Poet - Hello Poetry

Nov 2011

Angie Sea

When I let the ink drip out
of the infinite space
I call mine
it no longer belongs to me

You may read it as you do
if you read it at all
For I am drawing my heart out
and the pictures are all there

Nov 2011

spysgrandson

On the Nature of Writing—A Simple Rhyme

I write for me, not for thee
I write for me, in order to see
the things to which I might otherwise be blind
to rummage among ruins to see what I may find

I write not to create mystery,
nor to unravel history
not to fill my pockets with gold
or even have words for others to behold

because I write for me

when words scar a clean white page
like some tiny creatures released from a cage
I pause long enough to explore
why I opened their door

they were not asleep but only hiding
and when I allowed their silent gliding
I had to follow their puzzling trail
like they led to some great holy grail

And when I saw they did not end
but they like I could only pretend
I paused long enough to breathe
and finally to conceive

I write for me, and not for thee

so even if I don’t understand
the nature of this literary land
the words still keep walking
and my eyes keep stalking
the path I take for me,
but not for thee

Oct 2011

spysgrandson

Old Lyrics

(Old Lyrics referring to those heard from "vinyl" albums of the 1960s)

from dusty cardboard covers
and winged time that flew by
oh poetic ponderous parchment
you have become my sacrament
my sense and soul, my mind’s eye

my grandchild cries in the background
faux fighting to stay awake
while I sit in monitored light
distracted by her playful plight
penning lines for others to partake

some have scripture and prayer
to make their journey into the divine
I plunk rhapsodic rhyme on an electric page
inspired by what I read in a golden age
now seen by me in tragic decline

so I whisper words of the mystical muse
and let them be my guiding light
and weave me through this tangled dream
like some moonbeam on a trickling stream
flowing into my deepening night

Oct 2011

spysgrandson

Dreamy White Winged Water Walker

white winged water walker
filled my dreamy head
sliding, gliding on shimmering glass
far from my land locked bed

once a child and filled with awe
my visions shamelessly bold
a water walker I would be
and straw could turn to gold

but spinning orbs wash one with age
and weight one's wings with years
and flights of endless prowess
are grounded by groundless fears

yet when blind night blocks the light
and one's mind is allowed to explore
childhood's chirping vision
is again allowed to soar

Oct 2011

spysgrandson

in the dead of night

in the dead
of night
I write
for 'tis then when my thoughts are draped
like soggy towels on a sagging clothesline
but in the light
of pestering day
they
bounce around like busy buzzing bees
in a place I call my head
so in the dead
of night
I write
and squeeze what I can
from those soul soaked rags
hoping what flows won't be like tears
or some sanguine soup to **** my fears
for in the dead of night
I write
not to purge my heavy heart
of pain and grief
but to come closer to true belief

Oct 2011

Brandon

Writing Room

my eyelids feel heavy
it's been too many hours
since i recall what sleep felt like
my hair and beard are a disheveled wreck

working on my sixteenth whiskey sour
On the rocks, hold the fruit
and smoking another cigarette
countless crumbled packs sit empty
on my hardwood desk and the surrounding floor

it's a mess in this darkened writing room
lit only by the computer screen
and one dying lantern soon to extinguish its flame

outside the snow continues to fall
piling high and deep
pulling the frigid chill of white
into my writing room

my fingers caress the keys
of this battered keyboard
stained with ashes, alcohol,
and things i couldn't even guess upon

nothing of any good quality being written

words i've used before
words i've used incorrectly
words i am past the stages of being tired of using
words i've given up on

i listen to listener, orchid, saetia, envy
and more bands that no one has ever heard of
screaming poetry thru the worn out turntable

aggravated by the fact that i have to keep changing sides
but appreciative of each records quirks and pops
i continue listening to the echo of their verses

i should just give up, give into failure, i'm good at it
but i can't, even in this disheartened state

somewhere between the flipping of records and the
bombardment of keys being slammed
my lantern finally dies
leaving me in the glow of my computer

and the warmth of another whiskey sour

in my writing room i am left lingering
haunted with the words that i am choked upon
haunted with the last page of my story
haunted with these final words:

The End.

Sep 2011

Brandon

Poet.

Write insanely
                                        It doesn’t matter what you write
                  Incoherent ramblings or poetic rhymes
                                                          Clean-shaven in youth
Grizzled beard in the wisdom of age
                       Wear a distinctive cap
       Strategically placed without a care
                                                             Or none at all
                     but ALWAYS keep MeSSy hair
    Dress up from others throwaways
                                              Or dress to the nines
                                                                   Clean suit and all
                                        But most importantly
                                                Write insanely

Sep 2011

Brandon

We Are Not Afraid

Lost somewhere along a missing mile
Far passed a forgotten house
Sheltered in vines
A twin dream
Of a tree branch
Hanging over the highway
We are not afraid
Drawn and inked
Covered in splattered blood
A lost soul drifting
Coloring the walls with crayon
We are not afraid
Ghost dreams
As the spider weaves its web
Spirits calling
From across the antique mountains
Nothing is sacred here
An exit was promised
Somewhere past the horizon
We are not afraid
Nothing is sacred here

Sep 2011

Rob

Scylla and Charybdis

So what of love,
Hearts burning fire,
Impaled on the horns of pain and desire,
A villain made true; honest man to a liar
In wretched quest for an abstract that’s higher

And if, perchance, they should vanquish their need,
Will he or she to true love concede
Or never quite sure of heart’s fine intention
Smother such dreams with stifling convention
Then, dastardly torn, twixt right and true
Sully their soul with transitory muse

In fear of the power that thunders within
And a promise once made, to never give in
For the Poet’s dilemma in this miraculous life
Is that when blessed with love, ‘tis oft coupled with strife.

Aug 2011

Helios Rietberg

Ascension

It's raining
Beastly thudding down on the warped iron
Time and universe spinning on the axes of doubt
And we dance like there was no other way out of it

It's raining
Slipping down the courtyard of breeze
Climbing the ascension to the mountains of the gods
Scaling the pits of our own little daemonium

It's raining
Ringing in my ears there are
Yellowed jackets and fighting roars
Decrepit words of the random past

It rains
Like thunder and lightning make no sense
Pouring into the concrete jungles and sealing
Sentience in its benevolent hands

Spiders grasp our flesh
Tear it apart
Who would say otherwise?
Take it and rend
Rend and grate

Whispers of the darkness
resound in my head.

Feb 2011

kevin g

ether

the seconds chisel the ice;
the thaw, it has begun.
as old woes come to die,
new paths are clear in view,
if distant and unwanted.

return to past hallucinations,
don't trust your withering eye,
and always have in mind
the sad contempt you held
for him. (but who am i?)

old world across the ocean,
torment me with vivid lies.
i ask for salvation
and all i get is you,
ether, slipping between my trembling fingers.

she had an accident
but all i can do is drink,
until the scars and bruises
dissolve and melt into
the atlantic, or at least the bath water.

i read because i must,
and listen to the beats
that others love to death
but i just want
to get laid (but what do i know?)

i fear that god has made me so
no living soul will comprehend
that i don't mean harm
when i do the things
that hurt the most.

dread and happiness comingle,
like awkward exes at a party,
their hands touch at the punch bowl,
but they were never really
in love to start.

march 30th, 2009