

Ladies and men
We like to pretend
The roles of who we please
Nadia Aug 11
99 since the middle of April
99 to prove I was able
99 of varied lengths
99 of varied strengths
99 my mind did create
99 to demonstrate
That I can finish 99 things
99 poems to trust my own wings

NCL August 2019
Thanks to everyone for reading and for your kind feedback.
L B May 2017
There should be wings of a hundred birds
to churn this scorch with breeze
to dry sweat
shade glare
to soothe the ache
of a post-noon day

There should be varied
and a thousand greens
with all betweens
of innumerable trees
till the blue of sky
blends their deference

And the river heaves its way along
ever on
eternal mission of earth
and...

...Heaven-- sure misses so much some days

Cool remote
Transcended as it be
Replete with rains
and relief of clouds
The Angelus in the distance....
with its affluent affinity for air

Revelers leave their party debris
for those making sure
not a sign is left....
We sort and fold, collapse and pack

Somehow between chairs, tables
cans and bottles, assorted trash

They come--

crouch on the levee
wander and stare
aimless amid tall dry weeds
Inhabit a bench, a moment--
Wild
filtering through our fabrication
Wind to dissipate our purpose
Trees invading abandoned fields

“The poor you have with you always”

“I'm not drunk,”
she drunkenly proclaims
to no one
except maybe….

Leaning over her opened beer
seated on bench adorably painted
with joyful hands

Who fondly held or hoped for her?
Before....
days of dirt troweled a shadow
in the sweat between her *******
Filthy tank that barely covers
derelict denial

How they find themselves established
as we make to leave
WE, of our homes and cars and jobs
and plans of escape

They--

of always
This was observed after an event supporting the rehabilitation of the Lackawanna River.
His melancholy eyes,
Didn't settle for the world.
His bittersweet heart,
Was never caught by any girl.
He's nostalgic for content,
Doleful hands strain to attain,
Whatever he tends to lack,
From inside those frosted panes.
He doesn't leave his room.
The window sill calms down his brain,
Knowing any moment he could jump,
To feel something upon his frame.
He's sad and unwilling,
Given strength when he loses control.
Each loss of rein will cut a rope,
To which untethered his varied soul-
All feedback is welcome and appreciated!
Sally A Bayan Oct 2018
<>

There is power over what's in front,
what's behind, cannot be vouched for.

any one, anything that accost me, are
all taken at face value....just as they are,
disregarding love, or dislike,
or, what dwells deep within.

when not shrouded, i am most useful
some say i'm cruel
others think, i'm kindest
but, i am just being honest.
with the least of light, i try my best,
i earn praises...they come back, they need me
sometimes i am bathed with hatred
i end up in the attic...or given away,
just because the truth is unacceptable.

the area across is most times regular,
a man on his table...what hungs on his wall.
occasionally, it becomes spectacular,
countenances, joyful, or sorrowful
come to and fro...all sorts of accolades
a mix of emotions...each day, an array
of lively colors and moods......a parade
of varied appearances feed my view
it's not what i want...it's what i am given
any time of any day...any season.
whatever the reason
someone or something
stands  to face me.

when night is late, and in complete silence
that man by the table....ever writes on paper
and gets them all wet...with his falling tears,
he writes of volcanoes spewing fire, of rain pouring,
speaks to himself, then to me, of betrayal, promises
lost, of broken vows, and shattered expectations.
i am speechless, yet filled with his pain ....he is restive
til the wee hours of the morning....then i see light in
this visage, his face...giving an end to the dark
giving way to another day's noise,
......a facade.....

Sally

Copyright Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
October 11, 2018
Mustapha Olokun Nov 2018
the chevy hard knock.
varied origins of afro youth,
in the tint of dark,
in the Havana rock.

rich rock in the palm,
pummels in the trunk,
and the narrow cracks
of La Habana funk.

rugged daughters,
draw the physical art,
sons form the
majestic canvas.

trumpet songs,
echo her soul tonight,
and she wails at hints
of the mornings right.

driven on the uneven black,
is hope of excitement.
curiosity risen from the street,
of opportunities coveted.

what more, in Cuba,
to live and die,
to love and feel,
to suffer and sweat.

It is all beautiful,
and it is all classic.

eyes beholding
futbol on corners,
tough children, play much
on rough dust.

a Cubana, with skin
as buttered chocolates,
crossing from shade to sun,
****, and gracious.

tonight is loading,
buffering the cigar smokes,
the groovy 76 being shoved
with memory and revelry.

Here, in Havana.
sound is telling
a living story,
an active pleasure.

.. and it is all classic.
All classic.
here,
In Havana.
For imagery of an upcoming musical piece.
Luz Hanaii Oct 2018
each feeling casts a mood, varied degrees of energetic pigmentation

we're given certain shades to express within the mural

novices handed dark and muted tones

some will excel, never mind the palette nor the hues

and in our doodling, scribbling or master work

forget! for shades they matter not

but how well displayed the work
L Maughan Jun 27
I  know how much
I love a peach
or summer evenings
on the beach
I like the leaves of artichokes
and when I drink
I love to smoke
Avocados mangoes too
sunrise and twelve shades of blue
I love my bed I love my bike
and sometimes love the bad-boy types
cotton shirts and sweaters- great
Fluevog shoes and writing late
I love the wind on cloudy days
vibrant colors next to  grey
desert parties strings of lights
and sometimes- well I like to fight
a Varied Thrush’s morning song
and ***** talk- is that so wrong?
to skinny dip is just pure bliss
I like to ponder people’s wrists
and love hello’s you don’t expect
secrets kept out of respect
watermelon cantaloupes
goosebumps dogs and stupid jokes
the subtlety beneath a voice
where my mind goes reading Joyce
I love those slips that fall from tongues
and watching drummers is great fun
I love to travel north or south
I love your eyes I love your mouth
see how fast that line sneaked in
I love to love and then again
Wk kortas Jul 2018
He’d been close to the big time,
If not a god of the fight game, perhaps a demigod;
He’d been possessed of considerable brute strength
And the ability to shut out concern for the well-being of others,
But there had been the odd ***** in his armor:
An overhand right which announced itself too early,
And arrived just a smidgen too late,
Plus an unhappy tendency to lose focus,
To stray from those plans his corner had set up chapter and verse,
Choosing the forbidden fruit of the quick knockout.

He had, after losing a bout to a top-ranked fighter
(He was eighth in the world, he would chuckle ruefully,
And I fought him like I was eight years old.)
Decided to chuck it all in,
Enrolling in a scruffy little bible college
Sitting just off an interstate on-ramp,
Cheek-to-jowl with a Wendy’s and 7-11,
In order to facilitate the transition from mayhem to ministry.
He’d soured on the process in fairly short order;
He understood instinctually that he, like all men,
Was a sinner, and likely unworthy of salvation,
And the faculty accentuated the notion daily, if not hourly,
Like so many jabs to the midsection.
He’d inquired, gently, as to the approach one should take
To addressing the worrisome paradox
That all men were imperfect beings
Marooned on an imperfect world,
Yet their fallibility was all they had to build on,
(A rickety ladder to scramble upwards, for sure,
But the only way to reach that golden fruit
Held out for him, though just beyond his grasp.)
The responses varied, from sputtering and vague parries
To the suggestion that such notions were heresy,
And so he’d returned to the club-and-casino circuit
Makin’ the best use of the gifts I have, he would sigh,
Before heading out once more,
Hoping there was one more short right at least one more time.
John Niederbuhl Oct 2017
Nature's own inkblots,
By time and wind shaped
Each with a story to tell,
Fantasy stirring, recollection as well,
Knowing us better than we know ourselves.  
Some have stooping shoulders,
Like old men after a funeral
Talking quietly on the lawn.
Some have boughs that slant down,
Like eyebrows
On teachers that frown--
Worried and skeptical.
Some stand at varied intervals
Along hilltops above a town
Watching like sentinels.
Some have branches that curve up,
Short, like fancy mustaches,
Or long branches, like eager arms outstretched
To greet a loved one.  
Some stand very close, boughs touching,
Like families saying grace;
On some, the branches intertwine,
Like lovers who embrace,
And on some, the lowest limbs
Fly upwards,
Like a skirt raised by the wind.  
Young ones crowd together,
Some taller than the rest,
Trunks thin,
Like kids choosing sides for baseball.
On some, the branches rise like smoke,
Billowing silently, curling,
Drifting to the sky
Like prayers from a little church
Where all the woman wear hats,
And every man wears a tie.  
Like inkblots spreading they capture the eye--
Each with a story to tell.
Silently standing,
By time and wind shaped
Knowing us better than we know ourselves.
I grew up among these trees--I know them and they know me
Bryce Feb 28
Have you seen the soft light of her eye?
The speckled dusts that line
the record sheaths
Spinning in the groovy beat of eternity

Somewhere high above the skies
veiled in wisps, her water-bearing cirrus
and looming presence of Cumulonimbus
running the deluge of thoughts into the brain
and giving the gift of loving rains

There she is, the lovely moon--
A pockmarked pearl in distant gloom
A momentary gift, spinning her disk
in shafts of light on fallow eyes

I have been long lost, in varied dream
The boundless world around careens
Empty towards the end of move
But I'll spend the rest of this with you

The moon, Earth's aeons of planetary dance
in loving poise of circumstance
Her writhing storm of life between
the ever-floating nodes of light
Jim Hill Dec 2017
At 104th street
a great bulk of igneous rock
heaves itself from Central Park—
wet black-green in halide streetlight
like a breaching submarine.

I hadn’t seen this place before;
still, I passed, all a funk,
mind inside itself (a typical brood),
moving past with just a sidelong look.

By a low stone wall
at the foot of the cliff, a man
(black parka, pants
too long, high-top shoes)
leaned as if in muttered
collusion with the ground.

He spoke to someone as I passed
(I figured he was drunk).
“Fella,” I heard him say,
as if to me.
I stopped, and looking back,
saw from across the wall,
crouched on the side of the cliff
a raccoon, black-masked,
capacious gray coat,
tiny hands.

It sat there watching me,
or rather, just watching,
attentive to some
attraction I didn’t see.

And then another.
And another.
And all along that black expanse
must have been twenty raccoons
(I didn’t think they could be so varied)
quietly foraging, awaiting,
I came to understand,
the man in the black coat.

He threw bread to them
like the old pigeon lady in
Mary Poppins
and five or so gathered nearby
on the other side of the wall
not minding his humanness,
only eating.

“I come out here every night,” he explained.
“I don’t got a girlfriend anymore,
so I come out here
and feed them to **** time.”

He tore a piece from a half-gone baguette
and threw it to a little one.

“There’s like fifty of them now,” he said.
“There were twenty when I started;
they have four or five babies every spring.
Nobody knows they’re here except me.”

As he spoke, a baby raccoon
climbed up a sapling
by the wall, extending its sharp black nose
toward the man who held a scrap of bread.
The raccoon took it unreluctantly.
I flinched at the thought of tiny
raccoon teeth missing their mark
on my index finger.
But habit was fixed and easy
here between man and raccoon.

“They’ll come up and sit on my shoulder...”
he said at last and then trailed off.

I stood and watched for several minutes—
this assembly of raccoons
along the black cliff
and the man who called them “fella” and “baby.”

At last he said with satisfaction,
“They call me the raccoon man.”
Deciding he had said his bit,
I gave a soft, enthusiastic whistle
between my teeth
as if to say,
“Well done.”

At 105th street, I felt remorse
for not having said more
to the man who drew
his nocturnal congregation every night
right there on Central Park West.
And in a gesture of regret,
I turned slightly back as I walked
to the see his black form
bent over the low wall
dispensing bread.
Mary Gay Kearns Sep 2018
What is the reason for the letter I thought
Reasons are never what they seem to be
Behind each reason are many and varied
Incidents that cause a reason to develop.

Returning to the letter arriving today
For whom was the information written
An escape, a break in the transmission
A protection of denial and valsification.

So does truth exist in reason, can it be trusted?
Is it there for ownership of personage?
I sink down in sorrow at the realisation of this
The fact the letter was meant for reason not truth.

Love Mary **
In silence all do hear your eternal presence
All language is articulate- because of you is
Manifest.  When there was only time and
Silence one listened to the other and both
Were one and varied and all was always
Beginning and without memory still heard
.

When other songs are done it is to your voice
Alone rhat I will listen to:  to know eternity
Jy May 17
What a lovely thing it is
Varied by its coldness
Differ in designs
It is distinct
Whereas every drop weighs
It has purity in nature
and cleanliness in color
Disastrous it may seem
It blinds living species
A fuss in human's eye
But a thing is certain,
The coldness within
signifies it's exterior
Turn the world upside down
It will always be cold
Can you feel its coldness my love?
Embracing every part of your body
Tracing each wrinkles in your skin
Fighting that fiery soul inside you
Yes you've felt it,
It was strong
But what I have is stronger
And how come you don't?
My pain shows
Colder than any snow
#pain
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