My shadow flirts with the sun
As I caress the darkness
We are one and separate
As my shadow smiles
Anxiety suffocates me
The shadow will soon fade
I shall die
One happy, one not
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2017
Toilet Bowl Committee (aka: Uptown Hood)
A lavatory confinement
If you want to moderate this place, pick up the pace
From the mouth down to the @$$
Your so called kind has no class,
Fed by these political rejects, never elected for what was!
They wipe their assets clean with our dreams
Forgetting to wipe their own toilet seats clean
Trying to make us feel dirtier than scat
Feeding off our paper when their toilet bowl water level is low
Toilet bowl PO-poes, wiping without dental floss
Missing everything in between reality
Trying to be kind, saying "One Day We'll Be Good Enough!"
Offering their Golden Plunger,
straight from the Home Depot shelves
No Thank You! My plunger a true gift from Mr. Wal-Mart himself
Next time you feel the need to offer a reference point
Please caption your name when you drop by,
Rinse thoroughly when speaking my name,
Then I will listen when you talk civilized
Correct my punctuations and spelling errors
The weakest trait you wear
You are no Prophet, just white tissue turning brown
Your Justification comes from old dry grapes falling from the vines
Ridicule will never give you the respect, for what you are!
We, the few poets from the hood,
overpower any change you offer Goodwill
Crumbling and flushing what does not meet your standards
Trying hard to force feed us soup, without giving us bibs
Toilet Bowl Committee
For clogging up my drain with your bull$h!T
By: Keeping it Real (The Downtown Hood)
Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2014
I see the pain
Reflected via turquoise blue
Of the oceans hue
She stares out into the oceans depth
Her lover dead under the sea
The waves have made her destiny
I stare at her
From a hill above the shore
Her pain cripples me such
That I can not move
How can I love this woman so
The small of her back
Invites me to hold her
Caress her tears into the sea
The salt water offers comfort
Massaging her feet
The sun glitters with hopeful endeavors
That neither of us feels at all
I am in love with this woman
Since a wee child long ago
Her pain is my pain
Yet my guilt I carry alone
We both will stand hand in hand
To bury her husband
As I keep secret my love and desire
Only wishing her sadness to ebb
Into the sea that took hold of part of me
My brother I loved and honored
So on the hill above the shore
I stare at the woman I always adored
Oh brother forgive me my thoughts
As I wish to comfort your lovers broken heart
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015
I wrote a letter
With teardrops from my heart
I walk the streets of Antoinette
My mind dances with Baudelaire
Love flutters as the pigeon’s wings on statues
I see them, so close and feel the emptiness
Like the cold stone upon which their wings rest
My wine glass is empty
My veins are red like bloodshot eyes
I am tired
As I walk across the bridge of god
Over the seine
Notre dame stares back, am I insane?
Have I been alone all this time?
Perdu, in time, perdu inside my wine
Hidden words and lost letters
You shall never see
Tossed thoughts in salad dressings
Away away as the river decides to run
I look back inside black and white photos
How did I become this way
How did I become the stray?
Fallen spirit, burning heart
Completely and utterly torn apart
I stare at the Eiffel tower
A mighty spear, that pierces me
Into the million lovers of gay Paris
Angels weep, pain flows
The blood of time, the blood that becomes the wine
The pain, inside of me
For all the lost letters
Mother and father never did see
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015
Three pounds a month they
ask, save the Tiger, save the
Panda, save the Jaguar, save
the rain forest.
Three pounds a month for
the children's hospital and
for the save the children's
fund, the RSPCA, RSPB,
Cancer research, just, only
three pounds a month, now
my pockets are empty with
all these donations.
Our governments, they also
donate, mainly to the
FAT CAT SOCIETY
yes those poor sods who
caused the majority of man's
suffering with their greed and
Please just three pound a
month for the Daniel
Cheesemans poetry fund.
Copyright © Daniel Cheeseman | Year Posted 2010
Politics and Poetry – is hate really the answer
Why write a poem of hate about Trump
He’s been there just over a week
Though Hilary Clinton the people did dump
It still matters not what they seek
He cussed and he lied and they think that he cheated
While she was an angel for sure
Still not accepting that she was defeated
With her server on her basement floor
They say that this guy he don’t act Presidential
He talks like some dude in the hood
Just like a neighbor, a friend, residential
That proves then that he is no good
He lunges at beautiful women parading
This guy never can get his fill
Though they never minded the task of evading
Monica’s blue dress and Bill
I guess it just feels better when they are shouting
This terrible feeling they tote
To me it just seems like a big bunch of pouting
Perhaps some forgot how to vote
Now we see protesters clog up the city
Vulgar the words they do lob
If you ask me I would say it’s a pity
Why don’t these folks have a job
I’m guessing this problem, Trumps’ also to blame
No work must be fueling their fears
But wait now, I don’t think that he is the same
Who sat in that chair for eight years
They scream for the people his order is banning
This policy that they abhor
Though back when the Donald was happily tanning
Barrack did the same thing and more
He called it a pause, whispered, it’s temporary
Kept them from reaching our coast
In secretive silence this news he did carry
Always a wonderful host
But I don’t recall hearing people complaining
No “you are a racist” was heard
No hate escaped from some loud voices straining
Not even one single F-word
Now Schumer is weeping, his fake tears are falling
Crying, “This man is so mean”
Though not long ago old Chuck he was calling
For banning and vetting extreme
Both sides of his mouth to me it is sounding
Claiming that he’ll never quit
I’ve got a huge headache, my head it is pounding
Can anyone say hypocrite
But Donald, that creep, he made fun of a cripple
Waving his arms in the air
While I don’t remember it causing a ripple
When Obama, the same he did share
The laughter on Kimmel was on the floor rolling
The POTUS excuse I am sure
When the Special Olympics were said of his bowling
Their handicap tied to his score
But now we all find it’s a whole different story
Some didn’t get what they want
Cheering the sound of a Meryl Streep fury
While all the rest of us grunt
I didn’t cast not one vote for Obama
But accepted the office he won
Then didn’t whine and go cry to my mama
And think that the country was done
I never threatened to blow up the White House
Like some has been singer might do
Or paint on a sign about raping his spouse
That’s such a sick point of view
Yes you are welcome to have your opinion
Just try to use some restraint
And don’t try to change me, I won’t be your minion
Mine is a mind you can’t taint
Live and let live, now my penned invitation
Thank you if you stopped to glance
For I still am proud of this wonderful nation
Let’s give the new guy a chance
I am not very political and hardly ever include it in my poetry. But it is really starting to bother me the amount of hate that I see everywhere now about our President. The news, the internet and now hateful poetry. I get it that some don’t like the guy but if they don’t like someone at work or at school or at the mall or wherever, is attacking that person the answer? Is posting nasty things about them on the internet or social media the answer? Is destroying private property and threatening innocent people the answer? Is acting like a bunch of uncivilized, ignorant, uneducated, DEPLORABLE people the answer? I am sure I will lose most of my readers here because of this but fair is fair. They way I see it, the guy deserves a chance and if he messes it up, then I will say I was wrong.
“All we are saying, is give peace a chance” – John Lennon
Copyright © Chris Green | Year Posted 2017
Stranded in this place
I cannot recognize
Abandoned and lonely
No one hears my cries
AS i walk through this wasteland
Of wilderness and desolation
I am consumed with anguish
I walk this road with hesitation
On every turn that i come upon
The is more pain than at the last turn
Agony and torment spews from my pores
With every step i take more pain i earn
Until i am enveloped with grief
Buried alive on my feet
Dirt in my eyes,nose,mouth,and lungs
I throw up my flag of defeat
Each painful blow leaves behind a deep gash
That is constantly reopened never able to heal
Infection has now set into my heart
Slashes and scars on my body reveals the detail
Of the despair embedded deep in my soul
That tells a tale of a soul so lost
A soul wandering through this wilderness
A tale of what being born black cost
Copyright © April Mitchell | Year Posted 2013
He's staring off into oblivion;
dead-lights, who of their own free will choose to illuminate
the gray matter microwave that is TV:
too vain, too vulgar. Thought Vanquisher,
brought to you by your friendly-facade-keepers:
the politicians pussyfooting on a pedestal
built of an uninformed (yet united) public -
whose belief in "connection" is in reference
to a wall socket. Not love. Not kindness.
Who unwittingly become hamsters on a wheel,
convinced of stars held in our pockets; while promises of prosperity
dangle on a string. Like Maya's caged bird we sing
- but not of freedom - to sing of that would be akin
to declaring the sun has risen in the east. Freedom is a given,
at least that's the belief that's bandied about.
There's a boldface lie in that belief . . staring us in the face.
Are we too ignorant to see or too coddled to care?
Organic antenna, playing a fuzzy station;
our loved one's voice like a pesky fly -
six-legged silhouette on precious phones.
Halfhearted hmms-and-yeahs exuding from lazy lips. A lone
wolf, misunderstood youth - the euphemisms of today,
tomorrow's regrets. The diarrhea of words floating
in cyberspace; ricocheting off planets, but never touching earth.
The constipation of passion - nonchalant bloodbath of values -
no one strong enough to carry the hearse. We'll have to work
together - in unity redirected - to carry the load of our ancestor's past.
We descendants who reap the aftermath; let's carry on and forgo the calm.
Complacency is no destiny to pursue; crack the bottle against the bow,
that ship has sailed. Let us dabble in truth, instead of sugarcoat lies;
deception maybe be sweet, but give it time, it'll go straight to your thighs.
Embrace controversy with a bear hug, and give tyranny a timeout.
And should our words sharpen swords instead of mold minds,
may the massacre be only metaphorical - and the white flag of truce
be mistaken for a canvas - painted with the blood of your passion.
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2015
People make me smile the way
their eyes shine when they talk
about something they love
when they feed me food. Or tell
me how much they love me
when I look into someone's
eyes and see it I see that look
in their eyes I see love in them
When I see someone laugh and
have fun in what they do
The way they cry for there lost
When they give me a smile and
tell me how beautiful I am
People are beautiful well some
are and I wish someday I can
find someone who will look at
me and say "you have that look
in your eye" what look?
I want to find someone so
beautiful in the inside I can't
stay away they amaze me with
what they say an do how they
will dance in the rain and know
every detail about me
Will bring me Starbucks on a
rainy day and just talk about
I want someone beautiful
Copyright © brittney lopez | Year Posted 2013
The Twelve Angels of Beirut
They huddle together in the heavens
Muttering amongst themselves
Confused as any human down below
We bestow upon them the ancient teachings
Not once, not twice, variations to please all walks of life
They may choose the ancient books they follow
They may keep the traditions yet must adapt to modern intellect
Such literate men who seem not to read
Who can cast his eyes at his child?
Feeling nothing but love and endearment?
Who pray tell us is displeased to arrive at his home at dusk?
Angels we twelve have nourished
We have showed you both love, morality and compassion
Yet ye who divides faith, chooses battle
You so easily prefer to drink blood
Rather than bestow a red rose upon breast
Olive trees so ripe have no meaning at all for you
Like a tree that reaches the sky
All things change, as evolution’s duty dictates
Yet you fight to keep perceptions frozen in time
You cover a woman’s face
When its you who should hide in shame
Modesty is how we bestow good deeds to strangers
It is how we look at our hearts in the mirror
A woman’s beauty should shine to the heavens
Competing only with a mans debonair style of chivalry
Honor you mother and father
Honor your tribe
Not with traditions and rented cloth
Honor with your whole heart
Feed the poor and kiss your enemy on both cheeks
The skies will become your friend
We sit here waiting in torment and anguish
Crying to the heavens that surround us
We gave you hearts and minds
You return us blood and bombs
We are ashamed of our duties
For we have obviously failed you
Forgive us, you tribes of the three branches
We are the twelve angels of Beirut
Whose tears give you your sea
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015
I sat on the edge of your mattress, unsure what to expect; I kicked off my shoes and took in
your bedroom for the first time: the bookshelves, the plastic stickers wreathing the windows,
your little brother’s action figures mid-battle on the carpet, the clothing stretched out into
long piles beneath your feet.
I remember thinking you so strong and confident, wondering how we ended up beneath the
covers together. You reassured me as you crawled out to take down your blue jeans. I looked
away for fear of seeming too eager. (I wanted to look.)
Your hand trailed over my back, tracing my stomach. I had never been touched before;
every inch your fingers followed burned a path into my memory. I was sure there were
scorch marks on the sheets.
We kissed and kissed and I gasped and we kissed and I fumbled, I heard my pulse throbbing
in my ears and we kissed and I couldn’t believe I had gone my whole life without knowing the
feeling of skin on skin.
Then, you were forcing my lips to part with yours, and your tongue surprising the inside of my
mouth, a slippery, rubbery thing. I let it wander.
You curled a loose hair behind my ear. I imagine you framing my face in your hands and
bringing my chin for another kiss, but I find my memory inventing moments between us that
But, I am sure of the sleepy look on your face every time we pulled away, the half-pouted
lips, and the pressure of your hands on my back, urging me to never stop.
Copyright © Robin Lane | Year Posted 2010
Obama drew his mighty line in the sand
Dare ye not to cross me
Assad replied in kind
Gassing thousands and laughing
A little Syrian boy has drowned
Siblings to weak to cross that mighty line
Salvation was the evasive dream
Father shall never escape the nightmares
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015
Harassing me for days now
Landing on my eyelid
Nosing up my nostril
Tickling my ankles
and every other exposed body part
Fly-Swatter? Jack be nimble, Jack...
Folded bath towel? (Lamp destroyed)
Raid? Sprayed til I sneezed and choked
and had to quickly retreat outside
(I may have poisoned myself)
Last night it buzzed me awake
I injured various body parts
(Bloody nose, ruptured eardrum)
I want to murder it
I want to assassinate it
but I want to capture it first
pull off it’s puny little wings
and watch it scramble on the floor
all the while crawling behind
laughing, shouting and jeering
'How you like THEM apple peelings?'
before I jump to the ceiling (Boink)
before I stomp and then grind
in a mad and homicidal rage
Whew! I’m feeling pretty okay now
The medication helps immeasurably
I know now why they’re called Asylums
They are refuge from a brutal environment
a world dominated and controlled by---Bssst!!
Copyright © Tim Ryerson | Year Posted 2015
I do not know?
Clumsily tripping, over our own feet
Sometimes, minds aren't meant to meet
perhaps we're off just a micro beat
thoughts obscured, behind glass covered in sleet
Sure there are those, who wish to exploit
but really in the end, what's the point?
We're all merely visitors, in this joint
Trying our best, with words to annoint
Cloisterd in shadows, wanting to be found
glimmers of earlier selves, clowning around
When others laugh, why do our fears compound?
Downturned mouths, strangled crying sounds
Embarrassing moments, last an eternity
Sometimes I'm my very worst enemy
Thinking hidden messages, are meant for me
Is that what poetry is meant to be?
I let essential words, roll off my lips
Credentials have no taste, when I take deep sips
Preferring a message, from a page that drips
My mind unfocused, takes many trips
I like the power, of words intrinsic
Flavors and texture, is what I like to lick
If it's too saccharin and sweet it makes me sick
My pleasure comes, from words hot and thick
So you see, I too like to word explore
Words found, behind a cryptic door
I start upright, end up on the floor
Keep on reading, until I can't absorb anymore!
Written at the request of James Horn.
Response to his "to Come Back Again" Poem.
Thanks James, our interaction led to a poem of the day!
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2015
Such deep amber green eyes
Stare into me
Like arrows that so delicately pierce my heart
She is covered in a curtain of black woven cloth
Ah but her hair flows like caramel
She is concealed and wrapped, the camouflage of fear
The burka hiding the princess within
I may not see with my eyes
Oh but how my heart dreams
Of running in the meadows, laughter at our own happiness
Her voice is musical, and softly charms my soul
I am lost in illusions, of this woman in chador
She hides inside this blackness
Her heart protected by dragons
In the dragons lair so deep
I gaze intently into this darkness
I breathe the fire of rejection
I have no chance with this maiden of such beauty
Her dress is blue like the summer breeze
Her hair blonde like the golden skies
She is the desire of many a suitor
As she sleeps in the drum tower
High above all of loves intentions
The bailey her only wanderings
As you see the only burka she ever wore
Was around her heart
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014
Impulsive or compulsive
Either way it's not conducive
Living with this disorder
Can't be good for my liver
Obsessions, when do they stop?
Compulsions, when do I stop?
Let me illustrate and reiterate
My demons make me infuriated
To the point, man, I really want to escape this
Live everyday like your last?
These hours go by fast
Trying to obliterate every ounce of the past
Always with the imagery and self coping insanity
That broke me and continues to break me.
Another day, no not another day
I just got out, please let me stay away.
Copyright © Stefan Cote | Year Posted 2016
My father had been out of work for way too long.
At night, I often heard him and mom weep
Food was scant, but love was strong.
As was that hunger pain when I lay to sleep.
My little brother was too young to understand.
Still a babe in arms, he brought our only smiles.
I loved to play with him and hold his tiny hand.
It seemed to take away the hurt from life trials.
Then, one-day dad came home all excited.
He was talking so fast, grinning from ear to ear.
He said that our future was well fated.
That we were in for adventure was clear.
It was that new ocean liner, the Titanic.
Dad had been hired for the maiden voyage.
We were going along as his sidekick.
A family destined for American homage.
In just five days we boarded that ship.
Immigrating was a dream come true.
Accommodations would be a hardship.
But it was worth opportunities…new.
Dad worked as a scullion in the restaurant.
We were housed on the lower deck.
It was a very crowded lodgment.
We stayed together until the shipwreck.
Sirens were screeching people screaming.
We could not find dad anywhere.
Was he locked up as a cageling?
Could it be true; was he trapped down there?
Lifeboats were being lowered.
Mom held my brother, crying.
Dad must be somewhere cloistered.
We all feared a dreadful dying.
Someone put me in a lifeboat.
I reached for mom as it descended.
The Titanic was still afloat.
But my family separated.
The water was freezing.
I had forgotten my coat.
People crying, sniffling, and sneezing.
The lifeboat soon became an iceboat.
Within a few hours, death began.
Shivering, I crawled beneath two corpses.
A young girl destined to live without her clan.
Hidden from polar breezes.
That was the last time I saw my mother.
My mind holds the image clearly.
She, calling for dad, was cuddling brother.
Oh, how I loved my family dearly.
When rescuers finally arrived.
I was the only one alive in the lifeboat.
Beneath those bodies, I survived.
Then, I was wrapped in a warm coat.
I never did see America.
I was sent to an orphanage back home.
Life had dealt a great trauma.
Forever had sunken in the ocean's foam.
© April 9, 2012
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: My heart will go on and on.... Free Poetry
Sponsor Tracie ~*~ Indigo Dreamweaver
Copyright © Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen | Year Posted 2012
I used to think poetry was about expression
(but some it seems would rather make it a competition)
I used to think beautiful words were meant to encourage growth,
not be used as a pedestal for your ego.
But hey What do I know?
You're the Master of the Pen
in whom we all adore.
Your advice is what we savor
... please tell us more!
But then again Maybe you shouldn't And just listen for a minute
Take a step back and breathe Don't abuse the gift you've been given
You ought to delight in the fact that you are NOTHING (as am I)
Because everything we write, and dream, is nothing but a gift passing by
They don't come because of what you did They come because they come
It's nothing glamorous Nothing special It's like the rising of the sun
Each circuit is a blessing Out of our control Whether we like it or not
So here's what I have to say to the friend we all know Mr. Big Shot
You may be Brilliant with a capital B,
have words that sing like a friggin' symphony,
but have you checked the pulse of your humility?
Is it still beating? Still beating?
Or is it left in the corner bleeding
from your Excalibur Pride.
Yeah, you may be the next Emily Dickinson,
or Edgar Allan Poe.
Have verses that make the minstrels weep,
and thoughts so mesmerizing So deep
But if your soul ain't pouring on the page -
if you write for reasons that are shallow -
on your Magnum Opus I'd rather turn the page!
(yes, it really happened! I rhymed 'page' with 'page'
Shakespeare I know Must be rolling in his grave!)
To tell the truth I'd rather turn my attention to the simple;
to the ones who leave those subtle ripples
on my heart, and on my mind.
Whose treasured presence are so personal,
it peaks on the edge of the divine.
I'd really rather not dedicate my time
to your perfect metrical rhymes -
to your Magnifico Metaphors,
your Awesome Alliteration,
your Verdant Vocabulary
so lush that it's scary!
I'm so clever How 'bout you?
If your heart is full of Me, Myself and I
To your poetry
... I'd rather say goodbye!
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016
Écoutez l'oiseau qui n'est pas là
sentez le vent danser avec les branches des arbres
nues comme elle embrassent la lune
Touchez le ciel avec une larme
qui n'est pas là
Je n'existerai plus
Listen the bird who is not there
feel the wind dance with the tree branches
naked as they kiss the moon
Touch the sky with a tear
like the bird
who is not there
shall exist no more
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2017
I do not know?
Anger, pain and dramatic stress
The 3 things that I possess
Me, Reggie is okay at times
I sometimes choose to confide in my rhymes
I express my feelings through a pen
Just like some women get satisfaction through men.
This isn’t a poem because this is a thought
I have thoughts moving so fast, just too fast to be caught.
I hate being stressed
Just like I hate being possessed
I don’t mean to sound evil and mean
But I am different from the other people you have seen.
This is not a poem…this is a thought
I have thoughts moving so fast that they can’t be caught.
I have it good to some…others have it good to me
Some don’t realize how hard it is to be
A poet…it’s hard writin’ poetry with a lot of feeling
You feel forced to write something appealing
You break down cause cus’ you feel an obligation
To write good poetry that there breaks your concentration
I found a solution that my mind’s fighting
Maybe I should stop all the poetry and all the writing
These are fast ideas too fast to be caught
This isn’t a poem this is just a thought
Copyright © Reginald Sellers | Year Posted 2005
Nurse: Briefly describe your pain
Nurse: On a scale from 1 to 10, how would you rate your pain?
Me: I dunno...where's your scale?
Nurse: No, no sir, on a scale...
Me: Okay!...180 butt-naked
Nurse: When was the last time you had a physical exam?
Me: Well, me and this lady went out the other night...
Nurse: We'll need a stool sample
Me: YOUR stool or my stool? I'll need a saw...
Nurse: We'll need to do some lab work
Me: I understand, it's hard to keep good help isn't it?
Nurse: Do you have a history of suicide?
Nurse: Are you having trouble urinating?
Me: Just a sec...nope, no problem here
Me: Just a sec...nope, no problem here
Nurse: Son of a...How many fingers am I holding up??
Me: Aha!...One in the middle and four bent ones, right?
Nurse: I swear to G... Sign this freekin' admittance form!
Me: Uh uh!...I deny the whole thing...
Nurse: (Sigh) Are you allergic to anything?
Copyright © Tim Ryerson | Year Posted 2012
I bent down to pick up a penny from the frozen ground.
I could smell myself, the acrid stench of sweat and soot,
the taint of vapored vagrancy
that marked my movements, masking me from the reality that used to be.
I hate me and what I am, more than you could ever think to,
but more so becuase you do, with your limp laughter and scared stares.
I never knew my life never needed me to know it could all go away in a single day.
I see it all through dirty windows draped in singed eyelashes and gutter grime,
the pathetic gazes from afar as another afternoon of sale shopping and shoe sizing is ruined
by my appalling appearance.
"How dare you be here! What's wrong with you?"
"Go get a job you junkie, you slob, just jump a bus so you can't disgust us with your sewer
shoes and hard luck blues. You deserve the dirt and a kick in the teeth from the steel-tipped
toe of a jackboot too. No one wants to see a scummy sack of crap like you, bending down to
pick our scraps off the frozen ground."
The helping hand of man slaps the taste of humanity from my mouth with each volatile volley
of acid arrow analogies angrily slung and fired furiously from the bows of bastard
businessmen and bleach blonde bimbos.
My weary wounds fill with the sea-salt of sarcastic statements and unflattering finger
gestures from frat boys as I bend down to pick up a penny I found on the frozen ground.
"Head's up means luck," Abe smiled at me, and suddenly my thoughts began to run
I took a long look at the lingering light of one of the sweetest sunsets I had ever seen, and
the simplicity and majesty washed over me.
There was no use in listening to abuse and accusations and obtuse observations any more.
I was being shown a door.
Wrapped in the warmth of the amber and amethyst glow, I finally smile for a little while and
close my dirty windows against the icy winds of waning words.
Tomorrow, someone will bend down to pick me up from the frozen ground.
Copyright © Curt Mongold | Year Posted 2010
My proses are nothing without you-
but scribbles, through and through
I dream a dark weary blur
of letters, a phrases, going by in a flur-
Even that; my thoughts seeming simple
even then it lacks luster given by you-
the additions you contribute more than do
alone they gleam platinum
though, with mine maybe less than gold
I...no matter- no treasures to hold!
Tales to be told
It is not me they care to read
-wish to know
But the enchantress
of the words and chimes
and grinding whispering rhymes
of the tales of darkened woe
Though you must scribble onwards sweet hurt,
For fragments of your heart I shall fasten tight
Against my loving words,
My tempestuous, valiant might
Shall shake your fear into fight!
Tear these thoughts and lies of darkness,
The very sinews and cartilages masking their place within you,
Away from your eyes, and see—
What horrors lie wait in the heart that fails To Be
Alas though it is;
That my words shall only crackle or fizz
No tear shall be shed,
no heart yearning dead
at the intake of my write
And thus I must admit I am contrite
at how I envy your wondrous sight-
A gift of perfection, given to you,
immaculate graces all you do
Unearthly feeling trembling might
as praise of prose shines bright
For YOU- my guardian, my mentor, my idol-
I dream a selfish dream-
that I could be you for a day
And know what it's like to hear the people say;
"You, you are beautiful and amazing. Talented and skillful..."
Maybe I shall pray,
Though I never believed in much
Maybe I could such...
perhaps I could for a day...
kneel down to pray;
just to hear then say
"you are beautiful..."
Oh, divine, bleeding star,
Eyes of eager want and disdain…
What words blessed be may ail your pain?
I am but mortal meeting flaw again and again…
My master, my ruler, my liege
I bow, I grovel, I beg
Teach me your magic
The arts of the words so charismatic
Gleaming, glistening, glinting,
like gold and silver charms-
An aura of pure creation
You the Queen of tales
of sorrows, and dreams,
And happy things
I wish, I wish -
I wish and wish and wish some more
To learn your secret, learn your trade
To inspire greats- with a single sentence
Stand as my equal, my friend,
And do not beg for gifts you hold,
Open them upon us all
For the answers have always been in your eyes,
Where the deepest darkest sorrow lies,
In the crevices of your brazen soul light
Who has long been shoved and hidden in your bitter, broken plight
Stand by my side, and give majesty to your muse
Rest her heart gently on what you feel most of,
What you see, and what you dream
Do not grovel to the floor,
Do not wrestle for the glory of more
You are perfection when you allow your light out
Soft and genuine, the fire will seek you now
Divine, bleeding star
We are mortals with immortality afar
Destined to touch inspirations never blemished,
And never strained
Without so much
a guiding visage
I shall go out in a blink
but maybe… just maybe
I will write, something...
a tale- worth telling
This is a collaboration I wrote with Rebecca Larkin,
A great friend and an awesome Poetess
Written in January
Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2016
Here’s what I’m thinking now
at the end of the world:
There are no atheists in foxholes—
no theists in politics.
If knowledge is power,
and power corrupts,
then why did I bother reading you, Cicero?
Does it matter that I didn't’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
There’s a poetry reading tonight
whence I’I'll chide other poets
who don’t sit alone.
I won’t bring up death
but I might have to breathe,
even into a mike
and mouth lines to get a snap or a boo
maybe even a wince or two.
Just maybe I’I'll talk about love
and how following your heart is like following a dog—
it only leads to vittles and (female dogs).
But how many times have I used that line
since the story I wrote about you,
a witty and sexy and fictional you?
Most likely I’I'll read something tonight about you.
I won’t recite it from memory
because I don’t think about you that much anymore,
not even when I search for my socks in your drawer
or when I put on the scratchy sweaters you give me,
horizontally striped to bring out my eyes?
I don’t remember your eyes
except they are blue.
And I don’t remember you,
not even when I smell cucumber and apple,
not even when I sleep on my side of the bed
or when you walk through the door
happy to see me;
even then I don’t remember you.
Does it matter that I don’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
How about a few one-liners
for the end of days?—
Depression is self-awareness,
which you’d know if you were;
I need Ritalin to listen to you,
Lithium to hug you,
Viagra to feel you,
and Valium to sleep.
All you need
is me standing there, waiting at home
with turns of phrase and word plays
telling you about why I hate Ayn Rand
but want to buy as much as I can
and how I love celebrity gossip
and detest poetry slams
and find rhyming trite
except when I am.
Hypocrites can still be right,
which you do understand
because you nod at my nonsense
about fighting the man.
But now, at the end of all things—
I’m speechless and witless and pointlessly well-read,
and you’re just sitting there, smiling
asking me to pass the bread.
Copyright © Nick Hertzog | Year Posted 2010
Aveces pienso en tu sonrisa
Bajo las nubes me pongo a suspirar
Mas las estrellas claman tu nombre
En tus brazos como quisiera estar
Mis lagrimas son como la lluvia
Tu memoria canta en mi corazon
Y en lo mas alto del cielo esta tu cara
Tu memoria hoy es mi vida
Copyright © Edward Orozco | Year Posted 2010
What it is, this pain that kills my joints
This strange duvet of darkness while
I try to brush my teeth
What it is, the distance to my wheelchair
seems to have increased
in this small room
What it is, this self-inflicted isolation
This fear of seeing people
and of losing them
Swimming in a dark damp pool
Hearing people talking yet
Can't see them, here's the fool
That wants to dance but stays in bed
Splendid colours hurt instead
What is not the wish to block
While at the same time all is gone
And nothing stays in harmony
They speak and I hear their concern
It does not concern me, still it gnaws
My consciousness, my shame, my guilt
I better not be here, they better
off without me
Don't worry, I'm only showing you
The me I am when I'm depressed
But everyone is not going through
The same, we're different: at best
We share the overwhelming sadness
That has no words enough to describe
What it is. But this is what it always is:
Don't leave us please, for even at the
point of our deepest rejection of you,
it really is a cry to stay!
How contradictory we are
This is for me, it is for every person who
Is right now in dire need.....
Here are my hugging arms 'round you
Until you're back on your two feet.
Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017
She holds my hand like I’d never
wake up after passing -out and drinking
one last lick from a broken bottle, only to
find myself needing another round of gin.
Yet, my woman cuddles me as if this
hair isn't filthy even though I haven't
hit the showers, even though I can’t
take my body to rest, to act functional.
And she gleams like she can't smell
the reek of alcohol I am breathing…
how my heart aches for the last time
her mouth kissed me on the face
after I broke a promise I couldn’t
possibly fulfill-- a lowlife freak, rogue of a man,
disappearing into bars and more bars
to silence fears so I cannot hear
old ghosts on the walls, in nightmares,
within her embrace,
… but still
I can’t love myself the same way that
she loves me like I never
told her to go lose herself,
banging the door--
telling her that she was worse
than my compulsive urge.
She loves me -- a reckless quirk--
believing I will see THAT day
when I can Change.
Creep Contest for Silent One
Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2016
What's going on?
How come it's 3AM?
And bright as noon?
Have I finally made it
Into a Looney-Tune?
Who left me a hot breakfast,
How the hell did I
Overnight grow a green beard?
And that new Lamborgini
In my driveway
Painted purple, black,
and red, each a circle round
Am I a mad old hack?
I see a cab's roof light
On it, like a crown.
The door sign says
$100.00 first quarter mile,
$200.00 each following quarter
So ridiculous I had to smile
Is this someone's idea
Of a joke?
To make of me,
A fool , one to poke?
I grabbed my pants,
To go out to inspect
Golly, gosh darn
This I did not expect...
Every pair had four legs,
Someone tell me,
How this could be!
Perhaps I'm yet asleep,
And this is but a dream,
Maybe a nightmare brought on
By last night's ice cream
So I dug out the ice cream,
To see the brand and flavor,
Perhaps laced with acid,
By some angry neighbor...
"Trolley Madison" the brand,
The flavor "Mulch"
I start to feel a panic grow,
Turn on the TV to distract me,
But it does not come on,
The dryer does,
And the radio blasts
A Taliban song,
What the hell is going on?
What part of hell is this?
What did I do so wrong?
Guess I'll go back to bed,
And hope my next awakening
Will be more normal instead,
So I return to my bedroom now,
All I can utter is "Holy Cow!"
For my bedroom is now
A subway station,
Out here in the Kansas plains, to boot!
I better get some whiskey,
I sure could use a toot!
I pour some Southern Comfort,
And out pops corn bread and grits...
I guess I should be grateful,
It wasn't a bowl of horsy sh_ts.
I better call my boss,
Explain I'd be late to work,
But he had never heard of me,
And thought me but a jerk...
And I could hardly
disagree with him,
For when I put down the phone,
The chord was a garden snake
And I was not alone
The cats I don't own,
the dog I'd dreamed of getting,
All crowded around me,
For food and some petting
In panic, I went out the front door,
Not knowing what to expect
Found myself on the conning tower
Of an atomic submarine quite wrecked
Enough! Enough! Enough!
Clenched fist aimed at the sun
Why have you forsaken me?
What wrongful sin have I done?
But the seas did not part,
And the nightmare did restart.
I dove over the side of the submarione,
Ending up next to my bed
On the floor with reality shed.
Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2008
She's sliding and if you look past, if you watch her.....
maybe you'll capture a glance of her yesterday.....
“Sunrise only falls when you don't believe tomorrow exists,” I explained, in my most
She bit her lip and shook her head, she followed me into my room and shut the door, she
locked us in, for an hour it seemed, and whispered in my ear....
“I can write pain better than anyone,” she informed me, “I'm brilliant at tears.”
And with this she tore pages out of my beloved sketch book, the one that no one is allowed
to touch, and just when my jaw fell with the shock of her brazenness, I shut my mouth as I
watched her pen turn letters into sobs....
I followed the words as they ran down, as ink turned into pretty swirls that screamed art
and I told her...
“Your angst belongs in a museum.”
I had never seen her smile before, I had never heard her grin, but her lips parted at that
moment as a single curl dropped down her previously wrinkled forehead and I saw the beauty
in eyes that cry and knew that she had realized I accepted it.
“Oh, but who would pay to hear me scream?” she asked, almost joking, as she crossed her
legs and sat forward a bit, as her teeth tugged on her bottom lip, as she looked more her
age and resembled a child instead of me....
“I would,” I replied, as I pushed back her hair and kissed her on the nose, “I would, if I
didn't hear you in my dreams almost every night.”
Copyright © JeanMarie Marchese | Year Posted 2007
There is a language I spoke and I knew.
It fluently told it's stories in dance.
Graceful chaînes that turned our spirits out
and razor sissones to cut with candor.
There is a light song I willingly played.
My fingers glissade, ran, courir, en croix,
rapidly crossing the tired yellow keys.
There is a bleached canvas white with nothing!
The brush has eyes. It's clever at seeing,
tout va bien, and always without me.
It tells me what is beneath the linen,
a textured story in shape and color.
There are no jagged edges in assemblé.
The poetry, un mot, could keep the time
on paper. It knew dimensions, of four,
in every breath. It saw the frozen rose.
It sprinkled stories of death or exploded
in dimples of joy. It holds my hand and tells on me.
A firefly in bourrée is silenced from the play.
By Edlynn Nau
October 8, 2016
Copyright © Edlynn Nau | Year Posted 2016