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Timothy Roesch Feb 2014
She speaks privately from between her legs!

Children scattered about like luke-warm dregs
of life sipped tentatively from the mug
made of her **** and the carefully shorn rug
once atop her ***** but now replaced
with a clever thong and further defaced
by empty words with which no one bothers;
like abandoned motherhood and absent fathers.

Once, long ago, the seas calmed down
if they viewed a full cuntal frown
But now what power yet remains
is washed away and the Tide abstains
from noticing at all that clever ******
of hip carried power, now just animal lust.

God with His magnanimous decree
gave us dominion over all we see
and gave it despite our rampant *****,
waggling ******* and ***** locks!
But our mouths undid us, to the core,
flung man to the ground and named woman ‘*****’.

So now emblazoned for all to see,
above the *****, *******-ly,
the final victim of original sin:
The Unattended Child!  What does he win?

Well, there it is, written bold
above the entrance to the exit of old
“Unattended children will be given an espresso and a free puppy”
Cut the umbilical!  ***** the father!   **** the mommy!

And over coffee, we’ll share some snickers
about the ****** made of her knickers.

                She used to speak from between her legs!
Her **** shouted down oceans and now it begs
for mere notice in words writ small
and forgets why she wears underwear at all.



"Unattended children will be given an espresso and a free puppy. This funny and beautiful design features a vintange inspired cup of espresso."
**an ad for thong underwear, presumably for women
Harmony Sapphire Feb 2015
Shriveled & shrunken.
Intoxicated & drunken.
Hung over & agitated.
Mild to moderate brain activity.
Common sense & basic reason lacks mental ability.
Bad with money & squanders financial stability.

Passing a psychological mental health evaluation not quite.
Kept in a straight jacket & sedated in isolation they do spit & bite.
They go through everyone's trash day & night.
They panhandle at the street lights.
They have tempers & pick fights.
Nothing they do is legal or right.

Slobs with no jobs.
They lack work ethics.
The sight & stench of them is sick.
They're sad story is lies & tricks.
Not a truth that sticks.

They cuss & their pocked face oozes ****.
Their frontal lobe is filled with dust.
About telling your teacher the truth they get homicidal & make a fuss.
They drive a ******* car consisting of smog & rust.
Getting arrested for 365 × 3 + 2 counts of child **** is never a bust.

Keep your children away from drunks.
Some drunks get violent, beat you & lock you on a trunk.
Most pedofiles & rapists are drinkers.
Not religious or moral thinkers.
With shingles, hpv virus, ****** & boyles.
Zero morals as hideous as an ugly *** gargoyle.

Enjoy arguing,  screams & shouts.
Daily drunk driving & behind the wheel blackouts.
© Harmony Sapphire . All rights reserved
Alexandra J Jul 2014
I remember you told me
I was like a lit candle -
Warm and soothing,
But dangerous,
When left unattended.
If I had known you’d leave,
I would’ve burned down
The house we built so
Carefully.
But when you slammed the door shut
That last time,
You put out my flame.
Bina Awan May 2016
Where would the unattended feelings go?
Would they be eased out in the cracking of knuckles or the shift of postures?

Would they be smoked out or consumed in the cups of coffee?

Would they be ignored in the aimless walks in the park or a drive through the city?

Would they be kept aside while talking to a stranger coming close or a closer one going strange?

Would they be watched out in movies or read in books or gazed out at ceilings and walls?

But the question remains, at the end of it all... Where would the unattended feelings go?
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2013
I mashup me, myself, and thee: Part II

Excerpts from my poems about poets, poetry and the process of composition. In chronological order, from the earliest to the most recent.
---------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­----


The three poems went about their business,
Bringing heaven to earth,
FYI, even Angels can't be everywhere, so,
God invented poems to do his ***** work,
Cleansing souls.

They rode in~out of town on a prankster wave,
A cheering throng was not around,
But a singular poet saw, recorded the vision,
And thus, this nameless poet,
Below unmasked, unsealed,
Cleansed one more soul,
And that soul, this soul, as required,
Paid it forward.
~
Nothing produced from this place
where routine means the gorge tastes bile,
When surcease is welcome relief,
Where dancing on ice in bare feet
Is step one to ripping your chest open by your own hands,
The toxins thus released rejuvenated by salted air,
Can be finally be transcribed onto paper
And realized.

Warn them once and then begin, you,
Get serious, delve, with hurricane unambiguity,
to torrential words upon the unsuspecting,
let them taste the rawness, only the truth provides,
let them know salt tears so briney,
They will flee this place, n'er to return.

~
One day she intro'd me as her fav poet,
To which I acknowledged by addressing her as
My number one fan,
Which seems to have stuck,
so I acknowledge her as such,
And always add a polite, respectful, winking,
Yes ma'am!
~
Like this new day,
there are always
new poems

Like last night's sunset,
day's efforts reviewed,
a special light,
a yellowed marker,
highlighting a few deserving

Take them home,
kiss them goodnight,
rest them in the poetry file
that is no file,
but a large fabric box where
sewing tools once stored

How appropriate and
how happy that makes me.

~
Yo! Yo!
Remember your first real high,
That moment
No absolution, no return.
That moment
When you admitted, confessed,
to yourself:

I am
Forever forward,
A home-grown poet.
I am
Soul enslaved to words.
The alphabet - My oxygen molecules,
I am both,
Addict and dealer
A ****** poet

Yo! Yo!
So you do recall,
The exact moment,
God-spark-within, ascendancy gained
You lost control,
Wept words instead of tears!
A ****** poet ******!

Yo! Yo!

Sophie's Choice.
You chose writing over breathing,
Worshiper of the purest pleaure,
******* in deep the smoke-high of
Head-nodding discontented contentment
Stealing anything you saw
For to satisfy the need, the craven
Craving.
****** poets!

Yo! Yo!

Don't you're ever sleep?
Hear that the city, the state,
Gonna methadone your kind
In a special program
Teach you only language to sign.
**** poets!

I am a ****** poet.

The first step taken.
Admission.
Poetry is my default rest position,

My drug of choice.
~
Have you noticed here

Each poet declaims his fellow
The better one, his teacher,
From whom they shall learn and gather up
Inspiration

Gonna run for Congress,
My first bill, Poetry-care,
Will make it a requirement that
All citizens must contribute,
Exchange once a day
To this peaceful place,
Even just a syllable, a single letter,

K?

~
Literally my eyes see words awaiting coordinating,
Poems flying by, needing plucking,
How a child eats his morning cereal,
His rituals informing, of the man yet to be,
How our bodies lay, hair unbrushed,
Tying us into a conjoined knot...

No matter that plain words are my ordinary tools,
With them I shall scribe the small,
Cherish the little, grab the middle,
Simplicity my golden rule,
Write they say, about what you know best,
Surely in the diurnal motions,
The arc of daily commotion,
Do we not all excel?
~
The ice of poetry,
glassine smooth
but
charged hardness,
hits you, ****** you,
unexpected snowball in the face,

the fire of poetry,
cherished phrase, a patois,
comfort food when
whole winter skies
swallow you bleak

mutual contradictions of poetry
savaging the soothed ego,
revealing the raging id

what's in a word anyway?

~
Please Pop, pick wise,
the life and lies, the faces and disguises,
I will need employ to achieve success
in the eyes of my reading beholders,
who own the liens on my soul
because of the promises I believed,
when you sang me
glowing lullabies of my future days,
how everyone would love my stories,
my poems, someday...
~
Place your ****** hands upon thy chest.
Let them melt thru and come to rest,
Inside, the battle ongoing, under thy breast.
Watch, eyes open, knowing, fearful.
Swiftly, with no hesitation, from within,
Rip open your body, exhaling the best,
And the worst of what you got.

The cool air rushes in,
Stirring the inside stew of:
Infected grime, shameful desires,
Secrets that should not have been exposed,
The ***** stuff that you alone know exists.

Contact with the atmosphere makes
Self-pity dies, blue blood turn red,
The TNT tightness explodes,
Ashamed, you have only one escape hatch.

Now, you are ready to write.

~
My life is on the boring side,
So welcome gents to look inside,
The surfed sites, the emails, hardly slimy,
But stay the fk away from my poetry!

Tis obvious from your midnight editing,
That my wordily, working body has been discretely
Simonized,
My data,
Googlized,
My poems,
Scrutinized,
A comma, a colon, a verb, out of place, capsized,
Little threads kept in door jambs, their alteration,
Your snooping presence, a confirming revelation
~
Where I write, here, all comes so easy,
Every glance a poem formed,
Every phrase a title to a poem served,
Every conversation overheard and those wind-lifted brought,
A seed, a germ, a word~worm hooked to the pole crook of
My finger saying, see man, time to get more ink and paper,
Go and catch us a few poems for dinner

The snapper weakfish word colors are
Running past my-by the thousands,
We will need a basket to catch but a fraction
Of what you see, more than more enough to share,
Only Happy Poems for all

It is this rhyming way I view the wold,
That is my freedom, is my-present essence,
How the poems come, how thy flow,
Peaking, I cannot berate, rarely eat,
Sleep a thing of the past (as you be aware, beware)
There is poetry in simply everything.

~
But if my aura be a comfort insufficient,
Let this surprise poetic gift awaiting your arrival,
Give you rest, from crying surcease!

For when the who, the why of me interrogatory posed,
Describe me in a brevity I ne'er possessed, say:
He was just a poet, and I,
Just, his lover, number one fan.

This truth eternal, never to change.
~
But I am open to learning, the arduous task
Of raising a teenage daughter,
After I have my head examined

Though I am just a bunch of eclectic electrons,
I got powers a few, like making life's happiness
Hearted happier, encouraging your forays into
You-know-what,
And when tables turn, a hasty retreat you beat,
For imaginary cappuccinos and poems we will meet,
Comparing notes on who felt lousier when...

But what I can do 100% is assure you
There is no lone nor lonely daughter extant,
Your voice not just clear but soft-edged,
For I have poetically adopted you,
Here and now, assuming you sign on the
.............................................................­line

~
Take these words at plain face,
and look not askance
at this fair warning,
for I am but a tragic,
empty vessel for you to fill,
you are the raconteur,
me, just a  
poet poseur extraordinaire,
street urchin, word merchant,
all my verbally, wordly goods expropriated
from the wind,  where your scattered thoughts
lie about, carelessly,
unattended
~
Guiltless in life, we but survived,
Hurting no one, no thing,
Yet, here we lie, ignored, unattended,
Yet, you fail again to see our connection?
You do not recognize us?

We are the shells, the husks of you,
Your poems unread, you labors unpreserved,
All wasted, for unless they are read, they die,
As you will too.
Some fast, by water, some slower, time-eroded,
All, ended, by drowning in the Sea of Who Cares!

~
What sourced this elegiac distich,
Too many poets, fully disclosing their downbeat, aroma of defeat?

The world is in a **** mood, not one of us, got nothing
Good to say, seems that love storms ripping hearts
With no trace of mercy, the radio has elected nonstop
Taylor Swift and Jonas Bro's
Just to make the point!

It is so easy to feel ******,
When the sun is unshining, elegant distich, **** me.

Thinking back, getting a good idea,
Found some long necked Corona overlooked,
Turn on the tv, pretend I'm a real cowboy,
And for god's sake, shut down poetry,
Good Bye Poetry, for the rest of the day.
~
once upon a time,
a traffic light rainbow,
stopped n' go, was a word design,
demarcated visions of spun sugar,
bodegas sold me
magic beans by the pound,
masterminded into cups of delight,
treasury's bounty overflowed,
now, dregs drain, sink stained,
as are my writing utensils,
my ink stained, us-less, fingers

come visit me, unknown stranger,
let us exchange fluidity, barbs,
a contest of kissing, eye lashing
wit ands shared vision stashing,
and together, once more,
write with our feet,
while holding hands,
becoming once more
poets of the street.

Only, come quickly.

~

But reading thy cries, an exercise,
Teeth-gnashing frustration.
It brings no relief.

So sad girl,
Write till you are righted,
May be it will snow on July 4th,
And tho unnatural,
So is thy grief.

Nonetheless, write me write me all about it,
Right us,
For tho snow falls, its loveliness,
Makes the heart rise up in gladness!
~
She brings me coffee in bed.
I propose a violin accompaniment.
Some babka, with nice-crumbly-in-bed
Streusel topping,
A concerto we could make!

Her derision snorted so loud,
The mollusks on the beach
From their shells come out.

"Good luck with that,
Put that fantasy on
Your **** poetry site,
Cause that is the closest you will ever get!"

~
For she will be my heroine for all time,

These words to expand with rhyme and verse,
T'is a welcome task, one familiar, but anew,
Each dawn each dusk, a daily trust, a love poem diurnal-birthed,
As if god created the world, but left upon completion,
With a grievous thirst, a new notion, he did burst.

He created the Eighth Day, for celebration of his
Most cherished invention, the idea of love.
This is where, the secret writ Eleventh Commandment occurs,
Love thy Poetry Gods, Honor them with daily verbs.
~
Officer...you should see me gut a

Poem,

Slice its belly open,
Sometimes straight, sometimes Askew,
Feed the gulls them
****** insides on the dock, by-moonlight,
Can ya cut me some slack?

Mmm, I see here in your license,
You are a disabled guy,
A **** poet ******,
Who often does his best work
Legally all alone in the HOV lane,
So I'm gonna let you off this time
Just with a warning!

~
We can share words, we can grant tiny easements,
We can weep with you unseen tears,
We can etsy you little homemade gifts
Like this.

That you can take and keep, and break out in time of need knowing full well that these words will not spoil nor rancid turn, cannot be out grown,, or torn, or rent asunder in anyway for once they are shared
They are irrevocable.
~
When you write,
It as if you write upon our
One skin,
For I am your tablet,
Your sole/sol/soul composition.

So stop kissing me
and
Write upon us.

~
This will not be the hardest poem I e're wrote,
But if there is no inspiration
For you to smote,
And armpits refuse to provide perspiration,
To source juices for a new creation,
Try this trick,
I promise you
No one will lick your ice cream cone,
Nor mistake you for Leonard Cohen,
But when you are done,
You will be High Priest of
Hello Poetry for the rest of the day!
~
You think you can write?
Then employ  a word outside your comfort zone,
Go it alone,
And write four sentences that will make
The hopeful reader stand up and
you twice as much, and shout

Hallelujah
*******.

Work. Poetry is work. Hard work.
Don't fret. But, think on it. Have the sweetest dreams.
In the morning, when you but awake,
A poem will be aborning in thy mind,
And dare I say it, you will find a new freedom
In free verse.
(I know you will slip in a rhyme or two,
I can't help but do it too)

~
Had myself forgot,
That a poem needs a
Frame of jungle gym sounds,
An aural aura resonance unbound.
Purposed to make the heart lift
Your ears say:

Say what!

It needs a tune,
An internal music,
It needs a lilt!
A cadence, that both
Marches and swings,
Even when'd urgent dirge
grief pours forth.
~
This Sabbath day you fog-hide
Your gift of bay and beach
So quiet implore, beseech,
Keep the sailors safe,
And your poets saved.

I ask much.
But I ask for all of us,
There are so many such
That are booster-chair needy
That I am succumbed, overwhelmed,
Enormity fearsome needs help even from a deity.

Small words, big hopes.

If you cannot grant it,
Won't wait for intervention,
Do it myself, answer prayers one and all,
Best I can, starting now with this
Po-hymn.

~
I used to sleep
With pen and paper on my nighttime table.
Nowadays, my iPad tablet rests upon my chest,
Not only does it keep me warn,
It takes my poems from within, Fresh Direct,^
Edits, credits, and delivers them to your door,
While I'm still sleeping.

Which is why they come at all hours.
It is also why they call them,
Love's Labour's Lost saving devices.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
**So I spend my cold, hard time
laying down cold hard verse,
Can't stop, cause it's my daddy's dying curse.

I am both: Addict and dealer, a ****** poet ******.
ConnectHook Sep 2017
White folks: pack your bags and go.
Our nut-brown world is quite offended.
Make your shame-faced exit NOW,
And leave your mansions unattended.
Wait—before you pass the doors,
It's time to settle ethnic scores.

No more ragtime Minstrel Show.
Our Moorish Science took it down.
Black lives matter. White, less so—
Now move your pale face out of town . . .
But first, shell out for racial shame
Caucasian losers of the game.

Cultural pride is ours alone:
Kings and Egyptian queens we were.
The glories of our race, well-known
Bedazzle in a darkened blur
(Clear to Africa's descendants—
Puzzling to you white dependents).

Blackness lent your world its light,
Taught the Dutch to tend those flowers.
Scandinavia grew bright
Under our beneficent powers.
Negroes gave your blondes their beauty;
Helped those Norsemen shake their *****.

The Seven Wonders of the world:
We built them all. No vain conjecture
Dims our banner, black, unfurled,
Above eternal architecture.
Arts and knowledge gained from us
Are what we threaten to discuss.

We invented math and science
Which you robbed from Timbuktu.
Swarthy wisdom's brave defiance
Caused Old Europe to renew.
All our treasure that you plundered
Testifies: your days are numbered.

Classics of our Greeks you stole:
Philosophy was never yours.
Shame upon your racist soul;
For Bach and Mozart both were Moors.
Misappropriated treasures
call for ruthless hard-line measures.

Latino fate falls next—but, where ?
Jews, Turks, and Arabs: are you. . . white ?
Orientals everywhere:
Choose your side and join the fight.
Blackness rising! Late the hour;
Heed your call to fight the power.

Crackers need to check your race—
Stop rooting for that ****** clown.
Rednecks all up in our face;
Racist throwbacks got us down.
But as your statues bite the dust
Your light goes dark (you know it must).

So move on out, oppressor, thief.
Long have you held our nation back.
In some white galaxy seek relief—
But here the light itself is black.
Stars are racist. So is the sun.
Now let God's great black will be done.
Truth is stranger than:
http://tinyurl.com/yc9va3pl

Candace Owens understands .
(The Dry Salvages—presumably les trois sauvages
      — is a small group of rocks, with a beacon, off the N.E.
      coast of Cape Ann, Massachusetts. Salvages is pronounced
      to rhyme with assuages. Groaner: a whistling buoy.)

I

I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river
Is a strong brown god—sullen, untamed and intractable,
Patient to some degree, at first recognised as a frontier;
Useful, untrustworthy, as a conveyor of commerce;
Then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges.
The problem once solved, the brown god is almost forgotten
By the dwellers in cities—ever, however, implacable.
Keeping his seasons and rages, destroyer, reminder
Of what men choose to forget. Unhonoured, unpropitiated
By worshippers of the machine, but waiting, watching and waiting.
His rhythm was present in the nursery bedroom,
In the rank ailanthus of the April dooryard,
In the smell of grapes on the autumn table,
And the evening circle in the winter gaslight.

The river is within us, the sea is all about us;
The sea is the land’s edge also, the granite
Into which it reaches, the beaches where it tosses
Its hints of earlier and other creation:
The starfish, the horseshoe crab, the whale’s backbone;
The pools where it offers to our curiosity
The more delicate algae and the sea anemone.
It tosses up our losses, the torn seine,
The shattered lobsterpot, the broken oar
And the gear of foreign dead men. The sea has many voices,
Many gods and many voices.
                                       The salt is on the briar rose,
The fog is in the fir trees.
                                       The sea howl
And the sea yelp, are different voices
Often together heard: the whine in the rigging,
The menace and caress of wave that breaks on water,
The distant rote in the granite teeth,
And the wailing warning from the approaching headland
Are all sea voices, and the heaving groaner
Rounded homewards, and the seagull:
And under the oppression of the silent fog
The tolling bell
Measures time not our time, rung by the unhurried
Ground swell, a time
Older than the time of chronometers, older
Than time counted by anxious worried women
Lying awake, calculating the future,
Trying to unweave, unwind, unravel
And piece together the past and the future,
Between midnight and dawn, when the past is all deception,
The future futureless, before the morning watch
When time stops and time is never ending;
And the ground swell, that is and was from the beginning,
Clangs
The bell.

II

Where is there an end of it, the soundless wailing,
The silent withering of autumn flowers
Dropping their petals and remaining motionless;
Where is there and end to the drifting wreckage,
The prayer of the bone on the beach, the unprayable
Prayer at the calamitous annunciation?

There is no end, but addition: the trailing
Consequence of further days and hours,
While emotion takes to itself the emotionless
Years of living among the breakage
Of what was believed in as the most reliable—
And therefore the fittest for renunciation.

There is the final addition, the failing
Pride or resentment at failing powers,
The unattached devotion which might pass for devotionless,
In a drifting boat with a slow leakage,
The silent listening to the undeniable
Clamour of the bell of the last annunciation.

Where is the end of them, the fishermen sailing
Into the wind’s tail, where the fog cowers?
We cannot think of a time that is oceanless
Or of an ocean not littered with wastage
Or of a future that is not liable
Like the past, to have no destination.

We have to think of them as forever bailing,
Setting and hauling, while the North East lowers
Over shallow banks unchanging and erosionless
Or drawing their money, drying sails at dockage;
Not as making a trip that will be unpayable
For a haul that will not bear examination.

There is no end of it, the voiceless wailing,
No end to the withering of withered flowers,
To the movement of pain that is painless and motionless,
To the drift of the sea and the drifting wreckage,
The bone’s prayer to Death its God. Only the hardly, barely prayable
Prayer of the one Annunciation.

It seems, as one becomes older,
That the past has another pattern, and ceases to be a mere sequence—
Or even development: the latter a partial fallacy
Encouraged by superficial notions of evolution,
Which becomes, in the popular mind, a means of disowning the past.
The moments of happiness—not the sense of well-being,
Fruition, fulfilment, security or affection,
Or even a very good dinner, but the sudden illumination—
We had the experience but missed the meaning,
And approach to the meaning restores the experience
In a different form, beyond any meaning
We can assign to happiness. I have said before
That the past experience revived in the meaning
Is not the experience of one life only
But of many generations—not forgetting
Something that is probably quite ineffable:
The backward look behind the assurance
Of recorded history, the backward half-look
Over the shoulder, towards the primitive terror.
Now, we come to discover that the moments of agony
(Whether, or not, due to misunderstanding,
Having hoped for the wrong things or dreaded the wrong things,
Is not in question) are likewise permanent
With such permanence as time has. We appreciate this better
In the agony of others, nearly experienced,
Involving ourselves, than in our own.
For our own past is covered by the currents of action,
But the torment of others remains an experience
Unqualified, unworn by subsequent attrition.
People change, and smile: but the agony abides.
Time the destroyer is time the preserver,
Like the river with its cargo of dead negroes, cows and chicken coops,
The bitter apple, and the bite in the apple.
And the ragged rock in the restless waters,
Waves wash over it, fogs conceal it;
On a halcyon day it is merely a monument,
In navigable weather it is always a seamark
To lay a course by: but in the sombre season
Or the sudden fury, is what it always was.

III

I sometimes wonder if that is what Krishna meant—
Among other things—or one way of putting the same thing:
That the future is a faded song, a Royal Rose or a lavender spray
Of wistful regret for those who are not yet here to regret,
Pressed between yellow leaves of a book that has never been opened.
And the way up is the way down, the way forward is the way back.
You cannot face it steadily, but this thing is sure,
That time is no healer: the patient is no longer here.
When the train starts, and the passengers are settled
To fruit, periodicals and business letters
(And those who saw them off have left the platform)
Their faces relax from grief into relief,
To the sleepy rhythm of a hundred hours.
Fare forward, travellers! not escaping from the past
Into different lives, or into any future;
You are not the same people who left that station
Or who will arrive at any terminus,
While the narrowing rails slide together behind you;
And on the deck of the drumming liner
Watching the furrow that widens behind you,
You shall not think ‘the past is finished’
Or ‘the future is before us’.
At nightfall, in the rigging and the aerial,
Is a voice descanting (though not to the ear,
The murmuring shell of time, and not in any language)
‘Fare forward, you who think that you are voyaging;
You are not those who saw the harbour
Receding, or those who will disembark.
Here between the hither and the farther shore
While time is withdrawn, consider the future
And the past with an equal mind.
At the moment which is not of action or inaction
You can receive this: “on whatever sphere of being
The mind of a man may be intent
At the time of death”—that is the one action
(And the time of death is every moment)
Which shall fructify in the lives of others:
And do not think of the fruit of action.
Fare forward.
                      O voyagers, O ******,
You who came to port, and you whose bodies
Will suffer the trial and judgement of the sea,
Or whatever event, this is your real destination.’
So Krishna, as when he admonished Arjuna
On the field of battle.
                                  Not fare well,
But fare forward, voyagers.

IV

Lady, whose shrine stands on the promontory,
Pray for all those who are in ships, those
Whose business has to do with fish, and
Those concerned with every lawful traffic
And those who conduct them.

Repeat a prayer also on behalf of
Women who have seen their sons or husbands
Setting forth, and not returning:
Figlia del tuo figlio,
Queen of Heaven.

Also pray for those who were in ships, and
Ended their voyage on the sand, in the sea’s lips
Or in the dark throat which will not reject them
Or wherever cannot reach them the sound of the sea bell’s
Perpetual angelus.

V

To communicate with Mars, converse with spirits,
To report the behaviour of the sea monster,
Describe the horoscope, haruspicate or scry,
Observe disease in signatures, evoke
Biography from the wrinkles of the palm
And tragedy from fingers; release omens
By sortilege, or tea leaves, riddle the inevitable
With playing cards, fiddle with pentagrams
Or barbituric acids, or dissect
The recurrent image into pre-conscious terrors—
To explore the womb, or tomb, or dreams; all these are usual
Pastimes and drugs, and features of the press:
And always will be, some of them especially
When there is distress of nations and perplexity
Whether on the shores of Asia, or in the Edgware Road.
Men’s curiosity searches past and future
And clings to that dimension. But to apprehend
The point of intersection of the timeless
With time, is an occupation for the saint—
No occupation either, but something given
And taken, in a lifetime’s death in love,
Ardour and selflessness and self-surrender.
For most of us, there is only the unattended
Moment, the moment in and out of time,
The distraction fit, lost in a shaft of sunlight,
The wild thyme unseen, or the winter lightning
Or the waterfall, or music heard so deeply
That it is not heard at all, but you are the music
While the music lasts. These are only hints and guesses,
Hints followed by guesses; and the rest
Is prayer, observance, discipline, thought and action.
The hint half guessed, the gift half understood, is Incarnation.
Here the impossible union
Of spheres of existence is actual,
Here the past and future
Are conquered, and reconciled,
Where action were otherwise movement
Of that which is only moved
And has in it no source of movement—
Driven by dæmonic, chthonic
Powers. And right action is freedom
From past and future also.
For most of us, this is the aim
Never here to be realised;
Who are only undefeated
Because we have gone on trying;
We, content at the last
If our temporal reversion nourish
(Not too far from the yew-tree)
The life of significant soil.
Anthony, Anthony, oh dear Anthony. His face is like a little darling's; with tumults of green and gray cheeks blended into one. I wish there had been no yesterday; for yesterday was when he appeared with his rain-soaked, but gay little cheeks; as he smiled at me by the twin moonbeams. Still he is not him; I care not how he wants to tease me in my dream.

My heart is gay no more; its walls are honed imperfectly, and with no goodwill. Its image and charity hath now gone; I am plain, I am like a shy spider grafting about the chattering winter walls. Oh, Anthony, yet how sweet thou wert under the bald rain; and its unleashed forms of cold clouds! Ah, I wish I could lend to you a wonted breadth of my story; but as I gaze, now, into the very soft metallic eyes of thee; I am afraid my words shall never be impossible. Thou hath that brilliant green gaze of nature, my sweet, but thou art not immortal; thou art vital, but thou art not of the same rainbow as he is. He hath, now, been dried and cornered in the unseen lungs of my heart, but his ghost is there. Ah, he, who hath betrayed me like a sparkle of dead candle! How should I treat this misdemeanour, you think? But to my strange suspicion, I cannot but forget of him, even a sliver of memory; for his memories are too elusive, too adequate for my hungry heart. Oh, Anthony, how bashful I am--for not daring to cope with thy questioning eyes!

Like those unanswered rains; which keep wetting the unyielding soil, damaging toiled crops into the limbs of quavering pits. My love was borne with death by him; within the death of his feelings, in which it was but a fossil of discarded flesh like any other corpse. But where is Immortal, Immortal, Immortal? I keep looking for him, in those scarlet hollows, but still I glimpse a sight of him not. I shall keep lulling him to sleep, at least in my dancing dreams; he is the sober prince and I am the guileless princess. Ah, Anthony, tell me how I cannot be guileless; I am honest and decent and carry no defilement of chastity. I am pure myself; with a garden of virginity and its terrific rivulets flowing beneath me. How can my charms be not charitable? Even when I walk, a thousand boughs of blossoms snigger not; they welcome my entry with another thousand wits; they reply to my living steps with a radiance that even heaven cannot forgive. My verbal words might not be delicate, but I am sure my poem is; regardless how hard t'is downfall might be. Ah, Anthony, thou art a miracle still, but thou art no more than an evening story, sadly! I cannot feel my heart become unleashed, as I looketh into thy eyes; I cannot feel grasped by thy cold hands--ah, thou hath grasped me not; but still thy apparition cometh less merited, and rather falsified, than that of his.

How can that be, how can that be, how can that be! Ah, this earth with its villainous glory might blame me once more. It shall toughen my hardship with a whole land of repulsion; it shall intend never again to make me a faithful alliance. It shall satisfy its own self, and metamorphose into a swamp of ungrateful hatred sweated by an edified mockery. Ah, what doth all t'is charm mean, then? I shall face a green apocalypse soon, thereof, before being burned within another blasphemous night. I feel cross, cross, cross, cross, and cross; I grit my teeth whenever I think of my stupidity. I feel as if I was an old dame so gratuitous to thee; I am a luminous fire, but instead I have no seeds and am just as dead as a soundless pumpkin. Ah, Anthony, can thou but restore that lost fire again? I want no speeds, I want to see no miracles, I feel dutiful; but undutiful at the same time. Your heart is right by the doors of Yorkshire--and sometimes grow into the doors themselves; it is funny to see how they are so tidily integrated by the eminence of each other. I shall craft for you a beautiful song; but perhaps a jest like that shall never be enough; it shall be tedious and not pertinacious enough to entertain thy young heart. Thou art in want of my poems, as far as I can see; but all I might do is withdraw my eye and even draw my steps back further, invariably like a rusted old church bell. I am insane; and far trapped in the insanity as I myself am; I am cold-blooded, my heart can, perhaps, be healed only by ease-like murders. I cannot ponder, I cannot think, I cannot consider; I paint the entrance to myself no more-oh, how I miss his laughs like never before! Ah, Anthony, my wintry sun, my autumn soliloquy, my snowy sob; perhaps I shall better be far from thee, for I want not to make thee sore! My heart is as rough as it is; incarcerated in its own heartless panoramic views, brutal like an unattended soil, for hath it just been left unattended for a time; it often wanders to breathe fresh air, but severed once more by the adored's filthy laugh. It comes home and sleeps weeping beside me.

My heart can no longer count; neither can it flinch. It cannot even see colours, including those which were once fabulous; it is far from enormity, but it claims to have one. Ah, Anthony, it is even a brighter scholar than myself! Look, look how hath it conquered my? I have jaws and it has not, I have a heart--ah, I do have it, but I knoweth not how to make it mine. Half of my heart hath been eaten away by a rotten love, even my blood now--as I hath been hearing it, is no longer flowing. I am hurried by the murmurs of the wind every day, ah, but shall I return again to my poetry? I guess, though, I can make time for this gay seriousness; I am poetry and shall always be, I am alarmed by the cries of my poems, and the joys of my sentences. I am mad, as how poets should just be; I am the pictures my poetry paints; and caress them often at night in my arms.

But as you may have seen it, my heart is now dead, plain, and black; my heart who has loved, and still does love, someone. Ah, Anthony, forgive me; forgive me for this solemn labour of my heart; forgive me for choosing to bear this alone. I might love again, someday; I am aware I should triumph over this self-inflicted martyrdom; I shall relieve myself in one blink of wonder, in a more reliable princedom by the sea. Still, I hope, like a gallery of paintings that is planted with a hall of constant transformations, God shall transform the very haven of his souls one day; and refine his atrocious soutane into one righteous and cordial. I might not be the crucial lady yet for thee; oh, how I wish I were! But vain this attempt may be, should we ever doubtfully try it. Ah, Anthony, but gratitude to thee--for once choosing to lay off the puzzle of my heart; for thy gentleness from the very start!

And hath I now finished my breathless narration; I doth miss thee, oh Immortal; I miss thee as I shall miss a piercing sun in these filths and greases winters may bring! Ah, and the clearer picture in my mind carries to me a voice that though thou art fine; thou art dainty no more; and this leaves to me a flavour of
precarious solitude. I loveth thee, Immortal, Immortal, Immortal; my love is as a sky that remains high; my love shall stay flowery until the day I die.
Peter Balkus Oct 2017
No one cared
that there was an unattended bag on the train.
Staring at their phones, not looking around
what's going on,
raising heads only to see if it's their stop,
busy with Facebook notifications,
Instagram posts and youtube sensations,
commuting to work
from A to B,
half-******, half-asleep.
At 7am it's hard to be happy,
when you are going to work,
it's hard
to be something more
than a dumb, silent slave of the modern times.

No one cares about the unattended bag.
It's hard to give a ****,
when no one gives a ****.
You wanna talk to the driver? Good luck.

Someone noticed the bag, got a bit suspicious,
he looked around, and it was hard
to produce a word, to open his mouth,
to make all heads turn to him, all their eyes
have them fixed on you, when you are trying to explain
what's your concern.

There's no members of staff on the train anyway,
you don't wanna be late for work,
because of the stupid bag.

It's much easier to carry on
with staring at your phone,
not thinking of anything,
not getting paranoid about stuff.
It will spare you troubles in life.
SY Burris Oct 2012
To whom it may concern,

     I am alone.  Although it may never quite seem that way, both night and day I am confined to solitude.  These past six years hitherto have been filled with nothing more than the fictional characters in my texts and the short pleasantries granted in passing by dismal men, women, and even children that occupy my days.  Each morning, as the dawn breaks, I wake up disgusted with myself in that same manner which sundry men and women have.  It is not the loneliness, however, that disgusts me.  No, I do believe I have grown quite fond of the residual silence.  Instead, I believe it to be the dull monotony of my routine that has left me truly disturbed.  The days have begun to fade in with each other, along with the nights---especially the nights.  I cannot say, for instance, whether or not it was last evening or that of a day three months afore that I was seated at my desk, much like I am now, finishing the latest draft of a poem in my journal.  Nor could I tell you the present date, although the heat of the day, still trapped in the rafters, is so persistent that I am obliged to say it must be one of those blue summer nights when children run, squealing, through the streets, like plump pigs to the trough.  I have become somewhat of a hermit, secluded in my small, run-down apartment above my bodega.  My mind has grown as wild as the violet petunias, bridging the gap over the narrow, brick walk which separates my garden--- as the myriad of dandelions that have invaded the surrounding lawn.
     Throughout the day I work the till in my shop, observing the assorted physiognomies that populate the three small isles.  As they walk up and down, deciding what they most desire, I, too, contemplate to myself, deciding the few whom I might admire should I get the chance.  I often attempt to strike up conversations with my customers, much to their dismay.  I comment on the weather, the soccer scores from a recent game, or perhaps a story from the local section of the Post & Courier, only to receive terse responses and short payments.  However, I never let these failed attempts at congenial conversation discourage me.  Day after day, I persist.
     The nights are easier.  Although I do not attend the boisterous bars spread out amongst the small restaurants and boutiques that line the narrow city streets as I once did, I often drink.  Seated alone, armed with a liter of Ri, two glasses, one with small cubes of ice and one without, and a pen; I waste my nights scribbling down nearly every thought that leaps into my inebriated mind.  My prose has yet to show any real promise, but my thirst to transcend from this pathetic, pseudo-intellectual literature student struggling with his thesis into something more drives me to ignore those basic desires, defined by Maslow as needs; venturing out and exploring the community that I inhabit or talking to another person as a friend.  So I sit, night after night, at the foot of this large bay window, looking out onto the tired faces of the busy street below.  I sit, night after night, tracing the streaks of red light from the tails of passing cars, imprinted in the backs of my eyelids like sand-spurs stuck in a heel.
     I can recall a time when my flat was not the dank, dimly lit hole in the wall that it has become today.  A time, not too distant, when the rich chestnut floorboards glistened beneath the fluorescent pendant lights, when champagne dripped like rain from the white coffers in the blue ceiling, and music shook the walls and rattled the windows.  Men and women alike would wander through the rooms, inoculated by my counterfeit Monet's and their glasses of box wine.  When not entertaining, I wrote.  At long length I sat beneath my window, proliferating prose or critiquing a classmate's from workshop, but those days have passed.  The floors no longer shine; instead they lay suffocating under piles of fetid clothes.  The halls no longer echo with the rhythmic chorus of an acoustic guitar or the symphonies of men and women's laughter;  the lights are burnt out, the paint is peeling off the walls, and the homages are concealed beneath vast fields of mildew and mold.  Puddles of whiskey sit unattended on the granite countertops around the bottoms of corks for weeks, allowing the strong scent to foster and waft freely through the air ducts into the store below.  The dilapidation that ensued after I stopped receiving visitors was not just of the home, however. Worse yet was the steady rot of my own mind.  Although I have often been referred to as "a bit eccentric," and often times folks would inquire if I had, "a ***** loose in [my] noggin," I have only recently begun to find myself walking about the neighborhood garden in the small hours of the morning more than occasionally.  Further still, it is only recently that I cannot remember how, or when, I came to be where I am. Whenever I do happen to roam the night, it appears as if I do it unbeknownst to myself, throughout the throes of my sleep.  Similarly, I have only just begun to notice that, often times while I attempt to write, I sit, talking feverishly---yelling at an empty bottle, until I find another to quench my thirst.  Luckily, there is always another bottle.
     Needless to say, these past few years have left me very tired, and, after much consideration, I have decided that it would be best if I were to "shuffle off this mortal coil."  However, much like Hamlet himself, I could never bring myself to act upon the feeling.  Though I often wonder about what awaits me after my last breath warms the winter of this world, the coward that I have become is in no hurry to find out.  Alors, I am left with one option: leave.  Though I am not yet brave enough to slip into that, the deepest of sleeps, I have gathered courage enough to walk throughout the day.
           Charon Solus
lmvm Jan 2016
One.** When you see her for the first time, you'll want to steal a glance at her, but you can't beat her at her own game. She's been a professional heart jacker since the seventh grade, so when she steals a glance from you, don't ever expect to find the composer she robs from your voice.

Two. You'll never need to go to a corner store again. Her purse is a walking pharmacy full of all the things nobody needs more than once in their lifetime. She says that she has stolen so much useless ****, that to her there is no difference between losing everything and losing nothing.

Three. When she stays over for the first time and you're cuddling in bed, cling to the covers for dear life, cause she will yank that **** away from you the second you fall asleep.

Four. Don't get too attached to any of your hoodies. Everything she snatches, she owns indefinitely. Whether it's the hoodie from H&M;, the candle stick from your parents' house, or the guitar she borrowed from the last boy she broke into.

Five. You're best of trying to blur the lines between theft, and sacrifice. So, give her your time when she wants it. Offer her your tongue when her skin is hungry. Give up your sleep, when she rather give you tongue lashings. Give her your Sundays and Mondays, maybe even you Mondays through Sundays. Let her cradle your world in her palms until it is small enough to run away with.

Six. When you stop keeping an eye on your grades, don't be surprised when they go missing.

Seven. When your mother ask why you don't write anymore. Tell her you can't think about poetry when your partner has the keys to your inspiration. Don't worry, she borrowed them a year ago. And you haven't seen them since.

Eight. She will pick pocket your self-esteem. Send you from fearless to feeble the second you leave your secrets on the table.

Nine. I wonder if she's the reason airports ask there passengers not to leave baggage unattended.

Ten. You are baggage she will leave unattended.

Eleven Your skin won't look thicker when it heals.

Twelve. Don't bother retracing your steps to try to find yourself. I promise, there's no point in searching for yourself in a break up, or a break down, or an orange bottle.

Thirteen. I'm starting to realize that love is the most sinister kind of robbery there is. Love is a slow motion stick up you can not get insurance against. Worst part about dating a thief is realizing that after they clean you out., you will never get yourself back.

Fourteen. One day she emerged from 7/11 concealing a bag of erasers, a sponge, and 12 packs of Splenda.
I ask her, "how do you even choose what to steal?".
She said when you're not sure what to take, just take everything.
tucker bryant
Erik Jon Jensen Dec 2015
My heart
is the sound of water swishing
at the bottom of a large jar.

My emotions
are soft and quiet, making ears strain
to hear them:
they are a small sigh leaving my body.

My soul is bread
left unattended in the oven.

And my body,
is a house visited
every so often,
by dinner guests bringing
smiles and light.
Cassidy Shoop Apr 2015
if it were up to me
i would show up at your house
dressed as the love of your life.
i would drag you from your bed
rip your heart from your chest
and leave your lifeless body at the door
for your mother to find.

i would tear every good feeling
straight out of your stomach
and replace them with memories
of all the things that made you love me.

i would burn the remaining pieces
and scatter the ashes
along beaches we planned to get married
and cities we were supposed to live.

i would leave your mind
hollow and unattended
and force you to feel me forgetting you,

sort of like what you did to me.
I wrote this in like 5 minutes because I was angry and thinking about the past. Sorry it's sort of dark.
Caddywhompus Nov 2014
Walking slowly, I enter the kitchen
I have been here before, but this time is different
Alone on the table a cheeseburger rests
Unattended
I glance both ways weighing my options
The burger is fresh and dripping with juices
Thinking ceases and instinct enacts
Within seconds the beautiful sandwich is gone
Stomach full, I lie on the floor
Guilt sets in
I have been a bad dog.
I wrote this after my German shepherd ate a grilled-cheese sandwich I made for lunch.
Sean Dimech Aug 2012
She speaks to me through Winter's night,
At the clash of fearless winds and tides.
Within whispers of memoired days that passed,
I find myself entangled in each others grasp.
Like a summer's day I forget the tomorrows,
Unworthy challenges, expectancies and sorrows,
Letting go of my anger and unattended pain,
Her whispers are the only things that keep me sane.
I close my eyes to the sound of aquatic gusts,
Invisioning the days we've spent sharing eachother's lust.
Through a swirl of thought I sit beside you,
With petals of flowers falling upon each shoe.
My arm grips you tight as if hanging for salvation,
Yet still we hold a certain fear of confrontation.
We path our way with big and small footsteps,
Through unearthed soil, we silently crept.
The view was shallow; yellow with blue,
I gazed my eyes upon this priceless view.
Amongst an ocean of grass and rooted flowers,
Lay a lonely rose, purveying endless thorn-showers.
How risky and deep and precious the thought,
That within grass and sunflowers, a rose has been brought.
My hands reach to grip, but my eyes twinge with pain,
A sudden push through my lungs, and rush through my veins.
I wake up confused, my dream disappears,
But you my gray rose, you're always right here.
The Angel ended, and in Adam’s ear
So charming left his voice, that he a while
Thought him still speaking, still stood fixed to hear;
Then, as new waked, thus gratefully replied.
What thanks sufficient, or what recompence
Equal, have I to render thee, divine
Historian, who thus largely hast allayed
The thirst I had of knowledge, and vouchsafed
This friendly condescension to relate
Things, else by me unsearchable; now heard
With wonder, but delight, and, as is due,
With glory attributed to the high
Creator!  Something yet of doubt remains,
Which only thy solution can resolve.
When I behold this goodly frame, this world,
Of Heaven and Earth consisting; and compute
Their magnitudes; this Earth, a spot, a grain,
An atom, with the firmament compared
And all her numbered stars, that seem to roll
Spaces incomprehensible, (for such
Their distance argues, and their swift return
Diurnal,) merely to officiate light
Round this opacous Earth, this punctual spot,
One day and night; in all her vast survey
Useless besides; reasoning I oft admire,
How Nature wise and frugal could commit
Such disproportions, with superfluous hand
So many nobler bodies to create,
Greater so manifold, to this one use,
For aught appears, and on their orbs impose
Such restless revolution day by day
Repeated; while the sedentary Earth,
That better might with far less compass move,
Served by more noble than herself, attains
Her end without least motion, and receives,
As tribute, such a sumless journey brought
Of incorporeal speed, her warmth and light;
Speed, to describe whose swiftness number fails.
So spake our sire, and by his countenance seemed
Entering on studious thoughts abstruse; which Eve
Perceiving, where she sat retired in sight,
With lowliness majestick from her seat,
And grace that won who saw to wish her stay,
Rose, and went forth among her fruits and flowers,
To visit how they prospered, bud and bloom,
Her nursery; they at her coming sprung,
And, touched by her fair tendance, gladlier grew.
Yet went she not, as not with such discourse
Delighted, or not capable her ear
Of what was high: such pleasure she reserved,
Adam relating, she sole auditress;
Her husband the relater she preferred
Before the Angel, and of him to ask
Chose rather; he, she knew, would intermix
Grateful digressions, and solve high dispute
With conjugal caresses: from his lip
Not words alone pleased her.  O! when meet now
Such pairs, in love and mutual honour joined?
With Goddess-like demeanour forth she went,
Not unattended; for on her, as Queen,
A pomp of winning Graces waited still,
And from about her shot darts of desire
Into all eyes, to wish her still in sight.
And Raphael now, to Adam’s doubt proposed,
Benevolent and facile thus replied.
To ask or search, I blame thee not; for Heaven
Is as the book of God before thee set,
Wherein to read his wonderous works, and learn
His seasons, hours, or days, or months, or years:
This to attain, whether Heaven move or Earth,
Imports not, if thou reckon right; the rest
From Man or Angel the great Architect
Did wisely to conceal, and not divulge
His secrets to be scanned by them who ought
Rather admire; or, if they list to try
Conjecture, he his fabrick of the Heavens
Hath left to their disputes, perhaps to move
His laughter at their quaint opinions wide
Hereafter; when they come to model Heaven
And calculate the stars, how they will wield
The mighty frame; how build, unbuild, contrive
To save appearances; how gird the sphere
With centrick and eccentrick scribbled o’er,
Cycle and epicycle, orb in orb:
Already by thy reasoning this I guess,
Who art to lead thy offspring, and supposest
That bodies bright and greater should not serve
The less not bright, nor Heaven such journeys run,
Earth sitting still, when she alone receives
The benefit:  Consider first, that great
Or bright infers not excellence: the Earth
Though, in comparison of Heaven, so small,
Nor glistering, may of solid good contain
More plenty than the sun that barren shines;
Whose virtue on itself works no effect,
But in the fruitful Earth; there first received,
His beams, unactive else, their vigour find.
Yet not to Earth are those bright luminaries
Officious; but to thee, Earth’s habitant.
And for the Heaven’s wide circuit, let it speak
The Maker’s high magnificence, who built
So spacious, and his line stretched out so far;
That Man may know he dwells not in his own;
An edifice too large for him to fill,
Lodged in a small partition; and the rest
Ordained for uses to his Lord best known.
The swiftness of those circles attribute,
Though numberless, to his Omnipotence,
That to corporeal substances could add
Speed almost spiritual:  Me thou thinkest not slow,
Who since the morning-hour set out from Heaven
Where God resides, and ere mid-day arrived
In Eden; distance inexpressible
By numbers that have name.  But this I urge,
Admitting motion in the Heavens, to show
Invalid that which thee to doubt it moved;
Not that I so affirm, though so it seem
To thee who hast thy dwelling here on Earth.
God, to remove his ways from human sense,
Placed Heaven from Earth so far, that earthly sight,
If it presume, might err in things too high,
And no advantage gain.  What if the sun
Be center to the world; and other stars,
By his attractive virtue and their own
Incited, dance about him various rounds?
Their wandering course now high, now low, then hid,
Progressive, retrograde, or standing still,
In six thou seest; and what if seventh to these
The planet earth, so stedfast though she seem,
Insensibly three different motions move?
Which else to several spheres thou must ascribe,
Moved contrary with thwart obliquities;
Or save the sun his labour, and that swift
Nocturnal and diurnal rhomb supposed,
Invisible else above all stars, the wheel
Of day and night; which needs not thy belief,
If earth, industrious of herself, fetch day
Travelling east, and with her part averse
From the sun’s beam meet night, her other part
Still luminous by his ray.  What if that light,
Sent from her through the wide transpicuous air,
To the terrestrial moon be as a star,
Enlightening her by day, as she by night
This earth? reciprocal, if land be there,
Fields and inhabitants:  Her spots thou seest
As clouds, and clouds may rain, and rain produce
Fruits in her softened soil for some to eat
Allotted there; and other suns perhaps,
With their attendant moons, thou wilt descry,
Communicating male and female light;
Which two great sexes animate the world,
Stored in each orb perhaps with some that live.
For such vast room in Nature unpossessed
By living soul, desart and desolate,
Only to shine, yet scarce to contribute
Each orb a glimpse of light, conveyed so far
Down to this habitable, which returns
Light back to them, is obvious to dispute.
But whether thus these things, or whether not;
But whether the sun, predominant in Heaven,
Rise on the earth; or earth rise on the sun;
He from the east his flaming road begin;
Or she from west her silent course advance,
With inoffensive pace that spinning sleeps
On her soft axle, while she paces even,
And bears thee soft with the smooth hair along;
Sollicit not thy thoughts with matters hid;
Leave them to God above; him serve, and fear!
Of other creatures, as him pleases best,
Wherever placed, let him dispose; joy thou
In what he gives to thee, this Paradise
And thy fair Eve; Heaven is for thee too high
To know what passes there; be lowly wise:
Think only what concerns thee, and thy being;
Dream not of other worlds, what creatures there
Live, in what state, condition, or degree;
Contented that thus far hath been revealed
Not of Earth only, but of highest Heaven.
To whom thus Adam, cleared of doubt, replied.
How fully hast thou satisfied me, pure
Intelligence of Heaven, Angel serene!
And, freed from intricacies, taught to live
The easiest way; nor with perplexing thoughts
To interrupt the sweet of life, from which
God hath bid dwell far off all anxious cares,
And not ****** us; unless we ourselves
Seek them with wandering thoughts, and notions vain.
But apt the mind or fancy is to rove
Unchecked, and of her roving is no end;
Till warned, or by experience taught, she learn,
That, not to know at large of things remote
From use, obscure and subtle; but, to know
That which before us lies in daily life,
Is the prime wisdom:  What is more, is fume,
Or emptiness, or fond impertinence:
And renders us, in things that most concern,
Unpractised, unprepared, and still to seek.
Therefore from this high pitch let us descend
A lower flight, and speak of things at hand
Useful; whence, haply, mention may arise
Of something not unseasonable to ask,
By sufferance, and thy wonted favour, deigned.
Thee I have heard relating what was done
Ere my remembrance: now, hear me relate
My story, which perhaps thou hast not heard;
And day is not yet spent; till then thou seest
How subtly to detain thee I devise;
Inviting thee to hear while I relate;
Fond! were it not in hope of thy reply:
For, while I sit with thee, I seem in Heaven;
And sweeter thy discourse is to my ear
Than fruits of palm-tree pleasantest to thirst
And hunger both, from labour, at the hour
Of sweet repast; they satiate, and soon fill,
Though pleasant; but thy words, with grace divine
Imbued, bring to their sweetness no satiety.
To whom thus Raphael answered heavenly meek.
Nor are thy lips ungraceful, Sire of men,
Nor tongue ineloquent; for God on thee
Abundantly his gifts hath also poured
Inward and outward both, his image fair:
Speaking, or mute, all comeliness and grace
Attends thee; and each word, each motion, forms;
Nor less think we in Heaven of thee on Earth
Than of our fellow-servant, and inquire
Gladly into the ways of God with Man:
For God, we see, hath honoured thee, and set
On Man his equal love:  Say therefore on;
For I that day was absent, as befel,
Bound on a voyage uncouth and obscure,
Far on excursion toward the gates of Hell;
Squared in full legion (such command we had)
To see that none thence issued forth a spy,
Or enemy, while God was in his work;
Lest he, incensed at such eruption bold,
Destruction with creation might have mixed.
Not that they durst without his leave attempt;
But us he sends upon his high behests
For state, as Sovran King; and to inure
Our prompt obedience.  Fast we found, fast shut,
The dismal gates, and barricadoed strong;
But long ere our approaching heard within
Noise, other than the sound of dance or song,
Torment, and loud lament, and furious rage.
Glad we returned up to the coasts of light
Ere sabbath-evening: so we had in charge.
But thy relation now; for I attend,
Pleased with thy words no less than thou with mine.
So spake the Godlike Power, and thus our Sire.
For Man to tell how human life began
Is hard; for who himself beginning knew
Desire with thee still longer to converse
Induced me.  As new waked from soundest sleep,
Soft on the flowery herb I found me laid,
In balmy sweat; which with his beams the sun
Soon dried, and on the reeking moisture fed.
Straight toward Heaven my wondering eyes I turned,
And gazed a while the ample sky; till, raised
By quick instinctive motion, up I sprung,
As thitherward endeavouring, and upright
Stood on my feet: about me round I saw
Hill, dale, and shady woods, and sunny plains,
And liquid lapse of murmuring streams; by these,
Creatures that lived and moved, and walked, or flew;
Birds on the branches warbling; all things smiled;
With fragrance and with joy my heart o’erflowed.
Myself I then perused, and limb by limb
Surveyed, and sometimes went, and sometimes ran
With supple joints, as lively vigour led:
But who I was, or where, or from what cause,
Knew not; to speak I tried, and forthwith spake;
My tongue obeyed, and readily could name
Whate’er I saw.  Thou Sun, said I, fair light,
And thou enlightened Earth, so fresh and gay,
Ye Hills, and Dales, ye Rivers, Woods, and Plains,
And ye that live and move, fair Creatures, tell,
Tell, if ye saw, how I came thus, how here?—
Not of myself;—by some great Maker then,
In goodness and in power pre-eminent:
Tell me, how may I know him, how adore,
From whom I have that thus I move and live,
And feel that I am happier than I know.—
While thus I called, and strayed I knew not whither,
From where I first drew air, and first beheld
This happy light; when, answer none returned,
On a green shady bank, profuse of flowers,
Pensive I sat me down:  There gentle sleep
First found me, and with soft oppression seised
My droused sense, untroubled, though I thought
I then was passing to my former state
Insensible, and forthwith to dissolve:
When suddenly stood at my head a dream,
Whose inward apparition gently moved
My fancy to believe I yet had being,
And lived:  One came, methought, of shape divine,
And said, ‘Thy mansion wants thee, Adam; rise,
‘First Man, of men innumerable ordained
‘First Father! called by thee, I come thy guide
‘To the garden of bliss, thy seat prepared.’
So saying, by the hand he took me raised,
And over fields and waters, as in air
Smooth-sliding without step, last led me up
A woody mountain; whose high top was plain,
A circuit wide, enclosed, with goodliest trees
Planted, with walks, and bowers; that what I saw
Of Earth before scarce pleasant seemed.  Each tree,
Loaden with fairest fruit that hung to the eye
Tempting, stirred in me sudden appetite
To pluck and eat; whereat I waked, and found
Before mine eyes all real, as the dream
Had lively shadowed:  Here had new begun
My wandering, had not he, who was my guide
Up hither, from among the trees appeared,
Presence Divine.  Rejoicing, but with awe,
In adoration at his feet I fell
Submiss:  He reared me, and ‘Whom thou soughtest I am,’
Said mildly, ‘Author of all this thou seest
‘Above, or round about thee, or beneath.
‘This Paradise I give thee, count it thine
‘To till and keep, and of the fruit to eat:
‘Of every tree that in the garden grows
‘Eat freely with glad heart; fear here no dearth:
‘But of the tree whose operation brings
‘Knowledge of good and ill, which I have set
‘The pledge of thy obedience and thy faith,
‘Amid the garden by the tree of life,
‘Remember what I warn thee, shun to taste,
‘And shun the bitter consequence: for know,
‘The day thou eatest thereof, my sole command
‘Transgressed, inevitably thou shalt die,
‘From that day mortal; and this happy state
‘Shalt lose, expelled from hence into a world
‘Of woe and sorrow.’  Sternly he pronounced
The rigid interdiction, which resounds
Yet dreadful in mine ear, though in my choice
Not to incur; but soon his clear aspect
Returned, and gracious purpose thus renewed.
‘Not only these fair bounds, but all the Earth
‘To thee and to thy race I give; as lords
‘Possess it, and all things that therein live,
‘Or live in sea, or air; beast, fish, and fowl.
‘In sign whereof, each bird and beast behold
‘After their kinds; I bring them to receive
‘From thee their names, and pay thee fealty
‘With low subjection; understand the same
‘Of fish within their watery residence,
‘Not hither summoned, since they cannot change
‘Their element, to draw the thinner air.’
As thus he spake, each bird and beast behold
Approaching two and two; these cowering low
With blandishment; each bird stooped on his wing.
I named them, as they passed, and understood
Their nature, with such knowledge God endued
My sudden apprehension:  But in these
I found not what methought I wanted still;
And to the heavenly Vision thus presumed.
O, by what name, for thou above all these,
Above mankind, or aught than mankind higher,
Surpassest far my naming; how may I
Adore thee, Author of this universe,
And all this good to man? for whose well being
So amply, and with hands so liberal,
Thou hast provided all things:  But with me
I see not who partakes.  In solitude
What happiness, who can enjoy alone,
Or, all enjoying, what contentment f
Brooke S Oct 2018
It's hard to be thankful for the past year,
when its been spent breathing in stale air and looking through broken glasses. Sometimes it seems easier to leave the wound open and unattended, knowing that even after it's healed it will scar.

But there is power in becoming brighter than the reality you surround yourself with, knowing that despite the ending there are the moments in between, a colour coated scene that reminds you the cold will come, but it will not last forever.

A warm drive home after a cold day,
cozy hands and falling leaves,
an in between moment,
brighter than the darkness could of ever planned for,
we are eating dessert in the tv light,
and I am thankful for you.
thanksgiving was this past weekend in Canada. A day I thought was going to be dark ended up being filled with love and it filled me with hope
qi Feb 2015
my love and devotion for you
was a wavering candle light
held to my chest to shield
from a wicked wild wind
it dripped wax onto my unsteady hands
scalding my fingertips
a foreign burn seeping into my skin

(my love) became my sole source of comfort;
a wooden fireplace
in the depth of a cold Chicagoan winter
thawed my heart of ice
and you breathed life into my lungs

every time you beamed at me
I  found myself
falling in love with your smile
'til I had seen that same lopsided grin of yours
flashed to someone else

and so,
the fire in my soul gave way
to waves after waves of relentless jealousy
that which pounded
against the shores of my heart
carved away gaping crevices
in the jagged ridges of my ribcage

in one final encore
black acrid flames returned in full force
as I clawed off
my flesh and bone
tearing at the itchiness in my blood
and the taste
of iron in the back of my throat

here I am
another one of your victims
with third-degree burns

my nerves are burnt beyond repair;
I no longer feel anything for you
goodbye.
Sa Sa Ra Oct 2012
When we play...---...
Is it for our better'... or
for the better equipping's
of hearts, and minds freeing
to bare our souls within
as this body of life
life has given
living still
scribbles
of scripts
positioning
composition's
bets mete bettering
to better ourselves unto
this weather of givings
whether we see it 'tis
take's or receiving's
without the grace
of a child's it is
all too much
deceiving
one's
greener
leafing's fall
blowning off 'tis
grieving's leaving
going going
glowing
gone

Gong GONG GONGING GONG GONG!!!!

a
sad
noise 'tis
@ competition
shush'... listening
did you hear that if
you don't better me
i may better you
if  you don't
win,  i win
dominion
of you
too,
am
I?
Y
my
eye'...
the pain of bye's
in natures foreboding
I
by
eye
cops
comp
cop cop
for bronze
comping copper
stamping stomping
          ramp's romping
inclination's
phrasing's
of phases
chosen's
ration's
poses
to
e
y
e
be
war's
worshiped
rule breaking
nature's fool
forsaken
lost
'---
my
Y
do odes of '--- my'...??? of the sullen
gloomy calls within the ***** of tears
in paralyzing fears or of the faceless
ruse of starkness descending upon
a dimming simmering flame
shining yet or singing
'if I had a hammer'
one hammer pounds
one above, another below
another softens the soundings
of where the cooper's barrel is at
of making a rest for dearest guests
one basket withers glittering gone sold
another is casket's for the cooling
with taken souls captured
enslaved to undo ruins
whether by a taking
this being to grave
or in misgivings
crook simply
sins  fouled
"fooled" or
schooled
a fool
feels
all,
m
I
?
Y
is it
however
that dogs are
revered and best
friends
too
be
.
Y
so
then,
what is
humanity
for food controlled
leashed, collared gate
for a lease of our
soul tethering
weakening
pained ill
limping
gait
'--- ode
to the meek
the taken
of taker's
speaking's
mistakenly
tokened
tolls.

What are
being's selling's
paths by soles paving's
for hunger's relinquishing's
as footprints trodden the
starving are solemn's
no food for souls
with out love
the broken
...---...
pitch me a sales
as i already do wail
a 'poor granted soul
in soils poor planting
or then ...---... please!!!
leave and so take
your willing
chilling
chills
sown
as ...---...
to the forsaken
who depend on that pill
for the pain and the fright
which steals our dear breath
takes wings, life and flight
death walks as much
as the grim reaper
still is brewing
opiates for
balkers
asleep
walk
bye
as
I
---
you
'--- my
gr8 greeter
called life as the living
living in memories of darkness
to the soul calling light
sleeping by day
only by night
'tis flight
...---.... 'o
deceive me deception
i made you mad
really made
therefor
eyes
shuttered
fractal spawn
i can not beat thy
blinded own childs
if eye can not control
the only owners of me
sold for the glittering scold
you would be my excuses
as a mother defends
what a man can
not achieve he
must create
pretending
it's all in
the brewing
stillery stewing
so let us all play
the game as it is
of spiritual potions
where meek meets might
in the awesome of loathings
dark-lings of fear breathing omens
while dragon's breathe fire in deep keepers
Still Our Colosseum is so Romanesque
so forgive my doting while stilling
the stiller's still and so no, no
I am not that player of so,
called so of the gaming
darlings ac-cursing of
flashings thrashing
trashing of our
lives truly
dearest
here
eye
be
to
...---...
my friends clear and
Sow the never-ending story of
Our lives more worthy nurtured of loving as
Silly Will Nilly fairy dragons fired in the natures of love with
air to wax and oils fired breathing anew guidance for misgivings of
lost roaming tillers, till within it is found the pounding of lost vile's
Pouring out transmutations of the flowering scents of forgiving
Pearly rivers torrentially rush the heavenly sendings of
Soothing balm to wounds in mending and cries of
: SOS unattended finally heard as
<3 <3's ...---... <3 <3's
in the living river
of life walked
and spoken
words
are
LOVE IN ACTION!!!!!!
DING DING DING
GONG!!!!!!!!!
<3 <3
:)
Begin again!!!
Lovingly, Ra
Sa Sa Sun
Sunny
Run
Un
1
'
.
.
.
To the Roman and lost (to all those promises) roaming's of us all and the knives and swords we each wield both ways some slicing in vain in veins  and in others where hate is cleared from love as you will see, understand and accept. Yes, and still is in 'as' always and stiller-y, our brewery of soul potions more real than any witches or alchemy drink. The spirits within heart, mind, soul are the real transmutable of holy grail mountain movers, shakers, makers and breakers.

PS: ... --- ..., = SOS such is key to the rest if you would consider most other punctuation's here typical though minimally used.    
The way I wrote would be as 'help' and or 'save our souls' and 'save our selves' is worth a gander; http://acronyms.thefreedictionary.com/SOS

So about read again if you read once ignoring the ...'s and or ---'s that is overly well then is why I suggest just on the one hand as far as the read is concerned anyhow the rest you know already much about take the ...'s as s's and ---'s as o's got it go go go!!! The ...---...'s are best for your hearts choosing really of course always as with all!!! >3 >3 :) :) R

PPS: Stanza from "eye am I to ... --- ... (help) my friends dear has 3 consecutive lines respectively starting with S, O, and S leading also a second set with P P S : SOS unattended finally heard as hearts help hearts ding **** gong!!!!

PPPS: take PPS: as post post script in reading down in typical fashion or as across the lines loosely cryptic as post postmortem script, or un-dead finally!!!

PPPPS: “"If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn't. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn't be. And what it wouldn't be, it would. You see?” - Alice in Wonderland quote
http://thinkexist.com/quotes/alice_in_wonderland/

******written from the left margin indeed it too would be easier to follow some of the encrypted or encoded keys; but understanding that it still can be had as in final edit it is shifted right and overall the read and shape at least on a screen with enough pixels to me seemed over all having more potency for the more willing understood albeit!! Thank You!!! Ra

What a hungry soul can do running on two grapefruits and a cup of black coffee for the day!!!!
Nite Nite!!!

<3 <3 :) R
I shouldn't care,
But it cuts me deep,
To cut me off completely,
In one leep.
I can no longer check,
To see if you're okay,
It's probably for the best,
It'll be okay one day.
I just wish things were different,
I wish I wasn't such a ****,
First time I ever ****** up,
Didn't think it'll be like that.
I'd do anything to take back the words I said,
To those who shouldn't know,
But I didn't think,
My guilt suffocates as it grows.
Even though I'm moving on,
And the relationship is going well,
I still love you, but I don't want you,
I'm in some kind of hell.
I just want you back,
Just as a friend ,
You know everything about me,
This relationship, we can mend.
I don't want you,
I know that much for real,
I just can't leave us broken,
My wounds are to deep to heal.
J Nov 2020
Brown. I said brown was my favorite color. Deep, dark, opulent brown, like coffee, like the dirt, tree trunks, hair, the deepest of honey, like dark chocolate. Brown, I said. Brown, you remembered. But you see, as I've told you before, this color was associated with disgusting, horrid things. It was associated with a psychotic, abusive, manipulative, ****** person, associated with the screams and tears and blood left in his wake. I took the word, the letters, and I weaved them with meaning and memories and forever promises and the phrase "forever and always" which was something that used to be very important to me. I promised very few people that, and by few I mean one other aside from him, and that was Kenzie. I told them "I'll love you, forever and always." Kenzie and I made it first, and then we both made it to our partners, the partners that we believed would last. She's married now, with a kid, to that man, and I? Well, here I am now. I don't say it anymore, it means nothing to me now. Albeit brown is lovely, and after the said past promise-breaker left I tried not to think of it as eye color, I struggled to see it more akin to nature, as something natural. "Earthy tones, right?" You said earthy tones, without hesitation, when we were taking those online quizzes about personalities, it was the question was about my favorite color, so I know that you remember. "Browns and greens, right babe?" Greens and browns, the Earthy set colors, not those ****** betraying eyes of a Ryder. He told me my eyes were green. He often told me about the green storm that threatened to flood the very existence of himself. My eyes change color, according to friends. Brown, green, sometimes they get this weird blue color, sometimes they're two different colors, one being green and the other brown, but I'm not sure. But anyhow, I thought that was my pull. I thought that if I had to get specific and create the perfect person for myself, I'd at least know what eyes I wanted them to have. You see, I love things that are underappreciated, everything in the category is something to admire, as long as you leave me out of it. But now, Sydney, now? Now I know, the hottest fires burn blue.

  To this, your eyes are no exception. Brown was the Earth, still is, and it's what lurks in trees, the ground, the beverages and food we ingest, but Frenchie, love, eyes like yours? They burn those trees, the grass, physical objects, and then they demand hearts to ashes. They turn universes upside down, OH LOVE! your eyes drive people mad- they drive ME mad. Eyes like yours BURN, not the freeze everyone swoons about. Your eyes don't drip tears, they let off smoke in warning, and though the flame may seem like a liquid, it's not in any sense. Your blue is not the sky, your eyes are not something to gaze at, half-mindedly wondering and completely misunderstanding. You're not something to zone out for, towards, or to. No, your blue needs to be watched carefully, your blue cannot be left unattended. Your eyes don't hold people captive, they don't make people pause and romanticize them(at least they shouldn't), they trigger the fight or flight. Your eyes are not sad, they are not the ocean. Fire is not something to jump into, nothing about it symbolizes drowning. Oh no, no no no, Frenchie, love, your eyes, YOU, are a force to be reckoned with. Hell's fire, that's what I see rather than some stupid cliche body of water, Satan envies the heat. They're not something to submerge yourself in, they won't clean or wash away the sins I have, they'll burn the physical, mental, and emotional flesh, and then said flesh will wilt off, simply floating away as if they were petals stolen by the wind. Burnt ashy peach petals, that's all to be thought of the skin, hair, thoughts that are charred. Hear me, lovely, eyes like yours make the cigarette burns seem like a mosquito bite, they make blades dancing across skin feel like kisses, they make these thoughts of hate feel like vows of forever in love. Your eyes betray those who don't pay attention, because, yes, at a first glance, they're like the ocean. They're like an ocean, I mean, if you're basic and OH WOW BLUE! BLUE EQUALS SKY! BLUE EQUALS OCEAN! Oh yes, yes! The same way that salt looks like sugar, like coke looks like tea, just like water looks like bleach, the way that I look like a girl, but, ****, I don't know what the hell I am. They have similarities, but we all know there's a significant difference. Your eyes **** a soul, your choice on how rapidly this happens, though, and it lets the soul believe it's in love with the feeling. Being in love with the feeling of decomposing, can you imagine? I know I can. I suppose I don't need to be telling you this, do I? Because you knew. You've always known that part of you didn't come from the ocean, but much much lower. Hades granted you this gift, no turning back now. But I suppose I'm fine with others mistaking blue for water, I'll know the truth, I'll know some part of you in this writing, even though you've admitted I don't know you at all. Maybe I'll find you out, hell, maybe I won't. Regardless, my lips forever will work to light those eyes of yours up, I'll always be your pyromaniac, but what's the difference between fascination and contemplated arson.

  Love, colorblind love, allow me to show you my colors as we find yours, yes? Will that be okay? You're so sure that I'm finding me, but all I've done is realized I'm coming back with pieces missing, even after doing something as simple as sleeping. I lose myself in my words, and then they flake off like trauma, which is to say they don't disappear at all, just bury themselves under the flesh that I yearn to flay. We don't know who we are, and maybe we're both losing ourselves, but we have to drop off some things to pick up more, don't we? Maybe I'm dark shades of brown, lighter even, or maybe I really am green, maybe I'm white. Until either of us really know, I'll show you exactly what you've been missing. You see, we'll lose ourselves to our respected colors, and from there we'll find each other again, and drain ourselves against one another to create something entirely new, just for us, and then we'll weave ourselves in and out of the universe until we're nothing, and yet everything. The greys that plague you, your little stand-ins for my obvious surroundings, will shine like neon, The colors, they'll take you in, pull you down, and you will bask in the glory your past kept hidden, you will be one with the colors you can't yet imagine. And through this, I'll be your glasses and your coordinator, I promise to magnify and guide. I will be your sword and your shield, love, use me as you wish and I'll take the damage. Whatever you need, whoever, whenever, I'll be here, I'll be it, I'll be yours, forever with my hand out for you to grab hold of, to steady or to comfort, and we can be better together, happy together, simply together. We can be safe, against anyone else, against the world if you'd rather, and I? I will show you this. I will hold you into the blues, into the greens, and in-betweens, past the whites and blacks and... and we will be the rainbow, you and I. Unlike anyone can be, I am here now, and I will paint you exactly what love should have been for you, what life should have been. It should have been soft, like silk, not rope. We accept the love we think that we deserve, and even though I'm not anywhere near that blasted rope, I know that's why you're with me, for I'm not exactly silk, either. I'm something of leather, perhaps. I'll make you feel beautiful, powerful, but I won't last there forever, you know. I'll flake off, you'll grow tired of the mask, you'll grow tired of me, but at least I'm not rope. And we both know that you wouldn't want the silk for yourself. But until I'm something in a pile that you can remember rather fondly, allow me to be the reason you're smiling and walking like that, leaving flames for a trail.

   I'll first show you a better white, white outside supremacy of course because white is nowhere near a dominant color to me, but I know that you've seen enough black for now. I will lay next to you in a field of lilies, snowdrops, hyacinths, dahlias, and daffodils with the beautiful floral scent filling our senses. We will be surrounded by all that is pure, soft, safe. Dandelion will fly around us, make a wish if you must, they'll fall everywhere; you can wish for everything in the world and still have excess seeds. On milk-colored cotton blankets, we'll gaze into the night sky, where foggy shapes spread around the chalky Moon, capturing Her beauty rather nicely. In this perfect world, Scorpio and Cancer will be right next to each other. Relax next to me, go ahead and put your guard down, as I weave my hand into yours, the peach and creams of your existence make me feel olive in comparison. I could be olive for you, but olives and milk don't go together, so perhaps I can be a soft caramel, very soft, I'm not too entirely tan, but I like the thought of that. It's further proof of my imperfections and proof of your opposite. Caramel and Cream. Beneath the pearly light, we shine quietly, soft glowing fae, you and I. We're goddess's, y'know. Crowns of the pale flowers on top of your head, now that I think about it they make you slightly coral in comparison, then lace down your arm, around your fingers, covering the parts you wish to hide. Can't you see you're a perfect representation of something to worship? Goddess of Comedy, of ****, of What Love Should Be, of Selflessness, of Cuteness, of Protection, of Not Knowing How To Control Anger, of Music, of Koalas, and I? Suppose I'm some sort of gender-neutral Goddess of Laughter, Magick, Crying, Being Overdramatic, maybe of Poetry, maybe of Avoiding Issues, maybe of Frogs, and maybe of Empathy. Oh yes, and I'll show you this. I'll show you the alabaster watercolors and paint and pencils, I'll show you how a Goddess paints the stars, but I won't ever(EVER) show you those ****** impressionable Crayolas again. They're childish in their waxy ways, Frenchie, and you don't deserve that anymore. White Crayolas are pointless and deceiving anyway, aren't they? You deserve so much more, so much better, so, I shall provide stability and vision.

  And this? I will show you.

  Because words are empty. And you need to see to believe it.

  You see, I am in debt of your presence. I am in scars of your truths. That might not make sense. To explain, I try so very hard to keep my own blank face when you're talking to me because I'm afraid I'll give you the wrong expression. You need understanding, not to be singled out and felt like an outcast the way that I know you feel already. I do this because I know what you've been through, but you say I don't, that I would never get it. Maybe not in exact ways, but I do in some fashion. But I don't know you, so maybe I'm just blathering. Anyways, I try to keep a straight face, hearing of your abuse, your insecurities, your everything that you slowly open to me. Do you know how that makes me feel? I'll tell you. I'm angry that such things could be done to you. You don't see this, I make sure of it, but it takes everything in me not to hunt them down, Sydney, because why. WHY. Why would anyone do such a thing.. to you? To you. You didn't deserve it. ****, no one does, but you especially didn't. Hearing this pains me emotionally, mentally, physically. But I keep a straight face, please don't assume it's because I don't care. Please never assume that it's because I'm bored with the topic. Because I do care, I care so ******* much, I just don't want to make you feel like I'm afraid. I'm not. The thought of losing you, THAT'S what scares me. The mere thought of you loving someone else the way that I love you, that's breaking away my soul with its phantom grip. I refuse to lose you, I can't. I don't think that you quite get this yet, but there's something about you that makes me worry so much that I get sick when you don't reply for mere seconds. It's like I need to constantly hear from you. Like if I don't, I'll be dead, alone, because I know better than most people how quickly a life can be taken. I know that I get mad easily and that sometimes my overdramatic selfishness gets overwhelming, but I really don't want to shove you away or make you annoyed by me. I just want to talk, and show you these flaws, so that you know I mean no harm, that I'm getting better, that I can be good for you. I also understand that such is impossible, you're bound to not want something about me, I know I won't match you in every way that you need. But I do want everything of you, I want your anger and your sadness and your insecurities. I want you in tears for me, because I know I will always be here to clear them up for you, but I always hope to never be the cause of your crying. I will never purposely make you cry, I will never try to make you leave me(unless I think that it's best if you do so). You say that I helped you, that I was the reason you felt that it was good you're not dead. One of them, I know, but still. When you wrote for me, it was something interesting. You see, people don't write for me. They write for themselves, they write about themselves, they write to feel quirky, they rarely write about others, hell I know I do. I don't get written about, and if I do it's lies. He-who-shall-not-be-named wrote a few things for me. In his letters or texts, promising his life to me, vowing that he'd never leave, never hurt me, never cheat on me. He gave me empty words and full-blown everything else if you catch my drift. He showed me that words were nothing, never to trust them. "I love you" is the biggest and most frequent lie that I get told. But something in me believes you when you say it. Because you said it without getting anything back for such a long time. You could have given up, moved on, walked away, but you didn't. You stuck by me, even when you had the world of people you could go with, you wanted me. Me. And so I owe you at least a little bit of trust when you say that you love me, and doing so should make you see that when I say it back I also mean it. I've never written this much for anyone, you make me want to write even if it all sounds ******* cliche and mushy.

  Deep breath.  

  I will kneel for you, Goddess, and be here, waiting. Here, ready. Here, open for you. Pick me apart, I'll show you my inner mechanisms, do with me as you please. I'm going to work for this, just give me time. I don't know you, you don't know me, that's what we agreed with. We hide behind these words, YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT ME! because we're afraid that if we DO know something about the other, we'll die for it. We'll be hurt because knowing is knowledge and lack of something new to tell is weakness, is it? That's what you've been taught, that is what I've been taught, but listen. I have nothing to hurt you with. You've always known that you're stronger than me. I can't hurt you, right? I can't.
  
  I will always be full of stories, as will you, just tell me them. Just talk, I'll be quiet for once, you can tell me everything. You offer to listen to mine, say that you want to hear about me, but God let me just distract you so you'll talk about something, anything, else. I'm so stupid, I know you want to talk. I'll be quiet for once, let me work harder for you, I don't want to pretend that it's easier not to know you. We have to know each other. We have to, don't you want to stay with me? I know now that it is I who is the toxic one, let me try to be better for you. You told me that you didn't think that I stopped cheating, that I stopped being toxic because I met you, but I did. Sydney, I did. Or at least I've gotten better. I don't cheat, I've never cheated on you. I won't. But I know that you said that only because you were mad and overthinking. Or maybe you really meant it, I know everything that you said had some truth to it. I'd let you in if I could. Truth is, I'm an open book. For ****'s sake, I'm emptying this **** onto a ******' website, I don't have any ****** secrets. . . okay, I have a few, but only because I don't know how to bring them up. And yes, there's a lot of my past that you don't know, but there's also a lot of yours that I don't know. You have secrets you'll never tell, this is just truth, everyone does, yes? Do you want to know everything? If it will make you feel better, I'll tell you the world, the world of J, everything, you can have all my secrets, I'll be nothing but empty for you, you can have me. Would you like that?

  I'll erase the past lovers who made me fear, made me mad, made me, well, me, just for you. I won't mention him anymore, just don't leave me, okay? I'll stop talking about it, I'll stop getting so mad at you, I'll stop twisting your words, I never meant to. I never meant to. I always seem to make you feel as if you can't open up. You can. You can open to me, always, forever. Please. I can be better. Just for you. Always for you, only for you, please. I'm sorry. I say that so often, but that doesn't mean it has any less meaning, I am sorry. Quite often, I admit. I'm sorry for thousands, millions, trillions of things. I promise I'll get better with that, for you, just tell me how, tell me what to do, I will. I'll do anything. See, my past people weren't good at many things. Some could write a bit, some could sing, or both, or neither. Some could just talk right. But they all were good at one thing: leaving a scar. I remember you compared your past lovers to people with rentals, aka you, that they trashed. I think that if I could compare them to anything, they were feelings that I couldn't quite let go of because I knew that if I did, I wouldn't know what to do. I liked fear, maybe, I liked being hurt. I was used to it, it felt like little kisses, it meant they loved me. Manipulators do that, they make you feel like you need them until, bam, it's been almost a year and ****, you're alive aren't you? I feel things too deeply. One person's favorite thing would become an obsession for me. I don't know if that will change, because here I am telling you that, honey, you can be my addiction. But I wouldn't compare you to you a drug. Not the way Edward called Bella ******, how toxic, you're not ******. You're wine. You're champagne. You're "Veuve Clicquot." I know I don't really have to say this, but drugs are ******. They make you feel ******, that's why I won't ever relate you to them. You don't make me feel ******, not always. Admittedly so, sometimes you upset me, and sometimes you make me want to die, but that really is more along the lines of my fault, because we know me- I'm really overdramatic. And you, you say you're bad, that you're entirely something to stay away from. I think that's funny, really, cause I'm an alcoholic, I've bathed in poison, and Honey? You don't have its burn. I'll say it, you're not perfect, not in a sense that everyone will understand, but you are to me. Even your unobvious toxins are things that I find perfect. See, those things, they're deep down, but you're not toxic, you're not entirely deadly. But of course, you can be, if not handled with care. Though everyone can be as well, so please stop acting as if you're something that needs to be locked away from people. You're a person, a good person. Stop telling me that I'll never understand you. If you want to shove me away, my goodness, keep trying, but I've been told much worse by my own self, love, and I love being degraded. You're safe with me, and I will love you, though I know my affections can be quite unorthodox. You're my drink, not my drug, but somethin' I'm very much so addicted to. You feel good going down, hell you make me feel like a ****** lightweight, but god you show me what it means to be carefree, warm, happy, it's like I can do no wrong. You feel right for me. So, I'll drink and drink, and I'll dance and dance, soft yellow, and you? You will be swaying beside me. Mixing our hopes with our pride, you and I can twirl.

  "Distance makes the heart say you want her, distance makes the heart grow fonder."

  Regardless of the forevers between us, infinity called miles, I want you. Even though you **** me off really often, I want you. I don't like you sometimes, but I want you. I think that you're perfect for me, but I want to choke you. Often. But I mean it lovingly because I want you. See, I'm allowed to choke you, I'm allowed to want to at least, but no one else is. I don't actually dislike you in the slightest, I just think I have a lot to work out with myself. I didn't actually mean it when I said that I hated the things that you loved. I think the word was envy. I envy the things that you love, I envy being able to like things, being able to handle things, because **** I can't handle anything for large amounts of times. And I do envy the things you love because some part of me(I'm sure there's a name for it somewhere) wants to be the only one, the only thing for you.  I get frustrated so easily, I'm ****** I know. I'm so ****** used to being in this little fantasy I have for myself that I don't know what it really means to be in this reality. People don't act the way I want them too, I lose control of everything when I find I can't make people do as I please. In my world, you love me completely, so completely that you don't need anyone but me. But in reality, if anyone left your life, you'd break down.
In reality, you don't need me. You just happen to want me, you love me right now, but you don't need me. I'm not oxygen, or food, or water. And to be honest, even if I was, you'd be able to live without me for a bit. You avoid those things anyhow, don't you? I want you to see that I do love you, that I do want you, that I would never cheat on you or hurt you in that way because I want to be different from what you're used to with your lovers. I want to be something that you remember quite fondly if we don't end well. I want you to be able to say, "yeah. Yeah, they weren't ALL bad. There was this one person... J, I think, yeah. J. They weren't too bad."

  See, you're a blue flame that tastes like that yellow champagne, but I'm Agave Reposado. I mellow as I age. My natural citrus and spice round out as I grow, creating these complex notes of dry chocolate, chilies, vanilla, and cinnamon. Some prefer me with mixes of something else, say Cognac or wine, which might **** with my flavors even more. Parts of me are hardy enough to support cocktails, while the subtler parts are best sipped neat or over ice. Take that information and do what you will with it. I only speak these words so they'll have some sort of meaning to you. I taste like that gold tequila, but I'm nothing more than a candle.

  "I know we'll never grow old together, cause you'll never grow old to me."

  I will want you until you decide you don't need me, and, even then, I'll want you. YOU. You alone. You, Sydney Grace Collins. Because once I love, Darlin, I don't stop until something dies. The things that usually do are patience, longing, energy, faith. Will you get tired of me, no longer wish to see me, be finished with my absolute *******, not trust that we will last any longer? Will you wake up one day, see me and realize, "****. I'm done. I don't want THIS. I don't want this anymore, ever again." I said not until something like that dies, but I don't really think that I'll stop. I don't think that it matters if you love me or not, because I'm going to love you. I mean, it definitely matters if you do or don't, but it doesn't affect the way that I feel. See, when you stop loving me, I'll pretend I never did. But I'll know the truth, and when you read or hear this you will too. If I cared about you, even after you-know-who and everyone before him, it means that you're something very special to me. Even though I really wish I didn't give a ****. It would just be easier that way, I think, easier not to want you or care or worry, I would much rather not ever worry about you again. BUT. We both know it's not really something that I can choose, so until YOU leave and cover up your tracks, because I can be a hella good FBI agent,(or stalker, whatever you wanna call me) you're stuck with me, huh? Which shouldn't be taken as a bad thing, being stuck with me, and if it is I think that maybe I should probably tone it down, but, seriously, when have I ever really toned anything down?

  I can think of at least two times where you've asked me why I love you, what draws me to you, and I think that I've finally ******' figured it out. It's your laughter, love. It's like I said before, you do that cute little wheeze when you laugh before the cute musical notes of the actual giggle erupt, and in the middle of this, you find ways to take breaths. You toss your head back, and then you double over before you proceed to rock back and forth like that. I love seeing you happy. I love seeing you be THAT happy, and I like that most of the time that I see you do that is because I make you, I give you a reason to. I can't really deal with things other than laughing at them or making jokes, it's a serious flaw of mine, but I like that it can help you sometimes because, hell, you can't deal with your **** much either. It's the way that your eyes crinkle when you smile at me, or the hopeful look on your face when you sing, or the eager face you make when you're talking, or the simple resting ***** face, or the way you sleep, breathe, exist. It's the way that you reach for leaves with your burning touch, you reach for things that fall eventually on there, and you save them when you tuck them into your pockets. Little stars, little shooting stars we'll call them. It's the way that you can brush off an entire tree falling on you, but heaven forbid a leaf fall on your loved ones. It's the way that your anger flares when something happens to hit you the wrong way. It's the way that you dance. It's the way that you eat. It's the way that you talk, sound. It's the way that you tuck your issues down into that same pocket as if your crumbling life was a loose strand of hair falling onto your face.

  I like that about you, about how you bottle things up, sweep them away, avoid things. I love it, really, because I've always liked to research, to figure things out, and I know that I'm not too good right now, but I'm going to help you. Oh, yes, I am. I'm going to figure you out. Run away from the words I'm saying, but it's true. And you'll either accept that, or we'll fall apart. Not because I want to, but that's what happens without communication. You've gotten so very good at talking about your issues though, so so so very good, love, and I'm so very proud of you, not to mention grateful. But I know that it barely scratches the surface of that pain, I know because you've told me. So tell me, blue flame, where's the source? Where do I patch up, where do I sow, and what can I do to make sure it doesn't happen, let me help you. I want to patch you up, and then I want to love the scars. There's nothing wrong with you, did you know that? Nothing at all. You're perfect. I love everything about you, even the things that I don't know about you, I love them. All your secrets and thoughts and plans, I love them. I yearn to be a part of them, but I know that takes time. I'll wait, and I respect it but don't ever forget that I am right here, even if I won't understand the pain I know that it's relieving to be able to just ******' talk about it. I'll listen.

  You're so ******* important to me.

  Look at me, baby. No, seriously, look at me. I want you to keep this in mind, love, this face, the look of my room, how I talk when I tell you all this **** that goes on in my head, look at how I'm opening for you, for YOU. Remember this round, unorderly face. See my eyes, love, as I read this to you, this other poem-related thing I'm writing, notice how wide they get? They're passionate, they are, do you see that? Passionate because of you, the thought of YOU, love for YOU. Do you see how your hoodie looks on me, and if it isn't on at the moment, your chain. Look at me. I will make you want to stay, look how tiny I can be for you. You can put me into your pocket too if you'd like. I can make you want to stay, right? I can make you miss me, I know it. When you do leave, I'll make sure I haunt you with this voice, these eyes, these I-love-you vibes, Darlin, you won't leave without an extra soul following. Cause you're gonna remember, you're going to remember me even if it kills us. You'll remember the way it felt when my lips crashed into yours, you'll remember laying in my lap while my hands roamed your face, you'll remember it all. You see, I don't remember things very well. For instance, I don't remember exactly when I first realized I loved you, which was after I had loved you but before I could admit it to myself much less to you. I only remember wanting to hold you, the times where you were the only one that could make me happy, and I know that's still how it is, at least on my end. Something about you makes the green storm halt. I don't remember what made me want to say that I loved you back, but I do remember trying to find something funny, just to say, to show, so that I could watch you laugh again. I love your laugh, Sydney Collins, I love you. I don't remember what made me fall for you exactly, but I do remember noticing you were being quiet when I finally stopped talking about myself once, and I remember knowing that I would do anything to make sure that you're okay again. See, I **** at really helping, but I want to, believe me. I want to help so many things. I want to help the voices and the thoughts get easier. I want to help the anger and loneliness, I want to help you. I want to be YOUR person. Forever. I want to protect you, let me check under your bed for beasts, back into the closet I go for monsters, I REMEMBERED, but you see, you don't need me to do the second part. The secrecy and skeletons, the ones you lay to rest, you keep it shut for a reason, don't you? Locked and sealed, like your mouth, never opened long enough for anyone to know what's going inside, but I will check regardless, and if you say, " J, don't say **** about that body," I'll smile and ask "what body?" and shut the doors, find my way back to you, and tell you that you hide the smell very well. Because I'm on your side, love, I'm not the enemy. And, just so you know, I always bring a shovel with me, should you need it. Closets can only hold so much, and you'd understand that, wouldn't you? Wouldn't we? GOODNESS! My heart is ******' POUNDING.

  You make me see gold when things are black.

  We are Not Veronica and JD.

  I have to admit something to you. When you talk like, oh it's happened so rarely, but like.. that. I freak the **** out because, wow! how do you do that to me? DO I DESERVE IT? No, no, no. OH, no I don't, I could never. I don't deserve a lot of the things that you tell me. But I think of you, I think of you so often. When I'm alone, I imagine you're touching me, I think I need your touch. You breathe sometimes and these knees buckle and this heart swoons and I cry out "ASEXUAL" because holy ******* **** *** with women seems so scary, and oh **** how do I hold myself back. I just want to see you smile, hear you breathe a sigh of relief, and listen to your sweet nectar laugh when flattered by one of my compliments. I want to feel the warmth of your skin while your body is wrapped around mine, and hear the beat of your heart while I lay against your chest, though I'm happy if you'd listen to mine instead, I know how you prefer to lay. I want to watch your chest rise and fall as you sleep and kiss you until you wake up. I want to feel safe with you. I want to feel...small.. with you if you get what I'm saying. I want to trust you.

  Let's talk about our issues from now on, rather than ignoring each other, please.

  I really don't care if I have to cross a sea of vulnerabilities and emotion, I would do it all for that time you said that my, MY, smile made you happy. Because when you're happy, I'm happy. And ****, my chest feels all fluttery whenever our eyes meet, and jeez I'm just a frikity freakin' mess whenever you make me laugh, and GOD I love it when you call me baby or princess or kitten or whatever name because hell I don't have to be a girl for those names to mean the world. I'd love anything that you call me, just as long as I can call you mine, still. I will say this, love, I will tell you that I'm gay, just for you. I'm a ******, I'll scream, until my mouth grows numb, tongue forgets how to speak, teeth rot out. Until I die I will cry your name, and from then I'll sign it, and you'll teach me how won't you? I will never NOT want you, Sydney. You're part of my life now, a big part of it, and that means that even five years from now I will remember you. We can't go back, now, these are important memories. I'll write I love you until my fingers forget how to hold, how to touch, how to be fingers, I'll write until said fingers break and ******, I'll write until my fingers forget how your hands feel wrapped in mine, until my poems no longer reek these cliche pitiful words, and then I'll continue because I will never stop. I will look for more ways to make sure that you are HERE! In my heart, in my eyes, in my head.

  "All I wanted was you."

  There are very few things that I can be sure about, and one of the only things that I'm sure about is the fact that I mean it when I tell you that I love you. YOU cannot help how I feel, and, quite frankly, neither can I. Nothing will change it unless I want it to, and of course, why would I want that? your voice whispers a gentle need back, I know you feel this too. So I beg of you to call me a thousand, billion, trillion times, tell me that you want me, too, just me, only me, that you love just me, only me. Babe, I'll write your name times infinity between each phrase, I will love you more than you love me, and you'll drown, fire child, in my love. you'll hiss, I'll cool you down, but I will not ***** you.

  For I am just a candle.

  And you're the flame that takes me away.
sometimes I just feel like writing, and that's okay. usually, it isn't much. I struggled with a title for this, so I just started to write until it was okay again. I think that some of these things don't really make sense, but I scramble to hold the things I write. They escape a lot. I read this to her out loud, she said that she had never been compared to a flame, not like this. she said that her ex compared her eyes to the ocean, so when I said, "they are not the ocean, not something to jump into" she smiled. that made me happy to know, that I did something like this right.

I edited this a lot after reading it to her, and after listening to what she said. I apologized. I told her "Yeah... Yeah, apologize. Words are ****. But that's all I have. Yknow? I'm sorry. I'm sorry for assuming that I knew you, for saying that "I get it" even though I couldn't possibly get it. I'm sorry that you're losing yourself, and that I twist your words when you try to talk about me, or about your ex's, or about anything. I'm sorry that I'm one of the people around you that's always ******* up their arm. I'm sorry that you think I won't love you unless you're funny. I'd love you even if you were a tomato. I'd love you even if you were coffee. I'd love you even if you were my worse nightmare. I'm sorry that I got mad, I didn't understand, I'll try to be better with that. I'm sorry that I took you listening to music as you not wanting to talk to me, I forgot that you have other things. You're more than what meets the eye, I'm sorry I forgot that, I'm sorry I assumed things. I'm sorry that I won't understand your mind, I only ask that you help me try. I'm sorry for shutting you down. And mostly I'm sorry that you think I never changed from my past, that I'm still toxic, that you don't doubt I'll cheat or have. I haven't. I won't. I'm sorry that I'm toxic, I'll fix it, I'll get better. I'm sorry that I said I tell you things that everyone knows. I'm an open book, like you said I'm easy to read. I shouldn't have said it in that way, truly I have nothing to hide. I'm sorry that I keep repeating my past mistakes. I'm sorry. And I love you."
She was supposed to call me, but she didn't get the chance to. it's almost three in the morning, I'm pretty sure she's sleeping. I'm very glad she is, though, because I know her insomnia has made it really rough on her.
anyhow, enjoy yet another one of my entries.
would you even call what I write poetry?
Paul S Eifert Nov 2012
The houses of my Babylon lean upon each other.
They will not fall, not until the last hard hand
quits the last hammer, not until misfortune
loses prey, not until the least last child
is gently packed in wool and sent to play.
Sooner will you hear their see-saw hinges wail.
Will you then ask of them a song of home?

The windows of the houses of my Babylon
lay bear the walls around them. Who but gray
grandfathers marking time press their noses
to the glass? The visions of their lonely vigils
fade, half life unrecorded, shadows on parade,
whispered secrets kept secret. You will never know
with what intent they overlook your passing through.

Rain tears on the windows of the houses
of my Babylon, the bath of unattended panes
dropped free from heaven. They will not wash
clear. They will ever wear the haze of tainted air.
You think this stain the mark of unrepentant sin.
Who, then, gives the absolution of so many
brown-burned fingers that will not scrub up?
murari sinha Sep 2010
…thus riding on a memory-bicycle those people who used to go to pick up dry straws, grasses, twigs from the daily-wage of the squirrels  are neither the husband of any wood nor the wife of any wood-apple … at the best they may be one page full of must-dos regarding keep-fit practice of one’s health…

around the grazing field of the night-gowns
in course of a long-journey by train one has to cross
so many grass-hopper-points

one-piece of life is this

in its daily hopping to pick up the pebbles of
which is the amplification of what
the bodies of all prose and poems are touched with
by the sunshine… by the wind… by the rain…by the water

it-may-be-for-you afternoon
is running

running
is the people after the office-break

running are the broken people

the sullen public
due to late-running of train

before the darkness sets in
on bare branches of the tree
clusters of crows
are running

forward steps of the return-home people
are running

many invitations has been remained
unattended … accumulating…

accumulating…
so much anger… many secret pains… tears…

the life is running
in the  rows of the flying birds

the life is running
in the meat-houses…
in the shopping-malls…
in the churches…
in the wheat-fields…

running … running … running…

salad poetry and salsa-dance
are also running…

in the letters of the alphabet…
in the swarm of mosquitoes…

from William Shakespeare
to Rabindranath Thakur

the sky is running …
the air…
the sunlight…
C E Ford Jan 2018
"You look like love,"
she said one night,
cold with the
whispers of winds
on old cobblestone
and hushed
footsteps
of snow-covered
boots.

He stopped
in his tracks,
the cherry of
his cigarette
pulsing
like the colors
of a spinning
satellite
lightyears away
from their newly-found
lives.

"What does love
look like?"
he asked,
syllables hanging
close to his face,
blue eyes
darting
from her lips
to her hands
and back again.

But he knew.
He knew from the first
time he shook her hand
and saw the
sweat glisten off her
brow,
and listened to her
listless stories
of how summer
never truly loved her,
that one day
he truly would.

She smiled,
lips cracking
from the dry air,

"It looks like an
overflowing sink,
fresh with bubbles
from soapy dishwater
left unattended
to waltz in the kitchen.

It looks like ice
cracking
to the sweet smoke
of scotch
and the divot
on the couch that
sinks our thighs
and the thought
of any afternoon plans
deep
in crevasses
we're both too sleepy
to crawl out of.

It looks like all
the things
the world
took from me
and promised
it would never give back,
but instead packaged
in a
candle
bright enough
to illuminate
all the dark places
and remind me
that even though
others have treated me
like a
flicker,
I'm truly a
flame."
Love poetry is hard, but this came out easy.
Essen Dossev Apr 2017
We didn’t sleep that night
the fire burning in our eyes,
our lungs filled with smoke and ash.

We didn’t have the heart to put it out.

No, we didn’t have the heart to **** it,
but we didn’t dare leave it unattended.
At some point we'd resolved
to let it die off on its own – but
we didn’t have the heart for that either.

All night we fed the flames
with stories told in delirium-states,
our truths embedded in fictions
occasionally exploding in crackles.

All night we circled the fire-pit
in ritualistic and futile attempts
to escape the capricious winds.

All night the flames danced hypnotic
while the waves on the shore sang lullabies:
homicidal, tempting melodies of sleep.

But,
when the morrow broke the sky
and faint blue crept in,
when the clouds gasped
coloured in superfluous reds and oranges,
when the last flicker finally puffed out
and we could at long last close our eyes,
there,
eternally etched,
we would still see the flames
burning under our eyelids.
usagi Feb 2021
my coffee grows cold
as did my love
Indiana May 2019
Are you human?
A CAPTCHA
To sort human form software
Just read warped letters
Recognize overlapping characters
Decipher obfuscated text
And that's it!
Is that it?
Does it prove I'm a human?
Despite...
Being unattended at home
Being neglected amongst peers
And suffering  all the cat calling and street harassment
May be?
May be not?
As for me...
Am I a human?
Well, I remember being one
But
I am not sure
anymore...
Each time the website ask me to prove that I am a human, it is astonishing to see how easy it is and how hard is that...
Daniel Handschuh Oct 2015
A bird glides gracefully whilst the discolored leaves are aflutter
   In the wind that rocks the cold rotted wood of the window's shutter;
   All while the obstructive trees cause the wind’s speech to stutter.
   Yet she still howls with an intense pressure on me chest; I can barely utter
   My feelings toward this heavy air of eeriness about me—
   Nearly as heavy as the insignificance in the noose of the tree—
   A decomposed mutilation of all that is good, hung for all to see—
   A shriveled neck and half-dissolved eyes that still long to be free—
   The blood long lost, the body now pale—why does it stress?
   Why is life in its eyes, why does it shrug off Death’s caress?
   And as the sun is fully blotted by the black clouds, unfatigued,
   A hot stench like the enhancement of rotten fruit—yet I am intrigued—
   Descends upon me with the force of a vise equipped with knives—
   ‘Tis the horror of what only the spirits of the dead can contrive.
  
   And visions—horrible visions!—overwhelm me and present terrors:—!
   Rain steadily falls and patters incessantly upon an accursed Earth;
   Surrounding the hanging man are graves—and so begins the second birth:—!
   The tombstones crack and crumble into hundreds of jagged stones;
   An earthquake manifests quickly, and violently rattled my bones
   And remorselessly disembowels the Earth of the trees’ roots;
   Suddenly far more prominent is the awful stench of the fruits;
   An unsettling revelation is brought to my undivided attention:
   The tombstones’ collapse and the earthquake are not in relation,
   But the earthquake is a result of monsters unleashing their power.
   And the tombstones—but what of the tombstones’ fall?
   Startled, I see that replacing the hanging man is a voodoo doll,
   Dancing with its tiny limbs and smiling nonstop, locking its black eyes
   On my horrified self; I cringe and tremble in this demonic guise.
   A screeching note erupts from its unmoving mouth; it hovers in the air
   While I am frightfully dehumanized by the doll’s inexorable stare.
   While the screech lingers, the wet soil of the graves shifts quietly,
   The noise of splitting, wet dirt drowned out by the screech of cruelty.
   As it becomes clear the voodoo doll’s dance is one of conjuring,
   ’Tis revealed to me that the tombstones fell because of remembering:
   The dead do not believe they should be remembered, reflected upon...
   The second birth’s process is agonizingly long as I become wan.
   But before I nearly faint—and leave the visions—I receive an unwanted help:
   The doll’s gesticulations are directed toward me; even so, she raises Hell.
   My mind is frightfully clear to see all before me, and the dizziness has left.
   Oh, why these visions? Why with this horrible curse I am blessed?
  
   I am met with the most terrifying sight of all; my heart quickens.
   As the rain falls harder and begins to puddle, my blood thickens
   And very nearly ceases to flow as I watch the dead come to life.
   Gnarled fingers, some broken and some missing, ignore Death’s inflicted strife.
   Fingers—disjointed, protruding in random directions, treelike;
   Grime under the fingernails—fingernails, chipped or long spikes;
   Hardly any flesh on the old, ***** bones; muscles dripping off.
   Bodies, mutilated by natural decomposition, burst with raging coughs
   From the eviscerated Earth, black with age, red with dried blood.
   The dead, limping and holding what organs they still have, slip in the mud,
   Fall, fill their empty ribcages with it, and scream as limbs are torn away;
   Scream, as they are free from the grave, the path that led them astray.
  
   Oh, the feelings of dread that are eroding my scarred mind!
   What awful horrors have I stumbled upon, what did I find?
   One undead woman is staring at me with unfortunately soulless eyes;
   A few long hairs messily fall from her shriveled head, infested with flies,
   And her eyes—oh, her eyes!—are as small as raisins, wrinkly and white;
   They hover in her sockets, the skull only half-covered—pure fright!—
   With dead skin. Why is her toothless skull grinning mischievously?
   Is she enjoying my terror that leaves my trembling grievously?
   Abruptly, the still, deformed grotesquerie releases a sickening gurgle
   And violently shakes, as if under some overwhelming mental struggle.
   Her jaw falls open, unattended from the necessary muscles’ absence,
   And screaming laughter flows out of her agape mouth; malevolence
   Seeps from it in the form of pitchy black smoke and tightens the air.
   And all the while is still her unfailing, gut-wrenching stare!
   Her chest, dilapidated from the Earth's engulfment of her, explodes—
   A black skeletal hand, emerging from the body that was its abode—
   A demon, a black skeleton, blood gushing from its mouth, fire in its eyes—
   And tattered wings spread as the screamer takes to the hellish skies.
   It hovers around the dancing voodoo doll, circling her,
   Worshipping the smiling thing that was sewn with maleficence and fear.
  
   “But what are these things?” I ask as the undead congregate.
   “Is this how horrible life will be beyond Hell’s gates?”
   But it is made revealed to me that the people are eternal
   Inhabitants of Hell—Hell inside me; the spiritual realm is internal.
   “Why do they gather around the doll and bow in submission?”
   But, to my dismay, there is no answer to this deathly war of attrition.
  
   “Vultures!” I hear, a thunderous, wicked voice from up above.
   “You do not know what you are to believe, or what to love!”
   The dead dance in slow, uncoordinated movements, circling
   The doll. Even the shadows ominously flicker, no longer lurking.
   The black demon floats and gestures to the moaning dead,
   Beckoning them to rise from their permanent deathbeds
   To chant and flail their measly arms in worship of the voodoo.
   What have I done to be cast into this dangerous world askew?
   “You are a vulture, searching helplessly for something to feast
   “When the desperate hunger is turning you into the demons’ beast.
   “And when the food is gone, you search for your next dying idol.
   “For you, the inevitable conquest for falsities will never be final.”
  
[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]
  
   The room of a once peaceful dwelling is a victim of an apocalypse:—
   ‘Tis as if it has mutated into the imagery of a drug’s dangerous trip:—
   The walls are bent in, threatening to collapse under the pressure;
   Books are shredded, shelves are upturned, and obliterated is the dresser;
   Blood drips from numerous cracks in the ceiling and paints the walls.
   ‘Tis many moments of being awestruck before I realize the mirror calls.
   Vision is blurry, a hollow ringing sings, and my surroundings fade.
   My legs of jelly drag my heavy body into the dark hall’s shade.
  
   I yell at the sight in the cracked mirror, but my voice is painfully missing.
   It appears as if my entire face is losing its grip and is slowly slipping.
   Gravity’s grappling hooks have taken a strong hold and are pulling.
   The entirety of my eyes is almost visible from the disturbing lack of coverage.
   My jaw refuses to rise back up, as if the muscles have lost their leverage.
   It adds to the terror—how unsightly I am! How revolting!
   I am no longer human but an otherworldly, disgusting being!
   A scream that is not my own bursts from my agape mouth and shatters the mirror.
   It deafens my ears like a knife; I feel the fiery tearing of my vocal cords.
   “Vulture,” I vaguely hear but clearly curl my dry, thin lips to.
   “Go, find your food, find your idol, bathe in what you think is true.”
   Violently, desperately, crashing into walls with wild, uncontrollable limbs,
   I purposelessly search for the spirit that will welcome my immovable sins.
Yes, it's gory and has some disturbing elements in it, but I use these to instill certain emotions into the readers. On other forums, I'm known for how frankly I put my words, so if you enjoyed this, expect me to post more without being afraid to say anything.
Poetic Artiste Mar 2015
You told me I could pour my all out to you,
I trusted you,
Even when I saw you, yourself—are punctured.
How can I pour all my secrets into a damaged jar?
Paul Roberts Feb 2011
On the table , over there by the woven chair,
a box of prize possesions still line up there.
Left unattended, as if in a rush...
something is now missing...something he used to touch.

Let us flip the page of time, perhapes a few days back.
Count the items that were in the box, perhapes something
is a lack.
A ball of string, so carefully rolled, a coin with faded date.
A photo of a lovely girl and a flag of the United States.
A ring  and then a whisp of hair, human one would hope
and then a little soldier of tin , the hero of the show.
This tin soldier had seen the world, in the hands of the holder.
Seen him slip and fall, civilian and a soldier.
Listens to him as he thinks. Stands by as he cried.
Looked away when words were cursed, felt warm when he saw him smile.
The night was all as usual, the holder had been gone for a few days.
He entered ,sat down at the chair, all seemed normal one would say.
First came out the flag, quite moments would follow that.
Then the photo, ring and hair, normally the holder would sit back.
This time the holder knelt by the fire and the tin soldier strained to see,
the holder cried more then usual, the tin soldier wondered what could it be.
Then came a string of curses and a rush of air,
the tin soldier was caught up in the moment, quite unprepared.
As he layed to close to the flames, he felt his time draw near.....
the final moments as he left he could see the holder clear......

So now the room is empty. The table left untouched.
The holder left and never returned, he had lost all so much.
Tin soldiers they say are a dime a dozen, funny, kind of like us.
It's how we are lined up for the play, what we see or touch... the tin man melts away...we return to dust.
Paul Roberts: Fade
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2014
Reworked and resubmitted, and this time to stay.
Anything you say can and will be used...


excited utterances,
acerbic witticisms,
utter stupidities,
elegant inanities

can and most assuredly
will be used
evidentially, eventually,
about you
in the court of poetic
justice

as inspiration,
original source material,
proofs of our collaboration
with the enemy,
whom Pogo
fathomed long ago, is
us

a Vermeer-vectored light ray
will reveal with luminous clarity,
all that you have spoken,
been secret-thinking,
template of colors for
future etch-a-sketchers,
inspiration for future poets,
far, far better than
me

this dishonorable, low repute,
poetic eavesdropper,
poet-as-recorder:
revels in the smoke and ash of
absurd, common sensible
trash,

the trite and tragic,
the pith and prissy,
the calm and hissy

all your lovely revelations
of human frailty
and asininity,
most adorable,
(except for those scarface
treatises I despise as
never justified
self-pity)

that you n' I are blessed
to have combinated
in a manner most
curiously original,
now recorded in my
digital memory,
proving positive the unique,
discreet charmes de notre
humanité

Even your silences are
most curious fodder,  
the sighs you sigh
so hard
and yet again, even
harder

unfair game, mined as
veins of golden material
for my aquatic scribblings,
as I float downriver on
currents of compulsion
to promote vicariously,
our joint disjointedness,
our grade A, prime choice,
recombinant and genetically improved
absurdities

Rembrandt will honor us,
we as the Comedic Elders of the City,
paint us upright
avec expressions most suitably gravitas,
but see the poetic jester,
funning underneath the table,
in manner most levitas,
out-sticking his
protubered tongue,
like a common geni-***,
a la maniere de
Einsteiny
and he will be
the one
future generations recall

when I cross over the Styx,
limbs turned to
potash, dust and trash,
my blush transferred to earth,
to color the good earth red,
my body eradicated yet,
our body of work extant
a written record of us,
our very own
Dead See Scrolls,
shall be an amuse bouche
for our loyal satrapped
retainers

Let the scholars

dicker and obfusicate,
delve and explicate,
each turn of phrase

write tomes on the
catacombs, where in
jar and cracked vessel discarded,
these Poems and Catechisms,
the collected processes
of our mutualism,
your edicts,
pronouncements and verdicts
captured as
dots and dashes,
zeroes and ones,
wait most patiently
for shepard boys to find  
in the year 2300

you err most grievously,
if you relegate
this note
to the dustbin of
simple ditties.

take these words
at plain face,
and
look not askance
at this fair warning,
for I am
but a tragic,
empty vessel
for you to fill,
you are the raconteur,
me, just a  
poet poseur~extraordinaire,
street urchin,
word merchant,
all my verbally,
wordly goods expropriated
from the wind,  
where your scattered thoughts
lie about, carelessly
unattended

Mock me not,
for anything
you say to our chagrin,
will be fully attributed
and recorded on the Web
of long-lived
embarrassments

A fevered dream
you might say,
rumors and excuses of a
vision of drug induced haze?

a theorem most plausible,
but the redacted versions
will not conceal
that all my words
were Indo-rooted in
a dialect called
collaborative

this I pen
partly as apology,
partly thank you note,
written notice,
subpoena served,
for as long
as you emote,
my fingertips
will gleefully record
with love abundant
in their artful device,
your mutterings, putterings,
and in-cahooting

right here, shall be,
wrought and wrote,
treasured and kept
anything you say
that can and will be used...
to express our communitas

Written June 1, 2011
Barton D Smock Jun 2013
as a father, I can’t imagine being a parent.  the inside fastballs of my youth loosen the blood in my nose and water fountains become locales of low tragedy.  consistency is a sense only grasshoppers make.  as a firstborn, I was set gingerly on a swing.  when my father’s bare feet left him they became fish.  hiding from my mother is as good for her self-esteem now as it was then.  some no higher than my knee seek violent alternatives.
b e mccomb May 2023
it's four pm sunday afternoon
and in an unforeseen
turn of events
i'm awake

guess i've slept so long
i couldn't nap away
one more
afternoon

remembering how on friday
waiting at the bus stop
a library employee
walked up to me and said

"would you
like a poem?"
and handed me
a note card

and on it was printed
a poem
and a reminder that
april was national poetry month

it reminded me
what i've known for far too long

that there are words inside me
clawing tooth and nail

trying to get out
and i have to let them

so today it's
sunday afternoon
and i'm thinking about how
sunday afternooons
aren't what
they used to be

they started out in
the backseat of a
blue dodge van
crammed between my brothers
npr on the radio
i hated car talk
but loved to hear the way
my dad laughed at what
couldn’t possibly be jokes
not since it wasn’t funny

but after car talk came
prairie home companion
garrison keillor's gravel
serenade of life in
lake woebegone
static bluegrass
the drama
of guy noir
the hilarity of
tom keith and fred newman
playing ping pong with
airplanes dive bombing overhead

winding up around the lake
through the corn fields
until we got
to grandma’s house

afternoons turned into
evenings and i would fall
asleep in the backseat
on the way home
staring upside down out the
window at the incandescent
orange street lights
barely bright enough to cast more
light than the stars
treetops dissolving into the dark sky

i always thought it was
fascinating how it everything
looked different from that
angle in the dark

sunday afternoons turned into
dashing around
the church grounds
unattended
picking up deer bones in the
back lot and throwing them
into the pond
eventually removing screens
from windows and
climbing out onto the roof

we got older
turned into teenagers
lazy summer days
a memory so
soaked in sugary
pink lemonade mix
i can't help but scrape my teeth
remembering the taste of
citric acid and innocence

how we thought we were
so grown up
but i'd give anything to be
that kid again

i wish we’d gone
on more trips to the mall
before the shops were dead husks
a fallen ozymandias
to the promise of capitalism
when there were shoe stores
and book stores and a
radio shack and a gertrude hawk

we would spend ages in the
bath and body works
smelling and calculating
how much body spray
we had to buy between ourselves
to get the most out of our coupon
exchanging the bills and bottles
in the food court across from the sears
years and years
before it would become a post
apocalyptic vaccination center of
folding chairs and masked queues

before i lost them
to the split paths
adulthood takes
us all down

i wish i'd known what
i know now
that no matter how bad
it feels in my own head
it's never a death sentence
it will come and go

i wish i’d known
that none of it would last

sunday afternoons
the in-between
washing my hair
while my friends
went with my parents
to church

i don't go to church
don't think i ever will again
even though i wonder
if the sense of community would help

it's sunday afternoon
but it's not how sunday
afternoons used to be
with johnny cash on a loop
as i lost myself in
empty cardboard boxes
straight lines of
dusty wine bottles
shattered pints of
gin on gritty concrete

sunday morning
coming down
but it never felt like
coming down
it felt as close to peace
and quiet as i could get

sunday afternoons
turned to hazy piles of
navy duvet and
dr teals scented sheets
but i can’t do that anymore
i’ve wasted enough time
trying to sleep out
my own thoughts

so i'm trying to
let myself remember
let the words out
one afternoon at a time

something about this
sunday afternoon
feels like how
they used to be

an indigo country playlist
on the tv
all alone
with my herbal tea
the candle burning is
lilac and violet
i'm starting to think
i could find a way to heal

i'm not writing this poem
for it to be good
i'm writing it because if i don't
i might slip down with
the raindrops into the drainage grate
never to be seen again

i have to let my past
wrap itself into my future
or i'll lose the parts of
myself that brought me to here

there’s something about
having the window open
while it rains that tells me
it’s going to be all right
something about how the
library bells still ring
just off the hour
that reminds me

how time passes
how sunday afternoons
have changed
and i’m sure they
will change again soon
and what a relief that is
copyright 4/30/23 by b. e. mccomb
And you as well must die, beloved dust,
And all your beauty stand you in no stead;
This flawless, vital hand, this perfect head,
This body of flame and steel, before the gust
Of Death, or under his autumnal frost,
Shall be as any leaf, be no less dead
Than the first leaf that fell,—this wonder fled.
Altered, estranged, disintegrated, lost.
Nor shall my love avail you in your hour.
In spite of all my love, you will arise
Upon that day and wander down the air
Obscurely as the unattended flower,
It mattering not how beautiful you were,
Or how beloved above all else that dies.
Kanika Mishra Aug 2013
Never did I believe
In a soul so spotless that it glistens,
So pure that it lights up
the darkest sorrows within me –
sets them aflame, you see,
leaving behind naked joy
No different from a Phoenix;
Winged, innocent, radiant.

Never once did I believe
that my heart could bleed
itself dry for another –
at the pain I caused them
or at the pain life did,
as life has a way of doing
To the most beautiful of souls
In its quest for balance.

Never once did I believe, you see,
In all this and much more
Until the day I grew up
And saw you for who you were –
My guardian angels
Disguised under layers of skin
And love, and concern, and kindness
And the faces of my Mother and my Father.

Never did I feel so worthless,
As the day I looked long and hard
At you, and then at myself,
Wondering what I ever could have done
To deserve love in such abundance
Love with so much selfless abandon
Love, so unconditional;
What I ever did to deserve the both of you.

Never did I once believe in prayer
Or that all we had to do was ask,
But I find myself defying
Every last belief we share
In the hopes that someone up there listens
And puts you out of your pain
That you go back to being my healthy, happy Father,
The one no sorrow could ever have touched.

As for you, who’s reading this,
I implore you to pray,
Pray for a Father who makes me believe
In the beauty of a man’s heart
For his sickness may not be fatal,
But it bothers him nonetheless
And of all the things I cannot let pass by unattended,
Their discomfort is foremost.
karin naude Feb 2014
season's come and go
my yin yang remains constant
through rain and sun
through death and life
the compass remains fixed
frozen in place
searching for a horizon whose existence is uncertain
my famine and abundance
once leveled the scale
now my famine is overwhelming
like drowning but not able to die
but forced to relive the process of death repeatedly
plagued by the natural need for love
it cannot be removed, destroyed, ignored or exchanged
left unattended it grows desperate equaling to enslavement
still sea worthy i follow my compass
hoping for the storm to end and the shore to appear
i no longer wish for the treasure just the glow of land

a dream
a wish
a star that dies in the black sky
unknown, lost among the billions and billions
never to be remembered

— The End —