Best Leak Out Poems
Of a souls none are whole, all have holes.
Memories untold, lives unheard, Pains undiscovered, and sorrowful tolls.
Hidden and veiled, they persevere their closed hearts
We close the lid, fill it up each day until the glass cracks and our souls leak out.
Patched up fast, and we hide the cracks till we break again.
Endless cycle, permanently broken, and temporarily repaired.
Examples for history that no one learns.
Entrusted to the special, only to be betrayed and judged .
Maybe why no one trusts anymore.
The world fears each other's judgement.
Brother turns on brother, friend on friend.
Why must we judge what we don't understand?
We tear ourselves and everyone else around use apart.
To hate is to love, to love is to hate.
One cannot exist without the other.
A way of life we have created with fear of what we don't know.
Southwold (Suffolk).
Dear Southwold
How I love to visit you,
To stand barefoot,
On your bright yellow sandy beaches,
To stand and admire your pretty streets,
Your glowing white Lighthouse,
and your quirky Pier.
Your cottage homes
Framed like calendar pictures,
Decorated with,
Striking lavender gardens,
Gardens that smell,
Like a small piece of heaven.
Your Front room windows,
That draw in,
Visiting Strangers eyes,
Eyes that long to glimpse into
someone else’s
World.
But Southwold,
There is something missing now.
Like a silent person,
Whom has lost their song,
Your homely cottages,
and Victorian shop fronts,
Now just a Theaters stage,
For the rich,
and their Summer homes.
For when Autumn leaves start to fall,
and the dark clouds of winter,
Descent upon your tidy streets,
The sound of laughing children,
Parents shouting,
Old people chatting,
They have all gone.
For now,
These Suffolk bricks,
The playthings
of a wealthy few,
To rent out or Second homes,
Changing rooms for the beach,
For dinner parties.
To Wipe clean sandy feet,
and to sleep off the summer sun.
But Southwold,
I still love you,
And I wish to return,
To stand and pick summer lavender,
From your cottage gardens,
To Roll it gently between my fingers,
Until its oils leak out,
and provide me,
With a small glimpse
Of Heaven.
John Roberts August 2017
I have a capacity for love
that stretches every time he makes me
a dust-mote in the iridescent
ocean of eye-light.
I’m suspended in time and in
place, yet I swell.
I know I could grow forever,
glittering like amethysts and pearls before swine
until I puncture the universe
and leak out in increments
through the stratosphere.
He makes me stop breathing
and still go on
-heedless, regardless, relentless-
I could suck the stars dry,
but until my lips touch his
I’m only this:
The air you hold in your lungs too long
before your first time flying.
I sat down many times to write a letter to you. I could never figure out what to say after the greeting. Have you ever felt the same way? To begin a letter and never have a single word to say because you begin and end my sentences? That's what the most sincere form of love is... What did you say?... Yes, and it is the best home baked bread since apple pie too... Oh, I just love you! How can I contain my heart from allowing these emotions to leak out? Perhaps I will sit back down and try to formulate the perfect letter! Or perhaps I will just call you? I can never make up my mind!
Funny; relationships. I was never good at them. How about you? I made it to the two week mark and then I just threw in the towel. I have ran out of towels and I have run out of glue too. There is not a single word left to be said and I still can't come up with a single word to write to you. Back to the drawing board again!
g. rix
1-12-15
What was up with all that mix with the keys?
The weed?
The transfer of seed?
Undone,
not unlike me,
I come into a tree-
and randomly free myself of my street,
I come up on a beat,
and leak out my literal leaf,
and ache at the pillory awaiting the generation of me.
I don’t want nothin’ bad to happen,
but what does one trigger hand have in battle?
I would rather the peace be kept,
and my life be given instead,
I would rather a dead man be kept,
than his resurrection come once again-
I would hate heaven to see me,
when I curse at people who don’t see me,
I would adapt to another's kin,
if he didn’t feel the need to always resurrect them…
Have you ever noticed how
raunchy our children can smell?
Like the stench that arises
from, say, a rotting seashell.
It's true; cohabitation
can impose a certain stink.
But family ignores it,
despite what others might think.
Sometimes a polite request
is personal and discreet.
And other times, dad might yell,
for God's sake, go wash your feet.
Baths are most often paid for
when odors can't be ignored.
Perhaps you'll offer a toy
or some treat as a reward.
When they sit on an incline,
foul gasses tend to leak out.
And with a rubicund blush,
they'll blame the dog, no doubt.
We have learned to tolerate
most odors floating around.
But those silent, deadly farts
are the grossest smell, hands down.
(Quatrain)
3/5/2015
-Time's a ticking, minutes pass by.
It's hindering my psychic, I do fear.
A blip, a word, two, then three words leak out-
Raining on my windowpanes,
-A brain hiccup, come on Connie, think-think,
Nerve-racking this 5 minute poem, but wait, flowing again-
Sweetly serenading me to sleep,
And washing this troubled day away.
Lighting strike, rumble, boom, crash,
-No more loose thoughts tumbling out.
My brain has downshifted to a lower IQ.
Challenged and frustrated with this timed poem.
05/14/2013
For contest, '5 Minute Challenge'
Many times I pass my old
home remembering the
many past times that were
birthed there, like a new-born
child coming into the world;
purity is untarnished and whole.
Memories encrusted in its walls,
slowly being covered with cobwebs
and dust created by unknown spirits.
Many pasts become tainted with
unwanted and unwelcome entities that
many become false and are then forgotten,
like a sudden wave of resistance.
As hollow as it may seem life itself
creates voids that may never be filled,
like a newly created crater; a dent in
one’s life.
Regardless of what path I follow
it is surely going to fork;
confusion thrives in these unknown
areas of one’s life.
My past becomes hollow causing endless
memories to leak out; forgetfulness is
not known in my own little world for
my inner being seeps out of my very own
skin, like moisture owned by the earth
we walk on.
Hollow pasts are becoming one
with nature for each of us
are created by this misunderstood
entity for many underestimate
its strength and destructive essence.
Memories become something of the past,
regardless of how often they are created;
each one becomes text in one’s unwritten
autobiography.
Hollow pasts?
They are something of the unseen future,
alone and endured by many.
glad
in crux
near the gloom
that light nudge me
when it gets anxious
concerns that might leak out
my burrows are firmly couched
not a fiend nor a darling star
they thrust as the night sky gained their sight.
yet, both sorts score their way to my shoulder.
There's a whole in my bucket
There is a hole in my bucket, and I can't use it.
It's not the whole bucket that has a hole otherwise it would not exist.
If there were many holes in the bucket, you could say it was a holey bucket
but that would not make it a holy bucket.
That would only be used for a special purpose like worship.
But who really needs a holy bucket anyways?
Who needs a holey bucket? No one!
A whole bucket of water would be good,
but obviously if there was a lot of holes that would not make it holey water as the water would leak out, it would not be holy water either as it would be dirty as it fell to the ground.
See the problem?
John Derek Hamilton
March 15,2016
Watching the festering global sores of mankind
This propaganda called news, has on rewind
Images are shown for their shock value
Then compromise the effect with their marginal views
Atrocities are shown, religious zealots leak out
But the story's one sided, free thinkers have doubts
Political pundits push, independence for all
Third world economies propped up from the fall
Global warming is real, eager scientists report
Our president's vacationing at a private resort
The impoverished are starving, the land of milk and honey
Abundance receding, the food banks want money
Hatred and bigotry, open wounds from the past
With military surplus, revolutionaries are gassed
This relentless bombardment is numbing our senses
While access to our country is being prohibited by fences
Our children aren't safe, their education is lacking
International larceny from subsidized hacking
Opinions are based on the images we see
Ephemeral sadness declines instantly
This biased information, which we receive
Is one sided and filtered, leaving us deceived
an original poem by the "poemdog" Daniel Turner
I. Daybreak
what glint of morning
is this where the rusty bloom of chain link fences
cuts the turf of rowhouses
the weeds still talk with the legs
of crickets as the post-dawn moon
fades like a bubble
here the old Norges and RCAs
the transmissions extracted like tongues
make tombstones in the yard
the scattered habits of a mechanic
early chests exhale
crankshafts turn
Chevrolets on storm
are fused to the moment
breaking thunder from the curb
II. Kids
dirt streaked
all our bellies were round
dirt streaked
consulting our nerves with
wide open lungs
dirt streaked
we all ate dirt
dug tunnels
played trucks
dirt streaked
the swing set whistled
rocking hard
in the recesses
of an afternoon
III. Locked
the day lost in some
file of physical laws
was locked like the hands of the typist
locked like beer cans on the porch
where a laborer reads want ads
fixed like the eyes of the
police
it’s why chained dogs
never stop barking
why housewives keep doing
their laundry
IV. Production
nothing to lose
come welders with your brilliant rods
disarm the dark where the cracks of hell
leak out
come secretaries
run with the wolves again*
migrant workers sing
the bosses don’t know the words
for the prints of innocent men
still grip the prison walls
the halls of high schools
still murder the breath
of the original
cab drivers
pocket the secrets of Washington
coal miners
dig loose the words
hiding under Kentucky
the graveyard shift will begin
when the city simmers
the pot of a quiet army
let them tell
no loss but the threat
of collectors
no loss but the sweat of
your palms
* Taken from an old folktale
Published Black Buzzard Press 1982
I’m about to die
But before I do,
let me tell you why
There was a savage battle
between some Apache scouts and my frontier men
And as they like to say
down by the Texas border,
it was a Mexican standoff
Neither side could gain an advantage
We both were dug in at the mountain pass
Blocked by the hard rain and fierce storm winds,
death by attrition started to set in
Three days struggling to weather the storm,
one by one, each side started to succumb
Until it was down to just me ... and one Apache
Then the weather broke the other way,
desert conditions brought a taste of hell you could say
The Apache stood in the way of me getting through
the mountain pass
So I made a mad dash the other way,
into the barren badlands
Thought I was safe, tucked behind a hill,
as he gave chase
I wiped my head with my tin canteen
Refreshingly cool it was to me
And I had an idle thought: to a desert rat,
the canteen was the best thing ever invented by man
But that brief distracting thought
may have just cost me my life,
for I lost track of the Apache hunting me
I cautiously raised my head to see
just where he might be
Unfortunately, I gave him a little too much sight
And a shot rang out, and I felt like it hit me
I felt numb for a moment, but I didn’t feel no pain
... I checked my body and laughed, saying to myself he missed me
But then I had a damning epiphany: he missed me on purpose!
A few inches off from hitting my heart,
instead he hit something that made me bleed out all hope ...
he hit my canteen
And I saw most of my water leak out, before I could patch it up
That Apache wanted me to die a slow, agonizing death
No swift bullet was he gonna give me
He knows that a man in the desert without his canteen,
is a dead man walking
So, I know I’m about to die soon,
probably got less than three moons
Pinned behind a rock,
and down to my last bullets too,
I hate thinking about what I never wanted to
My enemy has won
because he shot with deadly, unmerciful precision
I thought he was a few inches off,
but he was right on the mark
A dry canteen signifies my hope empty heart
A stab in the back,
a feeling that I cannot squelch,
a horrible impending heartbreak,
as the news leak out,
time seems to stop knowing,
that you have caught him,
in your home with not you,
but your, best friend.
he tries to make it up,
saying to just move on like it never happened,
but your trust is shattered like;
a thousand tiny pieces of glass
waiting to sinking in your flesh to hurt,
and betray you once again.
a cheaters lie of saying I love you.
yet knowing its not the truth.
I lived there, listening
In the turmoil of the trailer park
For many years, through tears
Time passed by as I watched people
Move in and out, in and out
Never staying there for too long
I wonder where they’ve all gone
The moments ticked on, moving
Across second hands, along the lines
Of goodbyes and lost ties that leave
The heart feeling like it has a gap
Where the blood might leak out
I drifted to sleep at night
After whispering prayers
Huddled behind my quiet peace
There was a silent scream
Echoing through my soul without control
Not once did I dream
Of the laughter
Laughter that
Would come when
I let go of the past