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The wind howls it's lament
lanterns on cliff tops are lite
the lighthouse shines no more
as they bid the ship to rocky shores

Close to midnight end of sail
splintering of decks
the screams and cries of mariners
masts mimicking falling trees

On the beach they wait
beating clubs in their hands
these wreckers so wicked
have made good their dark plans

Running to the waters edge
berserkers most barbaric
the beleaguered sodden souls
at the mercy of wreckers tricks


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
The wind howls it's lament
lanterns on cliff tops are lit
the lighthouse shines no more
as they bid the ship to rocky shores

Close to midnight end of sail
splintering of decks
the screams and cries of mariners
masts mimicking falling trees

On the beach they wait
beating clubs in their hands
these wreckers so wicked
have made good their dark plans

Running to the waters edge
berserker's most barbaric
the beleaguered sodden souls
at the mercy of wreckers tricks

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Aztec Warrior Jan 2016
Not A Poem: A Personal Message to Hello Poetry and A Pledge**

None of what has been going on here at Hello Poetry makes any sense but it is hurting many poets here and driving many poets/friends away (8 and counting)... my only thinking is that it is a deliberate attack not only on poets but poetry, and these web sites where poets gather and is part of a growing american culture of barbarity.. it's like those U.S. drone attacks done from behind closed doors that no one sees coming and then everything and everybody gets destroyed... it must stop and we must stop it!

For all those who are interested, I will do the same as Quinn has done and post ANY and ALL private messages that are character attacks or personal attack on me or my friends (if they allow); or ugly comments left on my poetry... Walt Livingston’s  comment on Quinn’s poem should not be tolerated here at HP, and called out for its inhumanity. It has nothing to do with poetry or the poem he left it on. Not one thing he said can be verified and this kind of thing has to stop. It’s like watching Fox or CNN news- ******* opinions posing as news and training us on what to think.

Also, for the record, if anyone receives a message claiming to be me do 2 things, first ask me if I actually wrote it sent it and 2 send it to me... I do not really know (that is I do not yet have the proof needed) who or how many are behind this, BUT I WILL NOT ALLOW THIS TO CONTINUE AS LONG AS I AM AT HP. And this goes for any other site I may visit. So please block me now all who think I will not stand up against plagiarism, attacks, harrassments, trolling, stalking, and any other form of oppression.

I also know that I may lose a few friends in doing this. To them, I can only say, that this is not a reflection on or directed to you in any way and I am sorry if this has hurt you, deeply sorry...

Aztec

PS  Oh, and by the way, the friends I am referring to know who they are, so if there are any questions about this,  message me and ask me.. no one has the right to declare friendship without my say so...

Wish I didn't have to say this, but since part of the sneak attacks have been done by people using other people's names to pick fights and attacks... yes it has gotten that bad.. That insidious...

So poets of HP, Let’s write poetry, support each other with mutual respect (even if and while we debate the content/ideas of a poem); build a community of poets that is a MODEL for the way human beings should and can treat each other, with mutual respect and listening to and seeing our diversity of ideas and nationalities as a great advantage to art and society and to ourselves... this is not a call for love and peace, since this will have to be fought for, nor is it a call to live and let live... there can be no place among human beings for these attacks... as well as no “free speech” for wreckers and attackers..
Let our language be poetry
Let our words be open and honest debate over poetry and art
Let our hearts be filled with fresh new ideas about life
Lets create wonderment and awe with our pen!!!!  
Come on HP poets, Lets Go!!

Aztec Warrior 1.25.16
Well, this post has sure caused an uproar. I am tempted to say, ya'll deserve each other, so *******, but that would be foolish and wrong of me and get us no further, and the attacks on each other would continue and the real poets, those who want to actually write poetry and have it read and appreciated are leaving. So the first think I want to add to this post is: Quinn, and the rest of you (Rick who is "r'and also "woody", a few others; along with Gary L, Nagi,and I think Jack and Vicki were named in Woody's comment that is not gone) STAND DOWN!! No more poems, comments or messaging spreading rumors or attacking people for who they like or block or what happened  months ago or at another poetry site. STOP.

Look everyone who actually cares, someone (and all admit they do not know who he is or was) by the name of Walt Livingston posted and ugly attack. It 's one of the reasons why I posted the above post. This WAS NOT a defense of Quinn, as it is a method being used in several poetry site to create dissention and havoc.  No one knows who this is and yet everyone thinks they know and they spread this rumor far and wide to anyone who will listen. It has to be Quinn he just wants attention. It has to be 'r" he's been attacking me forever and on it goes round and round until it is almost impossible to find the truth. The truth is someone created that account and look at the results Instead of pointing fingers and coming up with all kinds of conspiracy theories, lets put or know how together and find out.

I do not know who this is nor will I speculate. But I will say this, all of us at this point are being played!!! And attacking each other is not helping to get at this problem.

No matter what Quinn did or didn't do at WC that got him kicked off, there was continued trouble at WC that Quinn had nothing to do with. Does this mean Quinn is innocent, no, it just means this mess we are dealing with is bigger than one individual. Look I know you all don't agree with me on this, Which leads me to the main point.

I put the center or heart of the above post last for a reason. To make it stand out from the part where I was saying what I would do to prevent attacks on me and friends (if allowed). Maybe I was wrong in doing this because you all have ignore it. Or at best gave it some general nod and then went right into attacking each other trying to prove who was the real hero/heroine and blah blah. Why?? Why couldn't these points be the glue that can help sort out this "sad state of affairs at HP"  as someone put it. They certainly do not detract from the "Rules of Conduct" Eliot has posted. and everyone "agrees" they will abide by. They could actually act as a banner of sorts that people could come around and express why they like or dislike them and as a means of determining disputes. But I am also convinced that if these points do take hold it will be much easier to root out and identify anyone or someone who is provoking bs on the site.  Are they perfect? hell no. And that is why it will take many many of us to do this including CRITIQUING THE POINTS. But there will be no tolerance of knocking at people for any reason.   It's easy: critiquing points, yes; critiquing people, NO..
I hope I am not talking to the wind here...
L B Nov 2016
Not the lone glory of an orange
basking in Depression’s dusk—
its fluted bowl of purple glass

Nor the fall ways of amber
Leaves burned by roadside
curling smoke’s sun-lit sash

Not tree-lined streets
rabid leaves’ raspy voices
whirling giddy in the wind—

...in none of these

But in the moments I filled with fixing
a lamp shade
painting this place
to a stern perfection

...I thought of you
ordering the tyranny of me
the glass of me
the concrete conscience
I must be right!  Mustn’t I?

The religion of our lives
Driving through Sundays with Polkas blaring
feeding the ducks
and a roast at noon
Waffles and TV later
Lassie and You Asked For It
Wiping my mouth on a Sunday sleeve

I asked for it, alright

He came and went
to the smell of Ice Blue Aqua Velva

He came and went larger than life and first on the scene
to hurricanes, fires, muggings, and races
and of course—THE SHOP!
in an amazing array of uniforms and vehicles
Ambulances, wreckers, pickups, and police cars

He was terrifying! Wonderful!

We would love at a pained distance

His cabinet in the cellar was always locked
But now, just suppose—

if a kid were to haul on its handles...
supposedly—the sheet metal would heave and roar
with the thunder of him!

And those late nights
those harsh ****** lights
lidded hundred watt cones
in the spotlight of THERE
where I wasn’t
in the odor of oils too noxious to dare
beyond the girlish shadows—

he cleaned his guns

I waited and watched where everything seemed
to be
What...?
It seems—he just pushed her against a wall!
I step from girlhood
with my two-cents worth
and it seems I will not be Queen for a Day!

I take my vows!
I swear I will not scrape wax
from the corner of the kitchen floor with a knife!

I have waited.  I have watched
the routines of his mornings
He’s brushing his teeth; he’s combing his hair
he’s tying his shoes while he chats with the cat
I can tell you the creak of the stairs
and the sound of his footsteps rounding the house

...the routine of his return at supper
the routine of anger
My routine of being late—
and as good as dead
squeezing behind—
HIS CHAIR
Praying he wouldn’t notice the mud
Praying for the epiphany of his good mood
when the TV and me--

wouldn’t be blamed for the downfall of the nation
We were not Polish, but my Dad's French-Canadian family lived in a Polish community.  Thus, the fused culture and all the happy, Sunday Polka music.

Lassie, You Asked For It, and Queen For a Day were popular TV programs of the 1950s.
Harmony Sapphire Jan 2015
Dream Catchers, egg hatchers, baby Snatchers, **** wackers, lip smackers, online hackers, ***** slappers, hand clappers, exotic flappers, lazy slackers, suitcase packers, & back stabbers.

Hate & defeated, cheat & feel the heat. Too weak & petite. Tales of hell, wishes on a well, thoughts are things you can't always sell. Sometimes words can be lies liars tell. One day to your death to you fell.
Pass it on. I don't belong. Some people are wrong. Die. I won't cry.

Pakrat hoarders, pro choice aborters, two faced home wreckers, voodoo curses, retired lazy old nurses.

Deaf & Blind, racist & unkind, poor & unemployed. Broke & exploited. Dumb, old, ugly, & fat. ***** stinking rat. Piles & piles of crap.

College professors, real estate investors, coaches, cockaroaches, poachers, perverts & ******, meat eatting caravores. Bums & addicts drunks & fanatics, obsessive compulsive, stalkers too possessive, insane aggressive.

Author Notes :

Partially true, could be your family.

© Harmony Sapphire . All rights reserved,
spysgrandson Apr 2012
will I hear a fly buzz
when I…?
will my hands
be too weak to…?
once
thunderous pink anvils,
house builders
unholy home wreckers
woeful word weavers
plan writers…
now
crossed,
helpless and flaccid
hiding under hospice wool
shame covered by a thin green veil
on my antique grey chest
crossed,
my heart-beating
faintly
my eyes
scanning,
slowly
catching lonely light
missing even the fly
who is now
in another room
another world
buzzing in another’s ear
the hearing a fly buzz is an allusion to Emily Dickinson, and Ernest Becker was the Pulitzer Prize winning author of the monumental work on the human condition, "The Denial of Death"
Mark McIntosh Mar 2015
wreckers arrive, trucks & sledgehammers & ball
on chain, tumbling brick walls
glass cacophony
crystals of sand.

demolition early, everyday ruins, debris
piles hills, constant removal.
wheels shifting loads
burial journey.

gulls fossick mountains discarded, peck at
rocks & remnants. banister
shattered, chunks of steps, rungless ladder.
a park ascends

sarcophagus past. developer opportunity
real estate soars, minion mcmansions.
corner view of water & trees,  haven of
light & ore
ss Nov 2012
when winter bites and snaps its whites upon a diamond floor
through skeletal trees there comes a breeze that chills you to the core
a wreckers moon shines all too soon upon a traitors shore

a night like this your frosted kiss alighted on my face
around my heart your tendrils gripped with cold and glacial grace
and then i knew that it was true id never leave this place

you are so cold
The cityscape cowers beside the desk
Concrete kingdoms hide glass and brick
The adjacent high-rise hides half the skyline
A hotel sinks in anonymous uniformity.

Twelve lights disturb the chalky colour scheme
Before comfortable sepia returns to greyscale
Fatigued blue lights turn to gold and brown;
Ash to brick, fog to smoke, cold... to warm.

Wreckers creep forward as the crowds shriek,
The brutalists weep the loss of a legacy
As all around marvel at what sits behind
Nostalgia blinds us with the tearing of bandages.

The camera pans right, the dust curtain moves east
The show goes on, the crowd stand amazed
Fallen protagonists cannot hide past misdemeanors
The hero's were in the prelude, not the denouement.

Cranes move in, mile high ladders move beams.
Rebuilding the city to obscure its history
The scars themselves in their mid seventies
The tragedies which bore the bones of fragility.

When bombs rain and recession follows
The buildings we raise are only temporary
Let us thank those who battled their right to exist
Their former glory is now something missed.
People will grow attached to what they know,
No matter how ugly it may appear to be.
Jonny Angel Dec 2013
Everywhere we went,
we rode shotgun,
carried one too.

We were home wreckers,
housebreakers,
misfits riding on the edge.

We came with sledgehammers,
battering rams, metal-knuckles,
some disappeared for interrogation.

You should have seen the head splitter,
he went back to the world,
they turned him loose again
into the general population.

Bright-eyed bushy-tailed bucks,
we forged into no man's land,
miles & miles of golden desert sand
was the mainstay of that virtual wasteland.

A traditional-home of the kingdoms,
warlords counting their money,
that **** wasn't funny.

I never laugh at horror stories
or disbelieve fairy tales,
they might be real.
Steven Hutchison May 2012
Pull them from their soap boxes,
these poets,
these preachers,
these dreamy-eyed sleep wreckers,
these shivers in the night.

Their words are made of anxiety,
this shaking,
this thunder,
this stirring of the water,
this pungent drone.

Tell them we are sleeping.
We do not wish to wake.
Tell them that our ears are filled
With mud from the stomach of lakes.
Shut them up, whatever it takes.

Drown them in the current,
the walking,
the awake,
the heavy-footed neighbors,
the bare-hearted teeth.
Sam Temple Oct 2015
Pressed hard against warm flesh in the barely illuminated darkness guesstimating the blessings of your fresh mess, I ingest the best and leave the rest unstressed. Soft caresses underneath the dress bring visions of ancestral ****** in jest. My accentuated ******* bereft of the simplest zesty scents leave jesters lamenting about the repressed nexus of flexing wreckers. Flickering trestles rustle as the mesh lays lifeless after undress and the pressures of the rescuers sheds ravenous blushers rushing and undulating such as plush calves do. Fissures, wet, impress impresarios investing in resting besties and ******* lechers; a pitcher, ditched by the rich, flashes in the marsh stressing the finches and leaching petroleum onto the beaches.   I reach for another peach and beseech the mashed potatoes makers, “just take a rest” –
Emily Mary Jun 2015
I've got gnarly bruises,
that come from angry nights and drunken prophecies,

I've got raindrop tears,
that fall like meteors on my bed sheets,

I'm itching to get out of this place,
with instilling fear and a question my body can't let go of,

what if I cannot find where I belong,
like a stray dog wandering the streets at 2 am?

I am nothing but a fool in love with apprehension,
it's a love/hate relationship with myself.

I catch my thoughts as they fly away,
trying to find a vessel with feelings to fall in love with.

Even I get sick of my thoughts,
they're filled with old memories and home wreckers
Jordan stenberg Apr 2013
love is just the emotion that drives everything many ways the right away and the wrong away.

If you love something or someone you fight for it even if you fail

But when i finally succeed something Messed up happens

i might have ******* up but WERE all human  i fight for her

Dear home wreckers its my life stay the **** out i am right here say it to my face

Love is the emotion that drives people to ****   love drives you to do the right thing its unpredictiablilty is

like the sociopaths mind you never know what he might do next

I am not one i am a kind gentle soul who makes plenty of mistakes with love driven mind set thats the

old me the new worries about my being not anyone elses.
Jonathan Witte Oct 2016
I

Battered by a brute
Nor’easter, the cottage
rocks in rough wind,
teeters on tall stilts,
architecture animated
by howling provocations
until even the somnolent
wine glasses begin to sway;
suspended and racked in rows
below kitchen cabinets,
crystal clinks on crystal,
clear bells signaling alarm—
the storm forewarned is upon us.

II

This seaside aerie rises
high above sand dunes,
undulating driftwalls
feathered with sea oats.
Protected by weathered
shingles and salt-pocked
windows never shuttered,
the house stands sentry,
stoic structure overlooking
the Graveyard of the Atlantic,
the vast saltwater cemetery
where untold ships and sailors
have come to wreck and ruin,
subverted by shifting sandbars
and chancy wayward currents.

Buried in navigational Neverland,
vessels slumber in oceanic silence
on a seabed as soft as coffin plush.
***** convene in chambers of ruin,
scuttling over rotted mainsail masts;
the jellyfish hover, ghostlike, in hulls
above steerage skeletons bedecked
in crenulated shells and sea anemones.
Plankton settles on shipwreck rust:
pervasive spores, mausoleum dust.
And draped across each wreck,
a pelagic pall of melancholy.  

III

On summer nights, children
chase ghost *****, freezing
them with flashlights, scooping
them into buckets brimming
with a berserk racket of claws
and shells scratching circular
walls of makeshift plastic crypts.
From the top deck, we follow
disembodied beams of light
zigzagging in darkness,
graveyard robbers darting
above holes in the sand,
black portals, each one
the size of a child’s fist.

IV

Years ago, so-called
wreckers would hang
lanterns from horses’
necks and lead the beasts
up and down the beach,
yellow beacons signaling
as though from distant ships
buoyed on placid waters.
The lights lured desperate
vessels inland, unsuspecting
captains and crews crashing
ashore in blind catastrophe.
At daybreak, islanders
scavenged the spoils
of their subterfuge—
silver chalices,
jeweled goblets,
golden cups and bowls—
treasures cast to rapacious
hands upon an indifferent tide.
And of course the corpses came,
caught between shore and sea,
rolling in breakers, stuck
in salty purgatory, churning,
shell-pocked and unsanctified.

V

Tonight a yellow mote of light
floats miles from shore, some ship
flickering like a votive stowed
upon a headstone’s crown.

And the half-drunk bottle
of pinot noir in the ship’s
decanter has me thinking:
When my time comes round,
wait for a moonless night,
black funeral gown
of sky embroidered  
with stars and satellites,
and sneak to the end
of the Avon fishing pier
and release the ashes
from whatever vessel
you’ve decided best
accommodates me.
Scatter finite confetti
to an infinite tomb,
ashes dissolving
unceremoniously
in saltwater,
subsumed.

Next morning,
perhaps catch sight
of a spirited sailboat
tacking over waves,
sails billowing in wind
like the unfurled wings
of a sea bird, full of grace,
alighting from grave to grave to grave.
Nevermind Dec 2016
There was a place
Near the heart of town
Beyond the gates
Where no one's around
Up a road
Beyond the trees
A place for the deranged
And children diseased
I've always heard it
Call my name
Till finally I ventured
Up one day
Muddy sneakers
Up the path
'Till the rotting building
Came into sight at last
Dancing shadows
Atop dead grass
Lonely, and hollow
Shattered glass
I swore I heard
Someone call my name
Louder and louder
But I wasn't afraid
Stepping carefully
Amidst the decay
'Till I found the theater
And rotten stage
Legend has it
The morgue was downstairs
And sure enough
I was rotting there
I found myself
Amidst the ruin
Could have stayed forever
And wandered through it
That was when I made a mistake
Soon after I left, the wreckers came
They took the farthest building away
And all the children, who called my name
The body is only a tool the soul uses on earth
Or like a car the soul drives to get around here
And when it gets too old its of to the wreckers
As theres no need for it after this life so dear

Around our bodies we have amagnetic aura
I knew a guy that once lost his left side leg
He got then a wooden one as a replacement
And at times he'd scratch it being itchy instead

Ghosts are spirits not wanting to leaf for reasons
Being all aura can be seen during usually at night
Someone or something just keeps them here
It's the living here and now more reason for fright

All of us are as if a souls spirit tool to use on earth
The better we take care of them longer they last
Their mechanics are from doctors to heralists
Not taking care of them shortens future diluting past

terrence michael sutton
copyright  2018
jeffrey conyers May 2015
Oh, we your nerve crackers.
Or nerve wreckers that only a few mothers can handle.
Those that commands gets no temper tantrums.

These are the ones that knows ways to handle any conflictual problems.
They have various rules in effect to solve them.

Mothers, words can't do enough to bring justice to that role.
It's not about the many months you carried anyone.
But more about the respect you earned from everyone.

Mothers, you know and kids know it too.
The world without a female gender would be a lost cause.
Cause when it comes to determination mothers always seems to be the one.

Going without, to take care of their child.
Supporting others children's when their mom seems unable.
But women has a unwritten bond.
That support them more than many ever know possible.

All kids owe them respect.
Just because of you walking this earth.
Yes, mothers words can't do enough.

But look at your children's eyes and you'll see all types of love.
Yenson Jun 2020
Pity the plights of the wreckers
lame descenders tied in ***** and chains
restless in the woes of mediocrity inherent
their's is to sweep up the crumbs after the gentiles
lost minds on bottom rungs bemoaning owned short strays
morose in envy and cloaked in inadequacies they squirm in miseries
so a-wrecking the gifted & blackening the shine is worthless pleasure
for the wounded feral dogs only sees enemies as they snarl in pain
to have less is to care less for what is there to matter much
give us the pick axes and the pitch-forks & off we go
we can but seek solace in causing damages
for we cannot have why should you
the age old mantras of the serfs
the blinding religion of the wrecking crews
ingested bitter doctrines of the below average
the vengeance of the pitiful nonentities in pains
we can't all have gold so gold mining is banned
hail the wreckers, hail the feral dogs with rabies
Chris Slade Jul 2020
Campers that Camp
Parkers who Park
Clampers that Clamp
Players who Play
Dampers that Damp
Breakers that Break
Stayers who Stay
Sneakers who sneak
Lovers that Love
Layers who Lay
Dreamers who Dream
Day Dreamers who Day Dream
Flouters who Flout
Shouters who shout
Pouters that pout
Wreckers who wreck
Screamers that Scream
Reamers that Ream
Redeemers who Dream and Redeem
Screamers who scream
Creamers who make cream
Streakers who streak
Readers who Read
Bleeders who Bleed
Tearers who tear
Shearers who shear
Sharers who share
Darers who dare
Carers that Care
Trenders who Trend… That’s trending
Menders who Mend... they're mending
they’re Fixers who fix!
They’re Doers who Do
Not Doubters that Don’t

Senders who send’a
a’ huh huh huh!
Thank you very much!
I haven't go t a clue what prompted me to start this... I'm usually quite pragmatic and write about real things, real life and not the 'ethereal'
Yenson Jan 2021
Sighted visions regal and nightshade sirens crawl out
green-eyed ablaze mouth watering for a gilded cut
give us a cut,  
roger out our ***** kittens for easy street
crooked stained teeth smiling revolting rancid lures
in moral glace said offers finds resounding no

so birth the fury that hell never have
the gaggle of witches on the witch hunt
happy home-breakers and home wreckers
a loving devoted soul conjured into a pig
and for good measure
over a Christian head they hung a star and crescent

hear the witches, shrews and harridan puke in rages
join the coven and roast that pig
we will break that jewel in pieces and remake him
in our image, for he thinks he is better than us
besmirch his character, destroy a shinning light
we're witches of the East in white robes and pointed hats
our putrid stench is pervasive, we are goddesses of pollution

the coven of the latter days maidens of Lucifer cackles
hail all the vagabonds that takes and moves on to the next
rise to the wasters, the drunks and  the irresponsible critters
sing in praises to liars, gamblers, cheaters and all wrong'uns
come celebrate our sacrifice of a treasured gem
come despoil. wreck, destroy, ruin and obliterate the light
for truth, goodness and realness has no place in darkness
that which is better is anathema to serpents and the wretched
Norbert Tasev Oct 2020
I saw wild, human-hearted animals roaring in the filth of filthy crumbs of the crumbs of discarded chips-bags, - of the infected carcasses of garbage cans, and I thought the Order was now dictated by wolf laws. Miserable human wreckage did not understand what might have happened to them: They also took away the order of begging humility!

Humiliating each other to the ground, chanting motherly curse words, they cut their ugly words into each other’s eyes - while spitting themselves out too! They are still saving their stranded shipwrecked lives, their own recyclable waste bungalows. But there are those who have become messengers among them and its outburst is foolishly impossible. He jumps on a bridge, he thinks, all-shift firefighters are just bringing down: A new world of precious human life!

A few more stand next to him and comfort him, “Don't be discouraged buddy! You can even wait for the hand tomorrow! ” - They see only a gentle and tolerated suicide chased close to human subsistence; social debris, insignificant harmfulness, the sword of Damocles running above him, which may have been permanently cut off -

now he has regenerated nails and fangs! Unemployment benefits, secure work, a credible standard of living, empty congruence, word-thirst - it's all incomplete, almost all connections have been lost!

And even jealousy, old-fashioned envy, like a leech worm, erodes the drops of precious juice from the war of the needy. - Among the wreckers, silents call on the wise men to speak.

— The End —