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Altar of false reassurance, symbolizing return, of the hat bearer
“Home is where you hang your hat.”
How many of you have the hat bearer hung on temporary walls?
During intermittent crawls from house to home
Sehar Dec 2018
love's a distant relative
dropping in uninvited
murmuring condolences for a girl I thought I buried away
eons ago.
love strikes when you least expect it.
Seanathon Aug 26
It’s a quiet town just waiting to be
Infatuated with you
Here

Waiting around

https://youtu.be/Gp-gq3fdi_A
There is a knock at the door,
Someone has come to meet me,
Maybe my wait is over.
Who has come?
Who has strayed?
I will not inquire.
No one has come visiting me
From the time I came to know
I was not alone in this world,
That was very long ago.
Tonight
I can talk and laugh.
I think
I should open the door.
Why hesitate.
Star BG Apr 14
As fog covered my outside landscape I sat,
relaxing and aligning with poetic ideas
to scribe at later date.

The air was warm, as a faint scent of lavender entered nostrils. My human eyes couldn't make out anything more than a shadow but; my inner senses knew I wasn’t alone.

The being whispered adding fog to the room. With deepen breath it now made sense of my visitor recalling my art background. Remembering, my prayer just days earlier how I longed for a great maters of art to flow through me.

As moments passed, the blur became more distinct. There he stood before me adorned with painters hat and smock. With a smile as he held up a brush and made like he was painting my form.

I giggled with air of breeze. My third eye exploded with an image of Monet. He began to fill my mind with picturesque visions.
Flowers entered my eyes as I felt a creative power serge.
Fields of afternoon strollers adorned with paroles entered mind. And birds rustled in trees, as a flowing brook traveled within.

More scenes manifested. I could almost taste the sweet air running down my throat. When I was filled to capacity, he stopped and I understood. He was providing me with fuel for thought. Scenes to transcribe into poetic jargon.

As he bowed, and I whispered gratitude, he disappeared. I was again alone with my keyboard, dancing hands and vivid imagination tweaked with his talented light.

I now was ready to create on canvas screen and of course my new curator of verse, Monet.
Here is something different. Was thinking of Monet all day today so my story unfolded in mind.
Robert Ronnow Mar 2017
Beautiful summer day. You know you're gonna die
that's why you know no joy.
Obsessed with self, there is no answer
unless religion, tv, stories, sports matter.
So what if nothing rhymes and I don't
bring my life into an expressible state
or fight purposelessness, anomie. No one writes.
Running the gauntlet alone. A good day to die, the Apaches say.

For men like us dying's easy, it's living that's hard.
And since dying's much like living, that's hard too.
There's some contentment in letting community decide
your place in it. We're not talking to you.
Really, it's a perfect day. Every leaf is out
that's coming out. The grass is high
and unidentified yet another year. Being knowledgeable
is the best defense against your insignificance.

Can't stop the quince from blossoming
or my sons from smoking, speeding.
The best that can be done or said's a blessing.
Less tv, less guessing
about the effects of your anger unless
you want to be an angry man forever.
Coming from the funeral with friends,
talking on the telephone. OK about being alone.

Alive, almost sure of it. Whether I'm a visitor
to my life or the actual owner.
Mature poets steal, most are masturbators.
This house could use a good cleaning,
dusting for ghosts. I should subscribe
to the local newspaper, do my job well,
do less until one thing's done well.
What would that be? Old, and yet so young.

There are a million poets, I'm poet #500K.
Plenty of mysteries, infinite philosophies,
prayers, laws and unwritten rules.
That's why we go to school, life's complicated.
All I do not know: ATP, probabilities,
the glorious revolution, meiosis and mitosis
and all I'll never see, the bottom of the ocean,
the palm at the end of the mind, a wolverine.

There are certain indicators, undeniable,
inexorable. Forget-me-not, is that all I want?
To get lucky, you gotta be careful first.
To be great, you gotta be willing to sound BAD.
Although we cannot make the sun stand still
yet will we make him run. Brave revelers.
Signed engagement letter attached.
Attachment to self and to things to do.
--with a line by Andrew Marvell

www.ronnowpoetry.com
oscarlevi Nov 2014
I may love you in my silences,
Maybe you know it, maybe not.

I may love you as being your guest,
An early guest one and unique,
A visitor into your eyes and your voice.

I may love you in the land of this language,
a language of silent encounters was born my words,
without elegance, but truly.

I may love you in this land of glances,
of simplicity intuitions,
a land of being one.
XyL0S Jan 4
When the time would come,
if ever
And against their judgement, I'll choose to flee
Don't run away.

Stay,
And I'll be quiet in the corner;
The visitor
Don't worry,
I won't ask
if there's room for another broken soul

We broken souls
harbor all the space
There is.

We broken souls
save home for a never.
XyLOS

04/11/2019
Chris Neilson Jun 2018
The black dog is here again
an unwanted visitor at my door
like a ******* I let it in
to feed on my insecurities
preying on my guilt and self pity
past mistakes passing by
grinning grotesquely at my plight
barking; harking back to days
best forgotten but entrenched within
I've been bitten before so I stay put
twice as shy so I lie to myself
that this old dog won't live forever
but he keeps returning
no matter that I move house
no change that I've moved jobs
it still finds me, this scruffy mutt
this metaphor for my dark moods
I want to stop feeding it
I need to end its curse
tomorrow it will be gone
and a piece of my mind
can be silenced once more
to give me peace of mind
I'll get the better of you
flea bitten hound
get out of my life for good
the black dog is a metaphor, of course
milkweedangel Nov 2018
The pain came alone this time
without the words
it made her presence all the less bearable
I just want to write it out but I can’t

Why isn’t italic working?
Aaron E Sep 8
Watching the archetypal parable filler sealing his fate with a seed,
and see the walls of the story blossoming off to the sky.

It seems to offer impossibility bottled and wreathed,
a leaf in season to whittle through to the blossom in time.

The time he took to fear it, board windows, ignoring the means,
and flailing crops are not to halt the work ,and question the why.

He finds a seed to bury deep within the walls of his dreams,
a kind of thief to be policing the light.

The hubris in a few ferocious branches,
accruing the subtle stances required, refusing visitor glances at the shrine
The thorns swallow a rich canopy buried beneath
and keep a perilous gift hanging for traveler thigh

Time echoes in hope of lending vestige's light, crying out
to see the breadth of the line.
To see the tangential nature of the leaf,
and know the grief elucidated and reaped
for a return on what we sow in the vine

Another garden enclosed.
A partial view of the sky.
A further longing for truth.
Assume a gruesome divide.
Aloof and hardened to bone.
A carving suited for pine.
A starving forest in roost.
Abuse is looming inside.

Confusing and dried.

He's choosing his pride.

Refusing a guide.

Losing his mind.
Natalie Mar 2018
Words, words, worms! My mind is swarmed
With them. Ants file in through the sticky
Canals, chattering, stamping their little black feet.
They use me. I am their harboring medium,
A visitor in my own head.
Black, empty mouths flutter and dance and signal
Amongst themselves, crowding my skull,
A murmuration of phrases and guttural sounds.

I mustn't tell fully what they say.

They draw forth black and bubbling swamps,
Wicked crows, the yawping millions, pecking,
Pecking, gouging with yammering beaks
At every smooth, young innocent.

There is death in this tumult of words.

Let it not take me.
Eve Apr 2018
Your eyes changed
just like the seasons
In the springtime
Your eyes were happy
Bouncing with curiosity
tracing my face
with innocent wonder.
As warm gusts of wind
thawed our frozen hearts
Beautiful buds of premature flowers
anxious to blossom
rooted deep into our souls
as spring showers nourished the hope
that something fresh would soon sprout
The excitement of new beginnings
quickly appeared

Summer came in the blink of an eye
a comforting warmth
enveloping us in a heated passion
familiarity cascaded over us
as we grew closer
spending every moment together
hand in hand
eyes warm and peaceful
endless clear skies
softly yearning for my touch
your stare was carefree
brighter than the summer sun
nothing else mattered
As summer faded,
a chilly breeze delicately brushed
our innocent faces
an unsuspected warning
of what we would become

Fall entered our lives
an uninvited visitor
changing everything
Your eyes changed their color
as life drains from fall leaves
the beautiful love
that once danced
in those deep brown eyes
soon faded
into dull emptiness
your love fell apart like the trees
becoming barren and empty
unrecognizable
Once full and beautiful
only fragile branches remain
skeletons of past beauty
a constant reminder
of what we had lost
your branches finally broke
out from under me
I guess I was just too hard to hold
yet somehow so easy to let go
and just like that, you were gone

As fall turned to winter
a cruel frost
swallowed the earth
mercilessly destroying
everything beautiful
that desperately tried to survive
My world lost it’s color
every sky turned to grey
your silence was colder
than any winter I’ve ever known
The bitter day I saw you
on that crowded street
your unexpected return
tying knots in my stomach
I didn’t know you were back
our eyes met
for a brief moment
immediately my heart sank
unprepared for the brokenness
I suddenly faced
Your icy stare
stirred a blizzard in my heart
swallowing it whole
destroying the smallest hope
that kept it alive
your cruel winter eyes broke me
They encompassed my soul
in a bitter ice
an everlasting winter
that will never meet springtime again.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2018
“leave at your own chosen speed”

always,
Dylan inserts a phrase that haunts,
indestructible permafrost,
played in slow and ever slower reverb all life long,
for it’s intuitive and you recognize it too well
as the best companion to the sour ending of another love affair

(but! this one differs; called love yourself)

the sad of a dying love, remembering the steady drift away,
capped by a casual remark that doesn’t sting but
cuts a Y on your chest, a lover’s coroner courtesy,
the bad humours permitted to at long last healthy escape

you’re staggered but say nothing for
speed
is a changeable elf, a mischievous devil,
requiring constant monitoring cause you moving,
but the speed limit alway a reflection of the road you’re on

speed is a tag along to show the overall fit still works,
though now far from the obvious and familiar
and the inspiration modifies,
so you retrofit untill the parts are incapable of
bending to new demands, contours unfamiliar, old plans no good

“leave at your own chosen speed”

for I am leaving you as I leave myself,
beaches erode,  lighthouses corrode, the salt cannot be refused,
the earth demands your return as the lease is deemed
non-renewable and the space where the date shall be inserted,
is parcel of the contract and though blank, certain to be fulfilled

the body erodes, the ***** parts corrode,
and this season of the new year^ comes with the usual disclaimer
recited on the tenth day from today

‘who will live, who will die,’^^

taught to you as a young-in, a child who can comprehend
even before manhood arrives, comprehend that life ends,
all good things and it ain’t no use, born compromised, but
“don’t think twice, it’s alright”

the slate you have written overdue for a prudent clean wet erasure,
so you begin to leave at your own chosen speed,
which is kind of nice, even cool, organizing your papers,
write with contented softness that so long eluded,
now come easy heady peasy

after a life of reciting poetry, good bad and always too long,
the pressure is on and off, side by side, even a dimming bulb
sheds some light, revealing what yet needs revealing


that Day of Atonement annual visitor,^^^ he/she of impish humors,
makes Pandora play a new station,
‘dimming of the day,’
reminder that it gave you a piece of an unowned heart to hold,
leased temporarily but the temp is roaring,
who, boo hoo, for you?

life and love is all about leaving,
the pen in penitent gone dry, no refills in this new world,
wish that **** rooster would stop crowing at
the break of sundown,^^^^  when I'll be gone
I'll be travelling on, for when the new day begins,
that’s my own signature personal marker,
the sundown poet
------------------------------------------------------------­-------



~the first day of the new year on the Jewish calendar
  Mon, 10 September 2018 =  1st of Tishrei, 5779

  Rosh Hashana 5779
^ see https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yom_Kippur

^^ see poem  https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1833523/for-leonard-cohen-who-by-fire/

^^^ see poem https://hellopoetry.com/poem/462537/how-i-observed-the-day-of-atonement/

^^^^ jewish law says the day begins at sunset till the next sundown
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