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Boxed In by Scott, Yolanda
Box Lids, Boxed In by Quinlan, Diane M
Boxed In by Guzzi, Debbie
Boxed In by Atfield, William J. Jr.
Boxed in... by Amato, Colin

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The Best Boxed In Poems

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A Poetry Collection


Hourglass

Sand falls
Through the glass
Love falls
Within the past
Memories dance
They never last
Head in my hands
As I stare overhead
At the hourglass


Falling Down Stairs

Stairs broken
Wheels unspoken
I fell
Grasping for air
Are you there?

Piano Keys

Playing me
Rhythms dancing free
Clouds in air
Notes tossed in despair
Are you there?


Voices

Echoes
Broken wings
Wounded sparrows sing
Clinging to clouds high in sky
Chirping symphonies
Knowing not at all the why
Never loved…
Never loved…
Never hugged
In solitude wonders fly
No one
No one is there



In the Key of Despair

Tap tap
Music in the ear
Flowing freely in the salty air
Beethoven, are you there?
In the breeze, I hear the notes
My mind runs away, it floats
Pain drowned in the river
Limbs frolic on shores of hope
Keys somber in black and white
As I touch them
It conveys the fright


Strings

Choking, not me, but the air
Credenzas and waves
Washing away the realities
Of all your trivialities
Whilst I whither and fade away
Inside a musical symphony
Strangled on lusty desires
Are you
Are you there?


Sleep

Notes hither and floating in the breeze
I look up
The moon
My last breath
My last hope
My last wish
A kiss from the one I never met
The moon hides under cloud
My eyes in tranquility close
The beat no longer in time
No longer there
Where ever I am going
My last thought
Are you there?






Violins and Other Things

Distractions
Deformed from loves inaction
Teardrops falling on time
Rolling down passages
Where darkness does dine
Notes high, notes low
Treble as I grasp the clef
The conductor knows all that is refined
In the end
He shall consume the wine
As I, was consumed by time


Masterpieces

The piano full of dust
Brushes dipped in paints
Now turn to dust
There is a poem over there
In the corner
By the naked painting
Of my Caribbean liver
That cried and wept
Day and night
Night and day
When willows swayed
And the raven landed
On the sill
Of the empty room
For I am no more

Silence whispers
Are you there?


Guitar Strings and Clouds

I caress the strings of discord
Melodies shouting
Displeasure
Credenza’s and interludes
Wine intrudes
The senses squished like sour grapes
Emotions boxed in crates
I caress philosophy
As my garden sadistically does undress
Taunting the desires of my illusions unrest
The rose and the rain drop
Embrace
I cry


Last Act

Once was life
One…… tear…   one tear…… drop
One gasp of fear
Fate licking……………………… deaths ear










Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2017


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Mary's Shrift

Indigenous woman—rarely accompanied by their
white sisters—or their men enter 
through the side door
of St. Peter’s Church.

Here they are boxed in cool stucco,
and stained-glass. A flock of Mexican 
Madonna’s shift today to encompass 
their fairer sister:

Dios te salve, Maria. Llena eres de gracia: El Señor es contigo.
Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres. Y bendito es
el fruto de tu vientre:,Jesús.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. 
Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is 
the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. 

Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros,
pecadores, ahora y en la hora ... 

drones on—and on—and on

within the heavenly heights of gilded frescos—bleeding—
rainbows prism the room in false light, kaleidoscoping upon
the walls—murals of  brocade, gold-threaded catch random  rays.

Woman anchor the pews with their desires—

Pliant and pleading these mothers beseech Mary to intercede:
for first class citizenship (inside and outside the Church) 
for work, for health, for a better life for their children.

Voices of the lamb bleating; dinner for the wolves, they pray.





SHORT SHRIFT-little or no attention or consideration


Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2015


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One Toy Soldier

One Toy Soldier

Little toy soldiers are all put away
Training is over for this time of day.
Where do these little boys go now to play?
Away from their home to die in the fray.

Little toy weapons are no longer there
But boxed in attics by mothers with care--
Where keepsakes still hold a lock of his hair--
While rockets and missles challenge his fare.

Little toy bad guys and little toy good
Haze in the distance when misunderstood.
Where fall the lilies on long crates of wood
And each gave their all--as good soldiers should...

Little toy soldiers are coming back home...
Mothers are weeping, laments all alone
Where flags lie folded--the gift of Shalom...
As the long box is lowered...'neath the loam

One little toy soldier is placed on the top
Remembering All--so that None be Forgot.

   
deborah burch©                            
4/14/2012

  



Copyright © Deborah Burch | Year Posted 2012


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T.V.

Boxed in prize-fighter
Spinning punches for a sold-out crowd
Tubes and tubes

Run chain for miles, rust spots baring
Stark, empty Jews
Playing corn in a field, as
Nazi golems keep track of the moves.

A dusty field lying naked and bruised
Soaking a fever 
Like a garden patch, mid-Sundayafternoon.
A mindless hum and the funereal gloom

Turns black to life - avarice Mary; my wife
Has been sick Seven years - with undying green eyes
Her clock springs sprung, like the misshapen tide.


Copyright © Paul Sylvester | Year Posted 2005


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The Fatality

Before birth
I was the universe
All knowing, all embracing
Molecules of beauty in floating meditations
I was everywhere 

Then............
The darkness.........
The womb.......
I begot limbs and flesh
Imprisoned inside this human frailty

I was freed, exposed, pushed, fallen into humanity
Lights, voices, sins, I screamed
They cut off my only bond to the universe
Here, a baby an orphan of the heavens
Imprisoned upon the imperfections of human realms

Hell.................
The holy book of sins...........
The great sadness.........
I miss the cosmic beauty
Stuck here, the devils collection of earthly kin

Days... weeks.....decades…. despair......
I plotted and planned
The great escape
From this finite boxed in land
I begged the infinite, and danced with infinity

The universe waltzed
I twirled with insightful delight
Soon, to be rejoined with eternal light
To be free, to roam the stars
My death, now rejoined with the heavens and all of thee

You visit, candles and crocus upon Parisian stone
I am neither there or even here any more
I have become what I once was, healed and whole
All knowing, all embracing
I am God, the universe once more


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016


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Outside The Box ---For Chan

No use pretending to the pitch of sleep
It seems to see straight through the night, from somewhere very far

I hear the sounds,  yet....., not of harps, ...instead the angels play guitar,
I hear them tap their feet to rock, and shake our world anew
Like something out of Star Wars......let's think outside the box
We've been out-foxed, we weren't prepared, to say goodbye just yet

No use pretending to the pitch of sleep
that we can squeeze each puzzle piece, to fit within our boxed-in dream
We were not prepared with lamp or light, to be awake to genius minds
But if we could bring our dreams alive,  we'd  think outside the closed-box mind
We would have to think, The Rhymer's dream, ...and set the box aside

Our brother could...., while no one would
The "geek",  some say, is still inside our open minds
The "geek" I think, is still alive, 
in each and every archive of where the heart and soul survives
In  pentagrams, each token. kind, a euphoric open mind
In optical illusions, akin to Tolkien's prime
A clipping ripped from headlines, he somehow made it fit
the scheme of things, within a frame,  yet still not box him in?
To paste, and form the change of pace, until we're torn in two
then re-arranged, stir common sense, and change our point of view
The artistry he kept alive, is genius we all seek......he lit the torch, and reached the peak
that we may never touch
He lit the torch, and made us think, a bit......outside the box




In Honor Of Chan
For Cyndi 11/10/14


Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014


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Virgin America

The faintness of flight overwhelms me
boxed in caged, corseted, in a cattle car of the air
pristine bells and whistles cajole the herd
as the breath is cycled and recycled through the 
bellows of plasticine and metal
germs jumping from orifice to orifice
knees crushing bosoms braced for the portent
the potential
the promise
of the fall.

Faintness elicits only minor response
from the tenders who un-tenderly steer the crowd
small moans garner memories of the mallet falls..
but fail to unseat the kindness 
so needed..sought
watery eyes wave
 and the floor seems the only safety
and still the settlers stay settled in their complacency..
neither rising to gift an aged woman with their perch
or commenting as she hits the floor
ah the joys of twenty first century flight
in the belly of Virgin America.


Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2012


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Push on through

Push on through


The world is a scary place and there is nowhere left to hide;
The nightmares are hunting us down and they are crawling inside.
Run from your life, they are coming to get you;
Keep on going, push on through.


Do not allow yourself to become boxed in;
Caged inside a nightmare of a life, with no sight of a key.
Set yourself free from their bonds of security,
That keeps you trapped in debt without any hope of release.


Push on through to the other side of the night
And in dawns breaking light, you will save a life.
Save yourself from your home made evil;
Fight away the beast and search for all the beautiful people.


Go forth and multiply; this is the spell we are under.
Instincts so old, they are humanities goal 
And they drive us into the arms of our lover.
Without a love to hold, this world would only kill those who do;
But with love we can make a change and push on through.


(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.



Copyright © Aa Harvey | Year Posted 2016


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OLd Tom

Old Tom was wrinkled
His face full of care
A military blazer 
He'd always wear

Tom was a fighter
He'd boxed in the ring
He had gone to war
He'd fought for his King

His medals with pride 
He always wore
In the pub of an evening
He'd lay down the law

Every November
He went on parade
He remembered his comrades
As a green wreath he laid

He talked about them
With a tear in his eye
Though he held it all back
He'd not openly cry

But last November he wasn't there
In the pub where he sat just an empty chair
So we will hear his stories no more
Of the battles he fought in the great war

Though he was always cadging a drink
We'll miss that stubborn old fellow I think
Though his outside was hard he was soft inside
And his chair has stayed empty
Since the day that he died


Copyright © Denis Briggs | Year Posted 2018


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Boxed In

Riding the rail cargo
blue sky's virgin eyes
suddenly a ride on the wild side.
Consumed like a passionate love affair
first sneaking around then a box unbarred.
There were several more boxes growing inside
tranquil the rush rolled up on the cool side.
Should I count the length of time?
Should I not forget the first box I tried?
I visited Salem, Newport how cool the breeze.
Marlboro & Winston wasn't for me
another box opened to my foolish feed.
it was Kool for awhile till my mind seemed to freeze.
So many boxes, many more did I breathe.
Next a very slim box, but a journey long
enjoying a mellow, vivacious breeze
in the Virginias mountains high
air so soft admiring a beautiful sky.
After a short while it was time to move on
just like the Old West Maverick was born.
Shoot in toot in smoke so thick
general warning the surgeon's threat.
A life of boxes adorned the family tree
It was the 2017 box that finally set me free.
No longer boxed in, living life tobacco free.
      Quit smoking January 2018


Copyright © Yolanda Scott | Year Posted 2018


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Boxed In

For years, perhaps a decade,
the silver box had lain within a wooden
shell, a box within a box,
a larger casket 	quieting
memories too painful to revisit;
yet, too precious to throw away.

The bedroom held much more
within four walls, another sheltering box,
another		type of tomb.

The box had sat unopened for so very long,
each memory waiting deep within a gloom.
Bedded in a bower of crocheted lace,
it lay, embraced beside a picture frame
of he and she.

A lifted lid, an open box, a silver casket
removed, it’s open now, jewels spill forth,
his gifts to her.

Jade for luck, 	gold for her ears,
bits of cinnabar blood-red, fans of scented 
sandalwood and combs of tortoise 
for her hair, emerge.

A decade now locked out of sight,
a box within a box, boxed in—
is what she was—

Time to let go, she thinks,
but, then again, she smiles;
closing the lid of silver bright,
she’ll keep this yet awhile.


Published by Autumn Sound 2013


Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2015


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BOXES

BOXES

darling clementines
are little oranges in a box
or one woman
who left me twice
boxed in my little room

my little room
is where i try to forget
that face i loved
no doors    no windows
totally boxed in

times are tough
it’s not just the money
i’m in a box
no doors    no windows
trying to forget your sweet face

lying abed
dream    dream    dreaming
in my cozy box
looking up at a ceiling
painted with moon and stars

Dave Austin





Copyright © daver austin | Year Posted 2015


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Imprisoned - Jun-jun Villanueva

IMPRISONED     (collaboration)


by~  Jun-jun Villanueva

Urbane cavalcade - flaunt in gaiety
Warbling hymns in ego - cyclicity
Jigging gracile moves in vivacity
Relishing in zest in this gravity
Kinsfolk in flamboyant fete - oh its fate?
Smiles, elation in face delineate
Like nothing's wrong makes me exasperate
No one cares? No one adores? it's too late
Recurrent nightmares peeve me in sublime
Making incubuses remorse in rhyme
Bequeathing qualm, fright and fear - death like crime
Kith and kin in laughs while I'm in grave time...


by~ Poet Destroyer

Twittering chime parade of glee
Unspectacular weed flowing trough me.
Boxed in a box like a tick or flea.
No one understands- what they can't see!
Outside myself holding my breath-
Or should I say what is left?
Trapping torment with false courtesy.
Preexisted past, without certainty.
Locked in a sanctuary grave of ivory ribs,
My life in a vault- trashed crib.
Feet lashing against my skin.
Twirling the rootless valves of sin.
No one cares! No one adores!
My prison trash coffin brought ashore.


A collaboration with * Jun-jun Villanueva

My collaboration contest


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2011


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Villanelle: To what great good singular individuals sacrificed their lives

Villanelle: To what great good singular individuals sacrificed their lives

To what great good singular individuals sacrificed their lives
To free their peoples from the oppressors’ superior mores
Only to find after they’re gone no true local legacy survives

To what great good Mexican peasants seized land archives
When President Zapata refused to administer hard-won laws
To what great good singular individuals sacrificed their lives

To what great good Mahatma Gandhi’s fasting skill revives
The age-old Hindu-Muslim mistrust and Brahmin maws
Only to find after they’re gone no true local legacy survives

To what great good faithful Castro’s will still contrives strives
To keep his Marxist revolution going in open American jaws
To what great good singular individuals sacrificed their lives

To what great good nations boxed in by their leaders’ drives
Go through deprivation depression desolation for saviours
Only to find after they’re gone no true local legacy survives

To cap it all each nation favours some god with inane lies
An excuse to sanctify the nation’s man-made partisan laws 
To what great good singular individuals sacrificed their lives
Only to find after they’re gone no true local legacy survives

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014


Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2015


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Primal Questions

Do I want to only look at new ones,
never been used,
or is that a too restrictive market,
too competitively priced
for virginity of place and relationship on Earth?
And, is such redemptively-intended virginity
an asset or a deficit,
in which ways?

Could I rather shop in a wider market,
someplace more gently used
and well-maintained,
someplace with smooth natural wood and stone,
rich in character
and not the smell of fresh acrylic paint,
when I could have wisteria and roses
lavender and mint
wafting through those big brown
or blue
or grey
or hazel door and window frames.

If this prospective relationship
does not bring sanity and health and pleasure and beauty
then is that not a contract violation
and time to be thinking about separation
so Self and Others can get back into our confluent market
for a better fit with this Time;
not a decade ago?

Have my needs
and wants
and preferences changed,
while my life partner's and vocation's may feel
boxed in,
no more room for additions,
lack of flexible floor plan,
too big or too small?

It happens.

Have I changed my definition of paradise
"beloved community"
is not who I am still investing in.
My fellow pilgrims, and places, and their path,
seem entrenched in incompatibility.
They have grown older,
more cracks in the plaster,
wear in the not-so-natural rugs,
missing some shingles on the roof.
Does the view from outside
look more like a weedpatch,
than my intended investment in paradise?

While shopping used expands your multicultural potential,
it also brings its baggage.
All that good and/or bad karma
yours for a down payment
but not always part of what you bargain for.
Did I ask if anyone had ever been murdered here,
or how many toxic fantasies cast their shadows?
Is this 
place/person 
service/product/plant
swimming in carcinogens,
tumorous habits growing mold under the roof?
What is prior experience with abuse,
neglect,
deferred maintenance?

Do I have a right to know, to be informed? Could I ask prior co-habitors and self-marketers with a prospective position/vocation/place/person:

Why are the two of you going your separate ways?
Was this your decision or did it feel more like
your house/spouse/employer gave you no choice?
If it was your choice,
if you have moved on
to something more to your liking,
rather than merely running away
from a smelly situation,
then what does your current relationship
offer you
by way of contentment,
and peace,
with justice and beauty and health,
that is lacking in my prospective investment?

Perhaps there were reasons unrelated to your vocational satisfaction.
Maybe you couldn't afford to stay any more?
Is this place/person high maintenance, do you think?
Too heavily taxing,
bleeding you through inflated costs of living,
working,
divesting,
dispossession of responsibility
and/or authority,
too much Win-Lose gaming?

Are there problems in the neighborhood/extended family
that I should know about?

Does the plumbing still work?

Are the lights on but nobody's home?

Would you recommend your house/spouse/job
to your best in-the-market friend?
Why or why not?
What interior and exterior landscape and design issues
did you have?
What did you find were your interior and exterior relational strengths
for future development?
Knowing what you have learned
through your own investment experience,
who do you think would be the ideal partner
for this former place now in my face?

Too much information, or appropriate responsibility to be informed
of which economic and political incarnations we embrace?


Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2015


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Creating Fate

In places where buildings hang on edges of rain clouds 
it is for men to fantasize, 
but every man’s reality differs
The white water carries souls who not long ago dreamt 
the dream, the hope of pioneers,
the nightmare of different shades

I’ve walked cold nights on Route Twenty-seven, 
sat in lectures with deprivation pulling on heavy eye lids, 
and vision me with my head in rapture while boxed in 
with iron curtains evoking pangs of democracy and psychological shackles 
The dread of the past is ever present; a teacher to worthy scholars

Hearts are known by two 
Tongues bestow weight to heavy spirits;  
Openings are provided for such 
Judgments come in distinct tones, 
and when the down is counted out the angels came with bells
On park benches we sat with my reality

We got up
I stretched structures, 
and exercised wits
Walk now with heads in cloud nine, 
but be mindful of the shaded area and the blinding light, 
the pallid light
No taste is superior;
Coercion and mobility,
such are the branches of wealth


Copyright © Earle Brown | Year Posted 2011


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Box Lids, Boxed In

BOXED LIDS  © Haiku +

fear
Don’t enclose me in 
Boxes come with four walls sealed 
 Seals me inside out! 
 

fear
BOXED IN!  ©  HAIKU +
A well fitted ‘box’ closets in
When the lid clamps shut
Capturing me in darkness!
 


Copyright © Diane M Quinlan | Year Posted 2015


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Kalamatsch

Kalamatsch

As a kid I played with mud in pouring rain
                                     sand and water and hands no box required
we called it ‘kalamatsch’ quite crafty fun
                          as in kala and free play never reasoned or planned


~ Games ~


Cowboys and Indians followed later and
                                   luckily ‘Winnetou’ was the good protagonist
but then Karl May the resourceful author 
                               had never been to places he simply studied in 


~ Libraries ~


In the Army to my shame it was tactics and
                                    strategic endeavours with bad Russians the
scapegoats mocked in cold wars heating up
                                  little soldiers and regiments moved round in


~ The Sandbox ~


I renounced my allegiance as Hippies caught
                               up with me with flower power and grass roots
hair down to the hips rolling in the clouds and
                                muck of the times where right became wrong


~ Opposition is Duty ~


Che Guevara and Ho Chi Minh appealed when Mao 
                                              proposed to destroy what destroys us
when Marx and Freud knew it all and My Lai
                              glowed in agentic orange shadowed burns on her 


~ Skin ~


Beach holidays followed with grain and salt ocean
                            dunes foreshores boundless sex near the tide line
breeze in our hair winds of change repressed
                               and tormented boxed in and neglected adapted
   

~ Establishment ~


As life passes by and remembrance projects in
                             present and future the stenosis of sand timers
narrows regulated trickles turns oases to desert
                               low lands to flood plains and money to greed


~ Paradise Lost ~


It is never too late to have a happy childhood
                           in which adults abide by young people’s wisdom
cast away pragmatic self-indulgence where youth
                            is no crime and rigid seniority is not in itself an


~ Achievement ~


I long for ‘Kalamatsch’ that does not muddy the 
                    waters where sand is just sand when it runs through 
my fingers where rain is not acid and I can create and 
              restructure thick planks into olive braches not restrained


~ Sandpits ~


Framed as enclosure’s restrictions misguided control of
                       surveiled subjugation of collateral damage skinned 
dreams falsified in books burning but rather where the
              dung of the peace doves makes me the shining statue of 
   

~ Freedom ~ and ~ Kala ~

'Kalamatched' on 07th October 2016 and before



Copyright © Kai Michael Neumann | Year Posted 2016


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Distracted

Stopped at home just to pick it up
Whatever it was, the forgetter forgot
Instead, started rooting in desk drawers,
So old. Each treasure was boxed in original gold 
The guilt went away as I put it all back.
Nineteen - twenty, and thirty, and forty, in fact,
In better condition than most of my crap
But who is it for? The owners are dead. 
The sons and the daughters don't know what was said. 
I'm guessing the place that it all wants to go
Is on to TV Land, to the Antiques Road Show!

Copyright ©2008 Karen M Feist-Berg



Copyright © karen feist | Year Posted 2008


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Homeless

Through deep despair were grown my homesick tears,
Worn by an inmate boxed in cement pine,
That cried for walls remembered through the years,
Forgotten treasures thought by me as mine;
Where laughter smiled when clouds of summer stirred,
And always rain would form inviting pools;
And abject fate was fate true-love deferred,
By leaps that bound hot-water ‘round in spools;
But my prison-cell locks memories stark,
Incarcerating what now fades to grey;
Sentenced forevers lost in wilderness dark,
That haven’t learned what freedom means today;
  A fire burned bright but now smolders smokeless,
  Imprisons visions streamed – lonely and homeless.

10/23/16
Submitted for Seeker's Homeless Contest


Copyright © Phillip Garcia | Year Posted 2016


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IMPRISONED

IMPRISONED     (collaboration)


by~  Jun-jun Villanueva

Urbane cavalcade - flaunt in gaiety
Warbling hymns in ego - cyclicity
Jigging gracile moves in vivacity
Relishing in zest in this gravity
Kinsfolk in flamboyant fete - oh its fate?
Smiles, elation in face delineate
Like nothing's wrong makes me exasperate
No one cares? No one adores? it's too late
Recurrent nightmares peeve me in sublime
Making incubuses remorse in rhyme
Bequeathing qualm, fright and fear - death like crime
Kith and kin in laughs while I'm in grave time...


by~ Poet Destroyer

Twittering chime parade of glee
Unspectacular weed flowing trough me.
Boxed in a box like a tick or flea.
No one understands- what they can't see!
Outside myself holding my breath-
Or should I say what is left?
Trapping torment with false courtesy.
Preexisted past, without certainty.
Locked in a sanctuary grave of ivory ribs,
My life in a vault- trashed crib.
Feet lashing against my skin.
Twirling the rootless valves of sin.
No one cares! No one adores!
My prison trash coffin brought ashore.


~~~~~an entry for " POET DESTROYER's MY COLLABORATION CONTEST"



Copyright © jun-jun villanueva | Year Posted 2011


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LEAVE ME ALONE

Against domestic violence 

Pack your things and leave.
Carry your trash and go.
You have done enough.

The thoughts of you hurts
The sound of your Jordan boots bring fear.
The smell of your cologne reeks disaster
The sight of you speaks doom.
It is time for you to leave 

A treasured one she is
Priceless before her creator 
Yet you dare strike her.

Haaa!!!
Have you no fear of God?
Have your brains taken leave of your skull?
That you cannot remember that He is your creator.

Have your retinas taken leave of their sockets?
That you cannot witness the ripple effects of your cruelty. 

Have your ears been boxed in?
That you cannot hear the agonizing screams from her mouth.

Are your eyes covered with a beam?
That you cannot see a fellow human being whimpering like a dog under your belt.

Indeed it is a truth

That a dog going astray never heed the hunters whistle. 
For you are dancing with the devil.
A vigorous fanning of the embers of destruction. 

Like the voice of one crying in the desert,
I write to you today.

Cease your wicked acts before you cease to exist.
Bring down that belt before you are brought down in death.
Kill that pride of yours before you are killed by that bride of yours.
Flay that ego of yours before you are flayed by that *ego (money) of yours.

To the women I write.

Leave that hurtful place before you are left in the house of mourning.
Caution your venomous tongue before you are cautioned.
Pray for your prince before you are preyed upon by your prince.

With a soft answer, wrath is turned away.
With a meek tone, anger sparks are quenched. 
With Jesus as your foundation, EVERYTHING WILL WORK OUT FINE
#Bashorun 



Copyright © Nkwuka Kosi | Year Posted 2016


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The Frog Translation of Etiemble s quintet La grenouille by T Wignesan

The Frog, Translation of Etiemble’s quintet: La grenouille by T. Wignesan 

(This quintet rhymed: ababc might in its propos -
perhaps in its imagery and allusion - be based on some family history involving the tragedy 
over a son and the subsequent adoption of a daughter. If I’m wrong I offer my profoundest 
apologies in advance.)

Lime-stuck last night by the frozen water of the pond,
frog boxed in glass window fending off thickening waters,
it’s our naked daughter, heart of cold gold, shivering
recumbent statue hardened: withstanding the rigours of 
                                                             our wars:
stuck the other night by the cold of its/her times.


This’s our hardened son who plays the frog and to                  
                                                          himself lies,
caresses sharks, courts a female cosair
puts trust in spurious air which entices and captures,
flimsy trapped game strangling us by the collar,
frogs petrified by the fright of our times.

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014



									      





  



Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2014


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Only a Circle--- Creep contest


It is no use pretending
that I'm the perfect blend
You will have to bend the rules of love
to want me for a friend
You must squeeze each piece of the puzzle
to fit your boxed-in dream
But,  don't expect perfection,
I am simply who you've  seen
 
You must stretch yourself outside the box
to keep the dream alive
I am simply just a circle, not the diamond you hope to find

Your optical illusion, is akin to fairy tales
In the scheme of things, within a frame, you will only see me fail
 
You will cut and paste, and try to change until I'm torn in two
Re-arranged, your common sense, can't change your point of view

It is no use pretending
that I'm the perfect blend
You will have to bend the rules of love
to hold me as a friend


________________________________________________
11/21/16
Contest: CREEP
Sponsor: Silent One


Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2016


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A Self-indulgent Rant

I'm getting frustrated, uneasy.
I'm losing a brain cell or two;
one naturally, the other donated.
Yet, what I've lost is nothing,
nothing at all in comparison.
But, something has gone,
and I can't get it back.
I can't find comfort with a pen;
I write, but the cathartic wizard
won't come to call.

I'm lost, disengaged.
I feel like a plastic spatula
in a bunch of aromatic roses,
and I'm not even the same colour.
I'm boxed in, captive to compliance.
I'm cornered by sheepdogs,
keen to pen my reluctance to conform.
Conformity was never my metier;
I'm disturbed by hands that seek to shape me.
I'm generally satisfied with my shape,
and resent the eager hands at the potter's wheel.

I'm trying to stir up some passion,
but I'm stuck in a stodgy gloop;
bogged down and ineffective.
My every action is being analysed,
trimmed to suit some glorious norm
of which I want no part.
I'm increasingly detached from
the actions and beliefs of others;
my arrogance fuelled by perceived belligerence.

I've had enough of piranhas in the hot tub:
a fish supper's in order!
Catch a lizard by the tail,
and all you'll have is its tail.

Peace.

How I need a kindred spirit,
I've been my own for too long.
But hey! Welcome to my world.
You grace me with your presence.
Put down your sword;
I have an olive branch at hand.





Copyright © Jonathan French | Year Posted 2017