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This Week's Featured Poems

 1      

You walk barefoot through my mind

You are everything
	that I am not
the strength of my life
the  pulse of my heart

flowing
	in my veins
bleeding
	when I am cut

You walk barefoot
through my thorny mind
the softness of your footfalls
disarms my defenses

tendering
	my wars bloodless
hushing
	mind-storms waveless

You walk naked
without innocence lost
a calming psalm
in my apocalyptic mind

healing
	all of my hurts
recovering
	all that I've lost

You walk unafraid
through grey-lit corridors
your deep dark eyes
unnerving my green flint gaze

Your curiosity unlocked
my childhood diary
turning  each page
by wisps of your breath

Running your fingers
over every letter and word
every sight unseen
every sound unheard

I was everything
	that you were not
but you still loved me
	and sought me out


Your touches
	sculpted me from stone
Your eyes
	gave me sight
Your kisses
	gave me breath
Your stillness
	moved my being
Now your tears
	fall from my eyes
Your cries
	fall from my tongue
Your presence
	enlivens my heart
Your soul
	redeems my unworthiness

I love you deeply
I am forever yours
for you are everything
	that I am not

For the love of my life
geo v  2014


Copyright © Word Hobo | Year Posted 2017

The student bold

A student bold from Abbyfeale
Who feared no Ghost nor Ghoul
Hitched home one night from Dublin
Where he did go to school

The night was dark and eerie
No moon or stars in the sky
It was now past the midnight hour
As the cars did pass him by

"Will I be here all night" he moaned
He was somewhere past Mountrath
I spent my train fare on booze
I should never have done that

Just then he saw two headlights flash
A car had halted near
He took the seat by the drive kind
He was now of good cheer

Then he saw, as the car moved on
The drivers’ eyes shone strange
The student bowed his head and asked the Lord
His circumstance to change

"I was a drunken driver"
The man at the wheel did say
A drink too many has me doomed
To drive this motorway

I ride this highway endless nights
Seeking students well
Those who spent their train fare on the booze
And I carry them off to Hell

The student bold dashed from the car
And spent the night in a barn
Don’t spend your train fare on booze
Is the moral of this yarn

Copyright © William Finn | Year Posted 2019

Her engaging essence

On Valentine my girlfriend asked me what she really mean to me... And I answered - 


You're the air I breathe 
The blood in my veins
The sunshine in dark
The happiness in pain 

The rhythm in my heart 
The charm on my face
The glitter in my eyes
The thought in my brain 

The place I live 
The ocean I dive 
The book I read 
The story I write 

The path I walk 
The shadow alongside 
The beat I dance 
The moon at night 

The song I sing 
The beauty I admire 
The teddy I hug
The woman I aspire 

The attitude I wear 
The moment I miss 
The stars in the sky 
The dream I live 

The tale I listen 
The secret I keep 
The calm in my soul 
The love I seek 

The equation of my life 
The chords I play 
The bed to my romance 
The zeal of my day

The lyrics I ink 
The picture I click 
The coffee to my morning 
The topping I pick 

The chocolate to my waffle 
The sky I see 
The game I bet 
The sip of my tea 

You're the kiss I treasure 
The promise I keep 
The red of my rose 
You're all what I need

I love you darling

Copyright © Vikash Kaushik | Year Posted 2019

Bear

Bear My dog Bear sweet, kind, and protective Always taking care of his family Putting down his life to save ours Has everything for the job Bravery, Kindness, Love and Helpfulness Thankful for him Best dog ever His name Bear

Copyright © Vasili Johnson | Year Posted 2019

End

The whole idea of it makes me feel
Like I'm trying to hold sand.
I clench my hand tight.
Each grain falls.
We are grains of sand
On an unending beach.
The ocean washes us all away.
Like a sandcastle the human mind is beautiful,
But crumbles under the weight of infinity.

Life.
An unforgiving universe.

One day my father sat me down.
A beam of sunlight illuminating the darkness,
Specks of dust helplessly floating through.
Light drafts scattering them at random.
Nana died, he said.
I look to the dust.

Death.
A distant concept.

I held the world in my palm.
My oyster.
I, the pearl.

Fall.
Like dust.

Copyright © Stanley Hudson | Year Posted 2019

Un-mother

I thought it was the rage I feared
underneath my hurt
underneath the pain 
of being un-mothered

I pushed down the anger - 
rationalized
intellectualized
normalized -
life as a child
with an un-mother

to avoid a rage I feared would destroy me … or her…. or …

a burning, white-hot, fist-punching, legs kicking, eyes blazing, feet stomping, full body rage

how could I not have seen
below the rage?
the tiny steps,
the slumping body,
the hung head,
the heaviness
of grief

a grief for being un-mothered

a grief that threatens to undo me

Oh! if only I had stopped at rage.

Copyright © Ruth Hawkins | Year Posted 2019

I Can Only Dream for so Long

When the earth came to me, 
I was just a sweet and tender young girl. 
Falling in love, in the sweet heart of summer, 
always seemed like the right thing. 
What I am supposed to do. 
What feels right. 
To meet him, under the honey dripping palms of Charleston, 
or to see him, hiking through the dense jungle of roaring trees in Roanoke. 
To smell him
oh boy, that smell, 
that sun-ripe, peach marmalade, smell. 
Home. 
Yet I can only dream of it. 
Of his cherry pie like good mornings, 
and of his moon glow goodbyes. 
I can only dream of his heart, 
his smooth, 
warm, 
heartbeat. 
I feel like I could jump rope with his heartbeat keeping perfect rhythm. 
Yet I dare to dream. 
I dare to feel and to love. 
And honey, oh sweet honey, my love, I can only dare to dream of you. 
Your perfect head and calloused fingers, 
because you, 
you are only a dream. 
A dream that has yet to come true. 




Copyright © Rory Wainwright | Year Posted 2019

'32 Ford Five Window

An old hulk sitting on barren land.
Many times it was sold and bought.
A '32 Ford Five Window,
now all rusted and left to rot.

At one time this old car was new.
At one time it was washed every week.
At one time it was waxed and shined,
before it became an antique.

Changed hands many times in its life.
The next buyer was proud of his find.
With each new owner, it became more worn.
It's condition in a state of decline.

A boy in grade school at his desk.
His young mind starting to wander,
A hot rod he saw while driving with dad,
when he yelled, hey son, look over yonder!

The young boys eyes as big as saucers.
A car like that he would drive one day.
He would build it himself and win trophies
in car shows at the local cafe.

He spent days drawing his hotrod.
Drawings to show how it would look.
Drawings were made of each part.
Drawings he kept in his hot rod book.

As a teen, he worked three jobs,
saving money to build his dream car,
He sold everything he cared about,
even his cherished old Gibson guitar.

It was winter and bitterly cold,
while driving through ice and deep snow.
Among scrap metal and objects of rust,
he saw it, a '32 Ford Five Window.

The car that once was new.
The car that gave all its owners pride.
The car that was dumped in a field.
Would become a kid's dream ride.

Copyright © Robert Morris | Year Posted 2019

Architecture and motherhood

You feel like a design problem I am working on, 
whose submission date is not yet fixed, by indecisive studio professors, 
who want us students to work, just a tad bit more.

On nights before a pre-final, like a tracing full of ideas yet to be finalised, 
you have the power of lingering in my subconscious,
making me jump out of intermittent sleep
Each night, to engage with you.

No paper to draw on, you draw from me what is yours now.

No name plate either; for your loved ones use sounds and words 
borrowed from seven languages whose alphabets cannot be lettered.

I wipe your eye secretions, tears and milk stains after a feed,
and your face becomes a completed cartridge sheet;
smudge free with a few guide lines.

Your few hair strands I comb so they settle paralelly
like meticulous brick and stone hatches drafted within walls.

Every once in a while, I stick my ear to the floor to watch 
an exactly angled ray of sunlight works its magic on a sleeping you.

A roughly 1:3 scaled model of who you may be in 20 years, stares back at me;
your myriad expressions, changing by the millisecond.

Surprised, I have an obscenely satisfying thought that crosses my mind;

Did I just happen to create you?

Copyright © Pooja Ugrani | Year Posted 2019

Fragmented thoughts

My fractured head, my rough- hewn eyes
Dismembered parts of a dissociated mind
My body severed like Kandinsky’s art.
Spread across a canvas
Corner to sharp corner
Leave no space unfilled 
But nothing touches, 
Nothing resembles its former self
Yet all pieces can see all others
Contained for now 
Within the borders of a frame
But floundering in a cosmos of 
A jagged life.
Let all the pieces land.
Ephemeral in the sand
Here today, gone tomorrow, 
 But no, it seems a sharded edge must cut another slice of day
Bring in a cello, a vase of deathly violets
Obscurise them, nothing can be what it was
From the Old Order must be drawn a New Meaning 


Copyright © Peter Hackwell | Year Posted 2019

The one Time

in the cage of shadows
by the birches cast
  your red raincoat 
         wetly shines
Papers and clouds of dreams are stuck to the 
benches and the iron railings
 awasy in the fading sky, 
  I look at you
the way a child 
  sees the circus
for the first time
  

the window where we meet
         tries to steal the candy colors
of your coat 
  but it can/t
      
   You're nothing special, though
       a normal heart
filled with the ocean and
       a million golden clocks,
            amethysts and
        a harvest moon.

Just an ordinary Goddess,
    swirling, among the world
             with unmuted plumage
           when you kiss my cheek and leave
                it burns and lingers like
                      a hot shell casing
                among the smoke and noise
                        inside of me.
Posted by p.love at 3:17 PM No comments: Links to this post    
FRIDAY, MARCH 16, 2018
He died one day
     For three minutes
Not days
   A machine was
Prepared,
  But not ready
        For a while it
Was winter light
     Through an oceanic window
The loud congress of
   Birds’ Shadows and
Velvet black indigo
       The surprising cast
Of their kind, amber eyes
      
    Welcome back
Sputtering and
  Cut
Where everything hurts
  And nothing
Makes sense
  He cries
Like a child
     Missing
Christmas

Copyright © Paul Love | Year Posted 2019

Senryu

Tanka/Senryu

Football playoffs, post- holiday sales
Ocean breezes, surfers.
Golf tournament, balmy weather
State employee pushes wrong button
Incoming ballistic missile scare.

Copyright © Oliver McKeithan | Year Posted 2018

A - Anarchy

A. Anarchy

Amber autumn aflame
An aroma of ash appeases the adamant arsonist; the artful anarchist
An audacious attempt at attacking back at our arbitrary accommodations
The ascended advocate us to abide as they affirm their advancement through annihilation 
An abstract artifice, artificial affirmation of all aspects
Treated like an array of aliens in our allowed acropolis with the armor turned against us
Most amused with their asinine aspirations and amaurotic attractions
A few too apprehensive to argue and ask for an alternative, afraid of any altercation
But the agitated and annoyed assemble, ascertaining truth through awareness at every angle
Amateur acts of anger arise and accelerate, accompanying their adverse assault on our amendments
The alliance ablaze and amassing, anticipating an apocalyptic ambush
Absolution remains absent and anger becomes anxiety among those abandoned
The affluent assure abolishment for the average and all under

Copyright © North Calantoni | Year Posted 2019

Death in the Nighttime

Some people are afraid of going outside,
Because they messed up and they have no guide
Prowling dogs, waiting, watching for a time to strike,
They’re just trying to buy themselves a motorbike
All the hate, where does it come from, Insecurities?
Maybe we all have a false sense of security?
But how will we know if the only side we see
Is the media with their far-fetched hyperboles

Death is right outside of my door
The only way I’m avoiding it is staying in my drawer
People seeking me out to get famous
Sometimes I think all of this is contagious
One falls and then another and another
All I wanted to see was my little brother

What do they get out of it except to say
That was me, the one with a gun on Champs-Élysées
Let’s take, for example, a rapper with a few tattoos
Only trying to tell us “live the life that we choose”
He became so famous he told everyone to look at him
They sure did, gunned down on a whim
LLJ, the rapper from Plantation
Is now being ferried by Charon

Death is right outside of my door
The only way I’m avoiding it is staying in my drawer
People seeking me out to get famous
Sometimes I think all of this is contagious
I know you were struggling your whole life with jealousy
But I just want you to know you left a legacy

Copyright © Neel Bhatt | Year Posted 2019



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