a few of mine, diversity and regrets included

each silvered drop
shines me
hydrates this shabby soul
cools and moistens
breathes me in
absorbs me
till i'm clean as rain
stretching up my hands to touch
the pristine skies again
 
everything's muffled
dis
connected
and the sun's too flat too hard too bright

late night
 
live writes bounce

like pebbles off the window
or hail reversing its long long fall in a sudden leap
exhibiting its need to be airborne moments longer
so as to delay the moment of its melt

we hit the plane and bounce in shock
attempting to engineer a reversal of thoughts committed to screen
but gravity sucks us in
and in

we melt
here
right before your eyes
 
an apology to a poet

it was never my intention
to ride roughshod
never my intention
to burn
forget to think
before I 'spoke' -
your pain
a lesson learned
 
remember the days
we would sneer
at our mums
when they cheered and they beamed -
a new washing machine?

now my own's broken down
and the laundry's undone
I was told just to wait
until it could come
(the new one)

but a phonecall arrived
and the girl had her say
"there's a slot opened up
we'll deliver
Friday"

now i know history
tells us "girls, swing 'em free"
it's a sign of the times
it's emancipatory -
but I have to admit
now i know how mum felt
and my smile full of glee's
all domestically
fit to split!
 
the removing of the frames
is kind of like
freeing a waterfall to flood the sky
arc across the light
making rainbows
dangerous
 
fingers stutter
halt
hinder
flutter
breath
mutter

ooohs and

is that the moon
so bright so bright
spilling cool its pale milk light

shadows sip and shadows fold
shadows make the heart beat bold

clouds across the stone-cold orb
hush the hoof-beats
at the ford

rivers rise and rivers run
greet the rose pre-dawn till sun
comes to burn away the mists

to leave behind residual bliss
 
here you go, anna - all within the last 4 years.

and still i stare

her hands, her dress, her hair
all fail
to tear my gaze aside

from eyes
whose sadness is a shockwave
breaking over me

they say she's crazy




bleeders

with experience comes
a thinning of the blood
a coolness of the brain that
lifts the mists

and in the grass
the liars sharp as glass
are easier to see

handy that
for bleeders
such as me




estranged

how to communicate with the moon
when it sails so high
so lofty
a blind eye
indifferent to semaphore
and ill-equipped to receive thoughts
launched
in a rocketship




dawn raid


black shapes
with their black sounds
drop black tears on a
sleeping city

day erupts
bright with pain





love comes quietly


there is no grand parade, no clarion call
for magic happens in quiet quarters
small gestures, in the catching of an eye
back alleyways, the vistas of a sigh
in dusk's cool plums - that backdrop to starlight
and mists across the moon on autumn nights.

laughter, warm and fresh, can swell a heart
enmesh it, happily, and two hands held
in firelight's soft red and embered glow
will hold the memory of that touch although
the snow lays all around, and freezing hail
vies with the bitter wind to no avail.

Time teaches us best listen to the breeze
for truths are small and love comes
quietly.




backsliding

on those green days
when dreams forget they've long been put aside
so easy to get lost
again




dog days

the grey dog rests
her bones in the shade
eyes half open
ears muffled by age

she's quiet except for
the wheeze of slow breathing
but make no mistake
she's watchful and smart

though stamina's failing
and teeth are half broken
she's wily and wary
still able to bite



tangled

life's a complicated maze
and my string is
full of knots



u.v glare

not an easy man to love
yet vital as the sun
he lit my days

now i know:
to fly too close risks sunburn
and the cancer of him

when his uncertain light eclipsed
i found i owned an inner heat

and when i looked into the night
the sky was full of stars - all shining




watching for boats


i stand on this island
looking out to sea
watching for boats

and if my gaze
could draw you back to me
there'd be footprints in the sand by now

but the sea's not giving up its secrets
and skies change and change again

shifting sands beneath my feet
vibrate to strange rhythms
a beat too rapid surges -
fails




spirit

it's when i close my eyes
close out the madding crush
allow the hush to come
it's at these times
these quiet, hungry times
i feel you




white flags

fingers
are better than eyes
for discovering flaws

subconsciousness
speaks truer than
the heart

lovers
march blindly with the band
hands behind their backs
bright hearts exposed




end of an ice-age


although, outside, a frozen waste
all feeling chased away and numb
the movement of her secret core
declares "No, wait! this is not done -
there's more!"

it powers through that glacial crust
vaporising all to dust
combusting quite enough to thaw
her icy status quo




a cat's tail


when tucked around her feet
the tail suggests
a state of firm composure
we can guess
at other messages
but only guess -
her eyes reveal no trace
of mental stress

she sniffs the proffered dish
but watch her tail
flick twice, abruptly, of its
own accord
then with contempt it dips
and flicks again -
to leave behind no doubts
about the meal

when neighbours' cats disturb
my wayward mog
her tail transforms, becomes
an angry snake
accompanied by much hiss
and caterwaul -
stark warning of her
felinicious wrath

when startled by some loud
or sudden noise
her tail appears to swell
to twice its size
points heavenwards, above
her saucered orbs -
a bristled flag that flags her
own surprise

when just the tip is gently
all atwitch
bird-gazing or when lazing
in the sun
with eyes three-quarters closed
and ears adrift -
she's fondly entertaining
nature's fun

for me, she saves a special
tail-ored code
a punctuation used
when i've been gone -
her furry question-mark
requests to know
where have i been and if i,
now, am home?




from the 007 Lit challenge

his thoughts are tailored
closer than his suit
those fire-ice eyes
turn away
his voice asks more
than the question he poses

I sit and think of the surf
how the water streamed from
hard flesh, scarred flesh
wonder how he'd taste on my lips

he hands me the glass
frosted and rimmed

a bead of moisture
slides down its stem
I stroke it away
taste my finger, finding salt
he swallows

*


undercover agents


when I checked out his pen
it seemed out of ink
so i started to twist
screwing its barrel

he took it from me
warned me it might expel
unexpectedly spill
said he didn't want stains
on the shag pile

no, really, he said
don't shake it that way
it'll squirt up the walls
let everyone know we were spies

suck it and see
see if it will leak
invisible ink
we can write with

trust me
he said
my word is my bond


*


some
thing about bad boys
keeps her attention
eyes liquid green
a purr in her throat

their
minds, their presence
devilish intentions
keeps her claws sheathed
paws butter-soft

she
slips from the table
stalks the red carpet
hair sleek and shining
a collar of gems

sniffs
at his bare throat
the man with the blue eyes
and with a soft growl
pours into his lap




expanded skulls

in dark delicious silence
torpid grubs burrow
their soft slow way
umber juices atrail
as they inch upwards
inwards
swollen with intent to hatch
in hot, expanded skulls




five word soup poem
:)

poems
like soup
require flavour



not everything

that springs from the soil is good
not everything organic's always wholesome
there's a certain shade of green
of white
that sprouts and dances
pretty in the light
yet harbours poisons
some more subtle than others
all of them intimate





she's cupped
in the white bowl of his thoughts

melting slowly
white on white

stirs her with a lazy finger
brings it to his lips

then sighs
bored with vanilla

if only he'd added
some sauce to the occasion




positive thinking


in a dark and burning world
where even ice catches fire
where skies peel
and the soil is sour
where howlback oscillates
cinder cone to horizon
a shabby soul
may yet get clean

at least
that's what i tell myself




thoughts and tunes - a study in light and shade


half her face is lit
that half furthest from his back
light weighs on his shoulders
curls them inwards
away from her
and the shadows she makes on the table
and that damned half-halo
limning a mirroring curve

and he's unaware
of how her cigarette's smoke
drifts up and away
to that high, narrow window,
its passionless stare

twinned downlighters
over him
over her
shaded thoughts
shaded faces
and though his nose and lips are
lined with light
his eyes are closed

the shadows are speaking
along with the light
listen, you'll hear them
the smokey stroke of ivory
shadows in a wordless voice

and on the table
fourset and square
the handbag
closed
makes shades of its own

she's all closed
arm closing him out
reflecting his angles
nicotine and alcohol mere props in this composition

beneath fingers of light
and shade
no black keys
he brings his own shadows
at least from this angle

as her legs are angled
towards him but crossed
they deny him
she denies all of him
curtains her thoughts
and he is a curved closed shield
tender neck exposed

two chairs:

a dark gap yearns between one and the
light that still spills
on a table top

while the chair at her table
empty as empty can be
as if it's been empty a long time
no-one welcome in that chair




defined by sirens


and the sirens
the sirens
hold the night

define
in strident notes that try to tear
my skull in two
or more
i can't be sure

of anything any more
it's so surreal

i feel the fabric where i sit
its stiff nap
but fingers won't interpret
or tips translate a colour
to a brain that's all night
split
and split again

i've no spit left
with which to swallow
and my ears don't hear
the moving lips of
busy service men
my ears and eyes know nothing

numb with shock
looking at the body
stretched and tubed
obscenely pummeled
over and over

"clear!"

i worry about bruises





waves gather
shake frothy skirts
rush
and boil
crash against indifferent cliff
cling
for foaming moments
enough to stir
then fling away
away
away
eroding
stealing more




sing a song of nookie
muffins hot as pie
all the whores at Hackney
wanted overtime
and when the politicians
began to squirm and writhe
the madam came, got out her tits
and whipped them into line



egg fried rice, egg fried rice
see how he cums
see how he cums
it wasn't much of a chinese shop
but he had such a way with his bold young cock
she almost forgave him for burning the wok
and egg
fried
rice





that sounds so
dirty
in a semi-savant kind of way
intercollectual
textacollectual
like a sneer
like a soucop of disdain
a hot-house, not-house, not-got-of-this-house house
a knot of forgetmenots got basted and boasted
a shabby soufflé with a price to make your eyes water
served up in thimbles
with a 20% tip slapped on top

and yet to fall between the cracks
to slide into the new
for that brief and shining moment -
we'd most of us give our eye teeth for

but let's not fancy it up so
ponce about with labels designed more to exclude
than embrace
face to the pavement
we're all peering through
hoping to catch that small glimpse
of something we're unable to name




dangerous rainbows
threaten village and city
cascading light paints us
all shades and hues
can't make up my mind if it's solar or
deeper,
some bright affinity
under the skin

diversity mocks
the issue of colour
racists stumble wild-eyed
open
confused



live writes bounce

like pebbles off the window
or hail reversing its long long fall in a sudden leap
exhibiting its need to be airborne moments longer
so as to delay the moment of its melt

we hit the plane and bounce in shock
attempting to engineer a reversal of thoughts committed to screen
but gravity sucks us in
and in

we melt
here
right before your eyes




everything's muffled
dis
connected
and the sun's too flat too hard too bright

late night




on receiving news from the CSA

can't help but allow
a little smug ...
warm
as the mug
full of
coffee in my hand
and
the aromatic breath of steam
basting this cupped smile

at least
just for this
just for this
a simple, little while



magic


it snowed last night
it's snowing now
and in this muffled world of white
where day's misnamed
so low the light
and night's brighter
than name allows
children of all ages smile
as adults grow
from man to child




to speak of berries
crushed between fingers
squeezing out the juice of her
that ripe must
that hedonistic lust
topped only by her cries of cream



when sweet oils burn
at midnight or at dawn
smoke curls and wraps
itself about itself
tenuous fingers
subliminal scents



the mirror

the mirror
shows us other worlds
other existences

facing yourself
you find someone else




weather warning


this dirty night
drives nails of ice
deep
into hollow bones

surprised that
after all this time
the ache still finds
its shape




and look
see how the soul-suckers congregate
here
when they ought to have applied
their cold-breath need
to places
people
less holy than themselves

i hear the new Harry Potter film's
still seeking Dementors




writing is as writing does
one aches
one wears one heart
alive
on sleeves of others' making

poor poor poem
drag and drop your muddied skirts
don't stare at me
eyes so wet and wide reproachful
maybe then another day
when your composure may then be regained
you'll strut your stuff on red red carpets




Nancy, oh Nancy
Oliver-betrayor
Lover of the murderer
Sought by Lloyd-Webber
Chosen by the populace
Plump up your cleavage and
Sing!





up there
in the blue
your dark shape hurts my eyes
silhouette against the sun

looking down
you're entranced
your own shadow races
wavering over the dunes

and truly
it's far more interesting






one day i looked up at you
saw that i
was the dunes
you relied on my ripples
to make you appear
fascinating




ah, circe,
herb-wise and generous
with her cheese and honeyed meal
so sweet to serve up magic on a plate
how apt - pigs to pigs
ah - not so fair, those words
sailors ways are not the most refined, but pigs?
perhaps it was a porkie of a tail -
no mind

just as well the one kept wits
about his precious hide and
made off to warn Odysseus

and Herme smiled
bestowed a gift
to change the pace
to change the outcome of the tail
and Batman gleaned his Robin's cry of
Holy Moly!
something new i learned.



Pasiphaë, Pasiphaë,
they really did a job on you;
where was Max Clifford when you needed a publicist?



of all the possibilities
this page affords

i still don't know if i can bring
my schtick to sing
of such deep broads and rising tides
that swell to rush and suck back down
a whirpool of i
deas

when really all's set off by you
your underwater gruff and bloom
that shudders, shivers, shatters high glass rooms
until, exposed, my core shines silver
wet but pulsing yet with scarlet
flame that's free to ..

free to ...

testing testing this be-coming word
free

free
dom's still too new for me
to know quite what to do or be

so back to possibilities
i cannot voice
i cannot vice
i cannot thrice and twice and throw the dice
and roll a pair of deuces like a
maestro
no

that's music not
a metaphor to sloppy-drop
to gamble with a score or move like props upon the dim-lit stage
thank god this bastard thing can be
erased

quick
cover me
snuff me
dry me
stop me

re
think
the brink

and stumble back from
sounding like a freak peer
ing through the muddy chink and looking for the light to ride
away

so gonna regret this




to dance
cheek to cheek
at arm's length
within reach
word-contact
cha-sssaaaaaayyyyyyy

dip
pose
then spin me away on words po-
-etic
more than prose a rose in your teeth well
maybe not the rose but flick, kick,
point and
gliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiddde

i'm more than pink content to ride
the night away as lorencino leads
paso paso
doblé me
stamp and clap and tango me
lorencino
but last
and last
and last of all
i wanna be waltzed


*john, i'm only dancin' but it turns me on - only dancin' ...*




i practise
by looking in the mirror
performing the steps
but my spatial awareness is fooled
by reversals of fortune
made mockery of
by reflections in cold panes

my hands and feet stumble
on awkwardness and misdirection
and i have to take stock
close my eyes
feeeel the beat

when i can't see myself
that's when i dance best
body knows
becomes rhythm
melody
counterpoint

open my eyes and see another
meld the moment, movement, magic
harmonising's fun




water's soft
till you hit it at speed
kinda like love

then

when you're too tired
to hold your head above the surface
you drown





cold


the end of december
is cold
so much older
so rest your head
cry a little in the dark
sparkle
a little in the dark
call my name
in the dark
it's not okay
it's ... all i know
this
writing into space
the dreadful unknown
sounds crazy, i know

i
ask you a favour
read this letter
a spectre on your desk
peel back the mask
over days over nights
it's not okay
i know
in the dark
in the dark
call my name
crazy
out of control
so much older
december is cold
 
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I like this stuff, a little ee cummings almost

ah, circe,
herb-wise and generous
with her cheese and honeyed meal
so sweet to serve up magic on a plate
how apt - pigs to pigs
ah - not so fair, those words
sailors ways are not the most refined, but pigs?
perhaps it was a porkie of a tail -
no mind

just as well the one kept wits
about his precious hide and
made off to warn Odysseus

and Herme smiled
bestowed a gift
to change the pace
to change the outcome of the tail
and Batman gleaned his Robin's cry of
Holy Moly!
something new i learned.



Pasiphaë, Pasiphaë,
they really did a job on you;
where was Max Clifford when you needed a publicist?



of all the possibilities
this page affords

i still don't know if i can bring
my schtick to sing
of such deep broads and rising tides
that swell to rush and suck back down
a whirpool of i
deas
 
i remind you of ee cummings in my live writes?

:eek:

i'll take compliments where i find 'em, if it was intended as one :D

ty
 
yeah it's good. I only think poems are good if they resemble a poet I like.

that's really odd :D for me to hear, anyway. so what happens if you stumble across someone incredibly fresh, innovative, and nothing like anyone you've read before? are they auto-binned in your thoughts? :eek: only there's nothing i enjoy more than finding a writer like that.
 
that's really odd :D for me to hear, anyway. so what happens if you stumble across someone incredibly fresh, innovative, and nothing like anyone you've read before? are they auto-binned in your thoughts? :eek: only there's nothing i enjoy more than finding a writer like that.

Very rare in my experience. I usually have to go back in time to find a writer that sounds fresh, someone I've managed to overlook. A brand new poet writing something that doesn't remind me of a past poet would be a find. There'll never be a prose poet who blows my hair way back, and prose poetry is the mode of contemporary poetry as far as the eye can see. Eight to fourteen lines, not more than 140 syllables, doesn't seem like much, but we know how difficult it is.
 
each silvered drop
shines me
hydrates this shabby soul
cools and moistens
breathes me in
absorbs me
till i'm clean as rain
stretching up my hands to touch
the pristine skies again

live writes bounce

like pebbles off the window
or hail reversing its long long fall in a sudden leap
exhibiting its need to be airborne moments longer
so as to delay the moment of its melt

we hit the plane and bounce in shock
attempting to engineer a reversal of thoughts committed to screen
but gravity sucks us in
and in

we melt
here
right before your eyes

remember the days
we would sneer
at our mums
when they cheered and they beamed -
a new washing machine?

now my own's broken down
and the laundry's undone
I was told just to wait
until it could come
(the new one)

but a phonecall arrived
and the girl had her say
"there's a slot opened up
we'll deliver
Friday"

now i know history
tells us "girls, swing 'em free"
it's a sign of the times
it's emancipatory -
but I have to admit
now i know how mum felt
and my smile full of glee's
all domestically
fit to split!

hot

tongues of firelight find
moist crevices
in my mind

I like these ones best... but I haven't gotten to the looong post yet... those look like a great bunch of poems...

I gotta say I love when people put down a whole bunch of words... I've always loved to see when a person has a huge pile of writing... All those words pouring out from somewhere, over time... Gives me goose bumps...
 
I like these ones best... but I haven't gotten to the looong post yet... those look like a great bunch of poems...

I gotta say I love when people put down a whole bunch of words... I've always loved to see when a person has a huge pile of writing... All those words pouring out from somewhere, over time... Gives me goose bumps...

oh, the long post is only some of the more recent (well, within the past 4 years and those on here since i joined) so annaswirls can get some idea of how i'm writing lately - for charley's 'guess the author of the poem' challenge.

and thanks for taking the time to read some of these and comment. :rose:
 
backsliding

on those green days
when dreams forget they've long been put aside
so easy to get lost
again



I love this.
 
and still i stare

her hands, her dress, her hair
all fail
to tear my gaze aside

from eyes
whose sadness is a shockwave
breaking over me

they say she's crazy

I like the second stanza best. (The part about the shockwave, not because I enjoy sadness in somebody's eyes LOL)




bleeders

with experience comes
a thinning of the blood
a coolness of the brain that
lifts the mists

and in the grass
the liars sharp as glass
are easier to see

handy that
for bleeders
such as me


I like how this one goes from big to small, from everybody to one. Feels like the liars are coming at her.


estranged

how to communicate with the moon
when it sails so high
so lofty
a blind eye
indifferent to semaphore
and ill-equipped to receive thoughts
launched
in a rocketship

I looked it up for myself :) I like how this poem goes from moon to rocketship

sem·a·phore
1. an apparatus for conveying information by means of visual signals, as a light whose position may be changed.
2. any of various devices for signaling by changing the position of a light, flag, etc.
3. a system of signaling, esp. a system by which a special flag is held in each hand and various positions of the arms indicate specific letters, numbers, etc.


dawn raid


black shapes
with their black sounds
drop black tears on a
sleeping city

day erupts
bright with pain


Spooky ____:)

love comes quietly


there is no grand parade, no clarion call
for magic happens in quiet quarters
small gestures, in the catching of an eye
back alleyways, the vistas of a sigh
in dusk's cool plums - that backdrop to starlight
and mists across the moon on autumn nights.

laughter, warm and fresh, can swell a heart
enmesh it, happily, and two hands held
in firelight's soft red and embered glow
will hold the memory of that touch although
the snow lays all around, and freezing hail
vies with the bitter wind to no avail.

Time teaches us best listen to the breeze
for truths are small and love comes
quietly.


Oh I LOVE although :heart:
beautiful poem
backsliding

on those green days
when dreams forget they've long been put aside
so easy to get lost
again

sounds like a song, nice
 
Last edited:
thanks a lot, Pab for your reading and comments. i'm kinda fond of that although, too :D
 
just adding a couple

from Tzara's Fool challenge:



Trojan Horse

i rode into battle
armed only with bravado and scant knowledge
searching for rats to kill
scared of what each keystroke might impart

you'd dropped your payload
deep within my walls
making a fool of me and my
sweating attempts to destroy and delete before you did

it wasn't me who opened the gates
invited you in
hidden within a gaudy gift
all show, not a thought given
to protocols

but fight you i did
desperately brave
fatalistic and waiting for that
sudden Ping of Death but
no
this fool turned jobbing carpenter
sawed the legs right off your wooden horse

ha!
 
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from UYS's Annikey challenge

c-c-c-culture versus nature


his throat is rough as grit and twice as dry
he watches as the gunman lights a smoke
the muzzle's black, hypnotic, makes him freeze
it never wavers as he whispers "why?"
but silences his question with a choke

out there on the horizon they see smoke
hangs blue and lazy, makes them wonder why -
crops or homestead? season's way too dry
but when they see the corpses all thoughts freeze
they count the bullet wounds and start to choke

the hunter trusts his gun and knows just why
the critters caught in his sights start or freeze
he never wastes a bullet and will smoke
whatever he can't eat until it's dry
come winter, larder's stocked and he'll not choke.

the cop pulls out his sidearm and yells "freeze!"
then finds the sidewalk's kiss is cold and dry
his brain attempts to make sense of this why
his breath drifts up, away, it looks like smoke
and blood jets from his neck, to make him choke

the casualty statistics make me choke
in peace or wartime, can't be swallowed dry
but, faced with figures, politicians freeze
and bumble-mouth the platitudes, that's why
the bullets fly and we breathe in their smoke
 
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so monday morning nice and early
get to spread and have my girly
bits examined, probed and swabbed

thanks goodness i don't do their job
 
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