Sweep[ me off my feet
Walk me to the dance floor
Slide your hands on my arms
Shake me to my very core
Twirl me out bring me in
Hold me from the back
As we sway and we groove
Passion neither of us lack
Dip me so smoothly
As you kiss my neck
Pull me back up
My heart i must check
I crave you so much
Even from our very first glance
Fall into forever with me
As we indulge in love's dance
Copyright © April Mitchell | Year Posted 2013
Alphanumeric emergency is her agency of supremacy,
press your neck with a kiss ment for carniverous kinesthetics,
move you into a position of requisition, repitition aphyxiated with joy,
she can always be found on the border of banishment and bedlam,
bedevil you between hesitation & aggression, hug you inbetween love & anger,
place a soul betwixt a lamb and lion, orchestrate necessity with a natural nimbleness,
ask one to trample or tumble upon the question mark,
numb you as a plumb hung on a ledge too long,
she'll say thank you as your resources become a subject of ridicule
and when the lungs of childhood age with exhaustion from hailing her
more effort she will exhort, bite you on the fingertip of surrender
reminding us that glory is a growl from the jaws of jealousy,
earthy are her entanglements,
healthy her arrangements,
keep you searching for fragments on battlefronts -
Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2013
ode to shadows
as i peer out the glassed portières
penumbral visitations mock me; dare they
deign to scare this parched crypt of
adrenaline and cortisol, usurped by unquiet
scourges over lifetimes' rebirth?
steps shifting in the dark, familiar and
beloved; the shushing and stirring, commit
to draw me near; umbral amici and i
provide a panoply o'bosky trappings f'thee
a joinin' we, or off to obscure pastures
to wee thee pants for eternity!
Copyright © Kathryne Ankney Higheagle | Year Posted 2015
Dearest Poetry Angel,
When I came visiting today
I was in a gloomy mood.
Your poetry burst away my clouds
And a radiant rainbow appeared.
Thank you for sharing
Your divine gift with me.
From your fountain
Let more words of inspiration
Sparkle on us mere mortals.
Please give us more poems
Of your eternal meditation.
Pain in the heart
Is so easily contagious.
Delve I into the depth
To find no solution.
Running away from truth
Leads to further tribulation.
Seeking for salvation
Is beyond my aspiration.
Reliance on anyone
Is a bar I cannot cross.
Banks I find none
For my surging emotions.
My wild untamed desires
I cannot transform.
A dual life is what
I am perennially living
In reality and
In my castle of dreams.
Is hard to come by. I
Yet when I meet you
My heart contracts not.
My lips curl into a smile
And I start celebrating my life.
The clearest sky is above with
The rainbow coloured peacocks delicately dancing.
Dearest Poetry Angel I understand you not
Nor ever want to understand your sheer enigma.
Gudrun Kaur Mann
Copyright © Balveen Cheema | Year Posted 2015
< > My people in villages and surbabs
men and woman of all races sizes and shapes
from different back grounds and different life style
but one and only one common denominator
Jikinya,a joyful dance that expresses happiness
joy and greatfulness
good times and memories that last a life time
jikinya my people jikinya
jikinya for a new life,jikinya for the rains
for every God given gift and blessing
skies are covered with dust
in our rich undiluted mother tongue we sing
men thunder in deep voices
songs with massages that lingers
jikinya my people jikinya>
the grounds we dance up on
will never be barren
the rains will fall up on it and good grains will be ours
shouts and praises to the pure dance
a dance that liberates our spirits and ignites our bodies
filled with joy we explode
jikinya my people jikinya
Copyright © odeline chigwedere | Year Posted 2012
Twirling around and around in the Night Sphere
Creepy eyes that scream out for a Partner in Loungerie
6 and then Twenty
The Boogeymen of the night
Catching the souls of the departed in flight
Sending them to the loneliest corner of Hell
With a Dunce Cap on every head that read:
HERE YOU ARE STUPID..AMONG THE ZOMBIES AND THEIR DEAD
A quiet empty trio of fools who did not play it cool while they were alive
Who refused to submit to the booze,the Pot,and all that Open Up Jive
Sweethearts on the dance floor where the Dead party all without a smile
Takes us back to that Halloween Trick or Treat town,at least for a little while
Mothers swing their Fathers
The Grim Reapers do their do-si-do
Harper Valley 1-800-NEXT-OF-KIN
Biting Teeth on a Harker Jonathan
Sipping blood with a grinning Mina
She is lovely in that shade of dead
Vein vessel blood all around her neckTAR and thy Head
Here in the ram shackled Studio 50 for DEAD
Dancers are the Boogeyshoes
With one eye alive and the other socket popped out
Sleep Deadly tonight Beneath the full moon and the Tango of cold Harvest Fright
Copyright © Bart Jonas | Year Posted 2006
For now I see,
further than I have ever seen before,
beyond the twisting streets
and winding alley ways,
beyond rolling valleys
and desert plains,
that this world,
it permeates and lingers,
but through the eyes of an outsider,
watching beyond the perspective bias of time,
the world is formless,
where once space was empty,
there are planets, stars, nebulae and galaxies,
moving, dancing, expanding and dividing,
a star today,
this world is smoke,
nothing solid about it
and we ourselves are smoke as well,
the wind blows,
and we jump up and down exclaiming,
"we did that",
"I did that",
but the truth is the wind didn't come from us,
but merely passed through us,
our drives, our reasons, our choices,
all created in womb and by our environment,
created by a thousand wombs
just one big gust of wind,
that we are so excited to claim ownership of,
but really we are just riding,
like the planets
and the stars
and the nebulae
and the galaxies
are just smoke,
in the grand scheme formless
but in the moment,
a beautiful shape,
a gorgeous expression of atoms,
a living miracle.
Copyright © Oliver Gould | Year Posted 2015
You better be a little rich,
If you choose to make a pitch.
By bus or car you make the trip,
You've trained yourself just not to slip.
The agents sit; a motley crew,
A few may even look at you.
To them it's just the same old hat,
To find some meat stuck in the fat.
The writer wonders what they think,
Is he good or does he stink?
Most go home with little done,
Was this pitch just done for fun?
Copyright © Gary Kraidman | Year Posted 2013