I stoked the fire, you drank the flame.
I poured out my soul, you ditched the game.
I'm gutted, bone dry, howling in pain -
You reeled me in, gave nothing back again.
Black hole love — you ripped me apart.
I'm holding the line, playing my part.
I gave and gave, you drained and drained.
How did our love become so unchained?
Oh Black Hole Love,
I Give, You Suck,
Getting nothing back, in return.
I'm calling All-in!
Black Hole Love, Black Hole Love.
You twist my pleas - I'm on my knees.
Let's play it straight, oh, baby please!
All I want is some fire back from you.
Not choking smoke on black strap blue.
I won't break for you, anymore.
I'm standing, knocking on your door.
I want to love you more and more.
You're the only one that I adore.
Oh Black Hole Love.
I Give, You Suck,
Getting nothing back, in return.
I'm calling All-in!
I won't break for you!
No more, No more!
Black Hole Love ...
Black Hole Love!
of what use is poetry if insipid
it borders on wicked
words can lift the heart
restore the soul ~ or
drain the hope-supply
in a world gone bone-dry
There's a water shortage in countries,
especially where there's strife,
and air conditioning is needed,
to lead a pleasant life.
We also have bone-dry Bermuda
where, except for 5" monthly rainfall,
collected in cisterns or brought by tanker ship,
there's no water to be had at all.
Attempting to inform the people in power,
an endeavour which failed of course,
what every island AC emits,
and it's their free drinking source.
As AC units create water naturally,
on average 5 to 20 gallons
of condensate per day,
producing H2O from humidity,
it's a crime to let it waste away.
It may be but a drop in the bucket,
and yet, place a clean container,
when the unit is switched on,
to collect the drips
of distilled water, safe to imbibe,
below the condensation drain,
and you may have a million sips
again and again and again.
We did not speak of rain;
only the wish that our love
could be again.
The air was bone-dry,
with only the merest glimpse,
of wispy cloud remnants,
in the sky.
But, our thoughts, hopes and wishes
coalesced to form empty
puffy, fluffy, white cloud receptacles.
That we could seed with intent,
by prying drops, one at a time,
from memories long forgotten
gone bone dry.
We tapped our reminiscences,
of the good times we shared,
buried deep in our dry parched ground.
We sent each droplet squeezed,
aloft to gather
in the clouds above.
The clouds darkened with foreboding,
reluctance and trepidation,
as their burden grew
with expectation overdue.
At last, the clouds,
topped up to brimming full,
could hold on no longer!
They burst and gushed out with raindrops.
That toppled on our heads,
sprouting our seeds,
watered from the clouds above,
seeded with our love.
a whisper of loss
a phantom lace
a ghostly touch
fingers close, cold to taste
lingers laughter
cracked bone-dry air
the clock chimes midnight
it is backward here
in this abyss of my mind
seconds falling on stone
on the graves of yesterday
hear the echoes, love, disdain
in the vacant halls
in the dark falls
a broken prayer
on lips of ash
moonlights a skeletal grin
into the labyrinthine memory
where shadows dance your form
I trace the ghost of your hand
cold on my unforgiving heart, glass
yearning sharp
it tastes of rust and rain
they say the living move on
a slow crawl toward the light
the light of man is a lie
a cruel invention
a brutal intention
my mind spins wildly
to your absence, I fly
silent screams of a world
you no longer need
in obsidian depths
where stars are swallowed
we can finally intertwine
two fragments, a shattered dream
I am adrift in the abyss
in the inferno of night
Body rejects itself,
Bone-dry and like a furnace,
It burns alive, kill
It is sand, dead
Dig two graves,
Refuse to rot,
This isn’t revenge.
Hate the body,
It’s nothing but problematic.
One ear open,
Stay somewhat conscious.
Maggots crawl in the body, tearing under the skin,
Refuse to rot, feel it inside-out.
Fling a rope,
It will not reach,
YOUR BODY isn’t strong enough.
Half expected inspiration to fill the air
while I endeavoured to write a poem.
A curse responding much like a veil
reigns over the moonless night while
out my window no stars come into view
and the silence feels perceptively eerie
~ my pen bone dry.
Submitted on March 27, 2025 to contest YOUR CHOICE F sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - Honorable Mention
You marrow-deep in the bone-dry field,
sprawled like a wishbone snapped wrong-
the ground drinks your weight,
but won't swallow you whole.
wind combs its fingers through the wheat,
a mother's touch turned phantom.
That house- small as a postage stamp,
licked, sealed, and sent too far-
waits with its back turned.
your arms are bridges to nowhere,
your legs, two broken clock hands,
stuck in a time that does not move.
still, your gaze- sharp as a knife-edge moon-
slices the dance like a butcher's twine.
the land here is a tight-lipped secret,
a locked jaw of yellowed grass,
a lungful of dust that never exhales.
you wear silence like a second skin,
but your eyes, keen as a needle bite,
thread the gap between longing and gravity.
eagle-eyed girl, you have the hunters staring,
but the hunted bones
tell me- does the sky ever blink first?
The steady beat of rain on my head
I glance at the sidewalk
It glances at me
bone dry as can be ~
Are we alive or dead, verily
Santa is on the road, ready to fly.
It’s raining in Minnesota, no lie.
He scratches his snowy beard with a sigh.
Reindeer and sleigh will not get very high.
Kids must get their gifts so he says goodbye
to Mrs. Claus and the elves that certify
the flight though it’s raining tonight. Red-eye
of chief elf unique, it breaches each sky.
Gifts must be delivered by North Pole guy.
It’s raining, no snow, unusual sky
with Minnesota travel that’s bone dry
of flurries. Request of Santa’s supply
though the weather is not frightful, no lie.
He came. He went. Cookies and milk bye-bye.
Whiskers of time brush up
'gainst gossamer silk web
Slow down, slow down, they said
'Til forces impure
back off their attack
Faced down, turned-around
bone-dry bled
We are the withdrawal
on a dappled day
White Vultures Swarm
bone dry is the day,
Now our lives are hasten
We are cheek by Jowl
Giant lies interlude
Secret tunes of cabbages and Kings
burgled routes to strawn away
In the last peek of love
A giant hope glistens to espy
Be wary of the ebb of tide
that strands your woes,
bone-dry up on the high dry side.
See how the winds of sorrow do blow.
Right over the mud flats of despair they go.
Desiccating all remnants of life,
that the flooding tide brought in.
Leaving only a trickle of fickle fate
to bleed back down in rivulets into the sea.
Woe betide the stench of mud exposed
wafting up to sting the nose.
Woe betide, the heart torn forlorn,
By sorrows deep, and sad burdens borne.
Oh, woe betide, the weary worn soul,
That struggles through life's endless toll.
Each step a stumble, each breath a sigh,
Strangling the hope out of dreams, that die.
So get back up, stand up straight and tall
in the muddy ooze beside yourself
and call the tide back in.
A rising sun casting apricot upon the eastern sky
Then clear illumination sunbeams were shining bright
Above in the shadows, prune-plum purple bone dry
So cold below, feeling nature has gone awry
Shivering, close the door to avoid frostbite despite
A rising sun casting apricot upon the eastern sky
Informing us of science knowledge, that nature can defy
The color purple and cold co-exist is the insight
Above in the shadows, prune-plum purple bone dry
Wondering what colors tonight will the moonlight supply?
Could there be colors to match aurora borealis after this skylight
A rising sun casting apricot upon the eastern sky
Each sunrise different, colors change, sometimes almost zip by
Mostly in the cold months purple, cobalt impresses a troglodyte
Above in the shadows, prune-plum purple bone dry
What will happen at sunset when we bid the sun goodbye?
Then in the morning what will we see at first light?
A rising sun casting apricot upon the eastern sky
Above in the shadows prune-plum purple bone dry
Written: 11/21/2022
Sponsor: Milton
Lie low, as the noise whizzes by
overhead, side to side, undertow
Echoes reverberate ‘cross the canyon
plunge into the bone-dry riverbank
~ Lie low, as the noise whizzes by
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