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Poetoftheway Nov 2015
The Red Queen Believes!



~~~
The Red Queen,
in her youth,
believed in as many as
six impossible things
before breakfast
~~~
The Old Poet,
in his embered tinder, yellowing days,
believed in as many as
six possible poems
before breakfast
~~~
Nov. 5, 2015
Brooklyn, NY
7:25 pm
M Eastman Aug 2015
Cup your palms around
that candle dear lazy
Spells to cast to the wombs
keep our ghosts outside
peering into tent *****
yellowing irises and
stamens strangely swaying
but nonsense
Butte no
out there
they stalk you dear lazy
PC classic Mar 2017
Love arrives red then turns grey
black and blue.
Once, a handwriting misconstrued
Now, our torment arrives astride wireless wavelengths
Once, a young man dreamt of his future
in the 80's
and later I grew up to become just like my father

"We are circled dates on yellowing calendars" said.......someone
"No we are pages of an old diary"
said another.......someone?
"Pages with the top right corner folded" said he or she correcting himself or herself.

Yes. We are that.



I am your soft hand on my face
You are my neuroses split 50-50
We were 18 and  we were talking on the phone at 11 pm on a
School night
planning to disappear
arm in arm into a silvery dream...........


and Sometimes you get all that you wanted
and then it's too much

and I don't know why



"how have you been?"
"did you manage to get through college?"
"I have been busy since a while"
trf Jul 2018
sleeping tears awoke to crimson crust & apple red veins,
eyes peering through the dizzying fog to find a faucet
& drizzle rain like nectar down the peach pit's core,
along rugged edges & oval pores,

imperfect patterns & lightning blinks
remind the second sadness to cry once again.

My swipe of crust is rusting
like a smoker's yellowing finger tips gathering paint on callouses
& cracked lips

mirrored reflections shadow gaze,
squinting to locate bronze crow's feet of a man, mid thirties,
lying for what-to die
dying to wait-for what
I wrote this poem on the back of my most recent 36x48 painting. Abstract-fully Delicious, yet sad and viscous
Marcus Lane Mar 2011
A proud man,
Upright and unshakable
In belief and morals,
Once only I did I see him
Without a tie.

A child of Edwardian England,
The links Of his watch chain
Glinted
As they hung
With formality and elegance
From his waistcoat pocket,
Yes, even as he worked.

And work he did.
Patiently,
Brilliantly and tirelessly
With ingenuity and imagination.
A craftsman from a bygone age.
A master of his tools.

Grandfathers are soft,
Playful, bear-like in their
Gruff-whiskered familiarity.

Not Poppy.
Unwittingly aloof from his grandchildren,
We avoided the need for directly addressing him,
Unsure of where we stood.
He’d probably have secretly
Loved the informality
Of our secret nickname.
I hope he knew.

The chapel piano did for him.
Too much weight for his work-weary ticker.

Grandma gave me his pocket watch to keep,
And for a time I treasured it,
Measuring its weight
Like a smooth round pebble
In my palm.
A workman’s watch;
Practical.
A yellowing face
Behind a scratched
And hazy glass.
But accurate,
And precise.
Reliable as the man.

Detached in life,
I liked to hope that
Gazing down,
Watching,
He just might have
Laughed
In loving acknowledgement of his
Grandson’s curiosity
And foolishness
Sitting cross-legged on the carpet,
With heart-thumping nausea

Adrift in a sea of springs.
© Marcus Lane 2010
John Niederbuhl Sep 2016
at first an unrelenting green covers everything:
the trees, the lawn, the hillsides, the marshes, the windbreaks,
everything is completely and totally green, the deepest, truest green,
so green you might even forget that it wasn't always green,
so green you might not stop to think that it won't always be green.
school children look out windows during their exams,
longing to be free amid all that greenness,
lovers sit in parks near the water, under perfectly green leaves,
listening to the wind, watching the stars come out
and making their wishes, forever joined with that unrelenting green.
artists dip their impressionistic brushes in the green and dab on canvas
pictures of people gathered at picnics in dappled, green shade,
joined with the greenness, enveloped and absorbed by it,
becoming green themselves. they paint pictures of leafy trees reaching beyond the canvas with patches of sky showing through, a perspective of endless summer that you have to look at a long time
to see and feel, but once you find it beyond the greenness, in the
blue beyond the hill, you will be part of it always: through the fading mid-summer and pale, yellowing late summer, even into the multi-
colored fall and the stark, grey-white winter, and you will know life, and hope and love,  and nothing will ever seem the same again
sophia Aug 2019
end
if you open any old dictionary
and search for the word “end”
you may find so many definitions
for three letters in the thin yellowing paper
sitting still as they have been for so long.
three letters that will always remain
stained forever as an encumbrance,
forcing me to believe
that everything is but a straight line
that at some point is cut off
and usually gets lost along the way
long before then.
Jo Barber Sep 2019
You
I awoke to the soft sun
of a crisp autumn day.
Feeling your arm around me,
I breathed in your scent,
the most ****** aroma I know.

Leaves are exploring space
as they fall to the ground,
now yellowing with time.
They look so free
as they dance and twirl.

I feel your breath grow heavy
against my neck and you awaken.
Your lips are on mine now,
as I wonder if you think
about the dancing leaves like I do.
WA West Oct 2018
obey the sea for now,
further instructions will follow in the chirps of birds,
the silence between seasons,
the friction between elderly humans,
the yellowing of the halo of angels fallen,
the rotting of discarded fruit
Serendipity Dec 2018
Memories are ruthless.

Old photographs drip, overfilled
with a nostalgic sense.

Bittersweet scents of herbs
punch my nose
as I remember...

The old pages of a book,
yellowing, curling up at the edges,
a messy note,
and I wither away between the lines.

Bullets hidden in picture frames,
batter my chest.

Knives concealed in music notes,
pierce my ears,
****** sounds, but not of screams.

Soft textures lay bare on the couch,
hands intertwined in them, not voluntarily;
muscle memory.

The taste fiery in my mouth,
make my eyes water,
Eating sweets made of leftover sorrow...









I spit it out.
But memories are irresistible.









Memories are ruthless.
jayebird Jun 2019
After all i've earned them
the subtle pull
and swift replacement,
    the golden gain gifted
     from a soul dentist
I accept the strange medicine and sense
Suddenly my core forever
chasing the great
sulfur in circles as I fall adrift
    The wanting sleep which
     closes all eyes after end of sky
Behind mine observes a screen of
Out-knocked teeth and offput blood
Pft out in a porcelian sink
The glass just above
displays swollen
  tears and my
Soul transforming from
Learned lead and
cold iron into
August and
Nothing bleak like my
Now unique two front
It takes awhile but
I have a new smile at me
Twist the
Brass doorknob upside down
on it's axis and
Walk away from the abuse cycle owning
The tired metal middle
of earth cracking
Outer mold revealing a
Levitating ball of God who
Now unbound
Seeks six-thirty post midnight
High plains and
Holy painted solace
With bruises yellowing
I scream drive
into tunnels where the
warm streetlights racing in
my periphery
know I am the glowing go of life
And will never grow old despite
Losing a couple given ones
This is a vague story about someone who had their two front teeth knocked out by a punch from someone close to them, and now has two golden teeth. It is a poem about accepting their self as beautiful and worthy after an abusive relationship. It is about renewal and resplendant transformation. The subjects perspective has also expanded past their story and looks to the sky and universe for their source of love. I hope this inspires anyone who has been through physical abuse and knows the struggle of finding their peace again.
In a yellowing photograph
Smiling back at me
My doppelgänger from the past
Who supposedly is a part of me

But lately, I feel her slowly fading
A piece of her breaking away
And Im sat here desperately clinging
To the piece of her, willing it to stay

I put the yellowing photograph aside
And see my reflection in the mirror
A person I still recognise
Wondering when she will turn, into a distant figure

But these doppelgängers
How do I know when I’ve become better
That I have left the parts of me behind
That will push me towards some peace of mind

Or I have left the parts of me
That made me unique
Have they gone forever?
Because lately I feel incomplete
Set me free from my pen and thoughts
They enslave me
And keep me bound to the sheaves of paper
Lying atop one another on my stilted shelf
Undusted, forgotten and yellowing
Stop me from writing the no-one-understands
Stop me from thinking about the inevitable
Cheer me up and make me smile again
O Vanity, make me write a song to you
Let me savour my presence
Allow me to mint words of praise afresh
Allow me to relive the old days today
I cannot wait for the tomorrows
That do not promise change
Beth Bayliss Mar 2019
face alight with
springtime evening glow,
you gaze down at me.
what must I look like to you -
lying in the grass,
a mess of lace and leather
and eyes that scream love
with a volume my lips could never match?

our interlocked hands twitch
and my thumb brushes your knuckles:
a question and a small reassurance,
is this okay? this is okay

lips curl into a smile.
sunlit, sun-kissed cheeks
are rose in this light
and the yellowing sky above you
seems to blush pink back -
it knows the taste of your skin too

I could live in this moment;
to me, forever is a thursday evening in march
lying on a school field
discussing small nothings
endlessly

and if I can't do that,
I will live off this moment;
drinking in the sun
and the sky
and the love in your eyes
and that, my dear,
is food enough for me
she's all I want and all I cannot have.
Wk kortas Aug 2018
The attendees are told, in a manner befitting a high mass
You have been finally set free,
(Although, in truth, free is a very large and entirely vague word),
And the message is sent forth from all comers in all corners:
Vendor and visionary alike,
German socialists who left university to ride boats for Greenpeace,
First lieutenants doing their level best
To appear at ease in civilian polos and khakis,
But no matter the vessel,
The message is still the same.  
The tyranny of cables and storage space is dead,
It is all but shouted from the lecterns,
(Although it is noted, in small print and sotto voce
That there are certain requirements
In terms of hardware and licensing)
And it is stated by Those Who Know
In tones which neither brook nor invite contradiction,
That they have surmounted, all Hadrian-like,
The alpine divide separating mere data and magic.

Two or three blocks down the street from the convention center,
In a narrow storefront housing an exhibition of ether-only comics
Which have broken the nettling constraints
Of editors and syndication,
There sits, under a somewhat opaque
And slightly scratched piece of plexiglass,
A yellowing comic strip of uncertain vintage,
In which a frowzy cat,
Free of the constraints of panels, gender, and standard grammar,
Is the recipient of a mouse-tossed brick
Whose flight, unfettered by physics, probablility, indeed time itself
Ends striking its mark right between the x’s of the eyes
The projectile itself an inexplicable alchemy
Of confusion, mirth, frustration
And the impossibility of an undeniably pure love.
D Letwixt Oct 2018
Those minutes hours and seconds
ticking away into the ether of my mind
A canon through the fog
An anchor in the depths.
Clarity and melody and anchorage
In dissonant defiance of the foggy nothingness

The great depth of water
The rippled reflecting pool of the soul

Should time not be measured
in the breaths of air into the chest
Or footsteps down the shaded path
Or yet by the yellowing of pages on the bookshelves
petals of the flowers of recorded time

Time is not in the whirring of gears and moving of hands
It is a slow passing away
A stretching forward and backward
Shaded in fog
The formless mass bends and shifts
Like a warm undulating current

All of this I observe as I sink slowly into the depth
Falling softly like a leaf
and I release my final breath.
Dead Rose One Sep 2019
“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything)

objects, humans, surprise and interrupt our
daily modalities, knocking us, yo! to the ground,
we, pounding it, for the word void appears,
the frustration of incapacity incarcerating,
accompanied by the loudest silenced scream,
of no poetry available, try again later!

in life, as in poetry, timing is everything

we walkabout, thinking of the scheduled eventualities, or
the dates calendar-circled, though some questioned marked,
in pencil inserted, will I be a mother, find me a husband,
a human grander grandee, fit to be with me a noble progenitor
of more than our generation, watching the sidewalk cracks for an
inkling of when, on or about such and such an alteration,
a seam undone,
a stumbling, seeing a realization as we fall, hands extending,
a notice of arrival,
all needing reconnoitering, commemorating, a poem prepared,
but none to no avail

in life, as in poetry, timing is everything

so we are in awe of words, so necessary, everybody knows,
the awe in awesome, a description for the pixels encapsulates
in I-phone photos,
the where and the why of when, I was grinning like a stupid fool,
the inability to deliver precisely when required the covering of
an appropriate description, your words, use your words, will
fail you spectacularly and so we remain awed, realizing

in life, as in poetry, timing is everything

but awesomely awesome word worlds, near and dear, held forever
in scrapbooks, the literary overlay of the treasures of everyday life,
are the still life of our longevity contextual, the celebratory,
the unexpected losses, largest to smallest, in size order,
kept fresh when you flip through those poems in dusty binders,
in oversized sewing boxes, yellowing in concert with our eyes,
graying with follicles of past pluperfect,
recalling not just the when’s, but the more important,  now, the
wherefore and whereupon, the words marking the conjunctions,
recoding the recorded synapses firing sequentially, brain to fingers, the ah so of the poetry of lifetimes

“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything)

<>

Saturday
September
21st
2019
Pradip “I am still in awe of words”
Tawanda Mulalu Nov 2018
How do the nights go? Chillin' down there with the white folk/
Ne'er be a token given I'm golden so I might just bolt:/
Usain; when I'm lazy talent swishes down the drain like bad milk/
Ain't cry o'er **** that I spilt, rose from the concrete ne'er wilt/

Narrowly lost my mind sometime ago in this flow/
like slave boats from the Gold Coast with wood creaking dream-songs of lost homes/
I was drowning in unconscious streams of different scenes of this mind's scenes/
I seen through the scenes of green trees turned to yellowing leaves.../
toleomato Feb 2019
It was never my fear that, upon first seeing me,
She would deem me inadequate and reject me entirely right there and then.
It was the coming thunder,
When formalities are finished and our feelings are confirmed,
Where she thinks herself content with my company,
That shook me to my foundation with anxiety.
I cannot help but think,
That even in contentment,
A seed of doubt may find fertile soil in her heart,
And sprout a sudden longing,
A quiet panging,
Which reverberates through the days that grow longer and longer in length,
With each echo leaving a more and more profound impression.
And when this panging starts to get louder,
Until it is akin to church bells in her heart,
It will rouse her from her sleep-like state of contentment,
And have her find that something feels a bit off.
At first, she will not be able to put her finger on it,
But slowly she figures it out;
My images of her set in marble turn into plastic,
Lines of poetry begin to smudge as if written in cheap ink,
Letters begin to fox with its yellowing paper feeling dated to the touch.
And she suddenly realizes in the midst of others,
That this is not enough for happiness.
And then, by chance,
She misplaces a single glance,
Only to find something new
Something beyond contentment and I.
The skies begin to darken and grey storm clouds roll in,
And the thunder strikes,

Bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnt­hunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk
Perkodhuskurunbargg­ruauyagokgorlayorgromgremmitghundhurthrumathunaradidillifaititill­ibumullunukkunun

This, I fear above all else.
Grace Ann Jul 2018
I have dozens of unread books on my shelf eagerly awaiting my hands
Truthfully I could crease their spines anytime
Dog ear their pages to my favorite passages
Underline sentences that must be very well trained in martial arts from the punches they've thrown me
But these books, as much as they intrigue me, will never be you
And having my hands trail your body is better than any page
Breathing in your scent is better than that of a time-worn book
I’d rather have your  sun-kissed body in my arms than the yellowing pages of a novel
I’m not fond of audio books but I’d listen to you a hundred times over before deciphering script
I never thought I could love something more than literature
But darling you are the most beautiful adventure
Valsa George Dec 2018
Winter draws closer day by day,
Autumn leaves are around my feet
From far, is heard
The screeching of a lone bird,
Voicing its dismay aloud
Over the advancing fall

Here the moss scrawls
Ugly pictures on the bark of trees
Where black spiders weave their gossamer
Moving, sig sag across the trees’ leprous trunks
I see the yellowing leaves
Torn down from their sturdy limbs
Sliding down noiselessly one by one
And landing on the ground
With a mournful sound

Acorns from the pine trees drop
And swell the ground and fall to sleep

Life too takes a downward spiral
I feel the autumn seeping into me
And my heart feels a languid grief
The days of my youth
Seem to fly away in a flurry
Like autumn leaves whirling in the gale
Reminding us, that we are not here to stay

The withered leaves
Which shriek and screech under my feet
Recall to me the cry of martyred youth
And all tenacity overthrown
Like them, we too will fall and be dead to the world
Wrapped in frozen silence, forgotten by all
And ****** back into primal void!

— The End —