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Dapple-throned Aphrodite,
eternal daughterf God,
snare-knitter! Don't, I beg you,

cow my heart with grief! Come,
as once when you heard my far-
off cry and, listening, stepped

from your father's house to your
gold car, to yoke the pair whose
beautiful thick-feathered wings

oaring down mid-air from heaven
carried you to light swiftly
on dark earth; then, blissful one,

smiling your immortal smile
you asked, What ailed me now that
me me call you again? What

was it that my distracted
heart most wanted? "Whom has
Persuasion to bring round now

"to your love? Who, Sappho, is
unfair to you? For, let her
run, she will soon run after;

"if she won't accept gifts, she
will one day give them; and if
she won't love you -- she soon will

"love, although unwillingly..."
If ever -- come now! Relieve
this intolerable pain!

What my heart most hopes will
happen, make happen; you your-
self join forces on my side!
RF Aug 2013
When I have the dream
that I am pulling him
from the castle, by such
crude force, and I dream that
Otto, my dawn compatriot,
has him by the collar
face down
I feel myself out of that
assumed body, still present in
the scene – and each time
I recourse to the knowledge
that the lake has a great depth,
an unknown depth at its deepest point
So when the ripples are subsiding
When Otto stands in that detumescent
pose, I look very simply and solemnly
at the water, and my outside self
just above
is revelling in recourse to
the lake's unknown depth.
The beast I am
cannot know the serenity in that great depth

With that in mind
I long to plunge him, to
plunge my surrogate frame into
that beautiful water
among the weeds, the trout and
the body
And dive
in nervous equanimity
to that depth
to know that fact
and to hold my arm out
through the deep
as a line to the surface

but I am conscious of
the approaching light
so we leave, Otto and I,
the morning sun warming
us, releasing the dew;
I know I will return
to the cold room
to erase all the lines;
spent
after the relentless
****** of a man many citizens
of my nation
suppose to be perfectly innocent

In another vision
I emerge onto the lakescene
in a slender junk
my white drapery
and my precious oaring
does much to disturb
the Guineverean twilight;
close to the bank
where the fog has receded
there are orbs
I am younger
than I have been
for some time now
and just as each movement
that I am making
in my elegant junk
strikes me as being unique
I am faced with his image
over again
in the same humour
the likeness
over again
they could not find the body
in the deep lake

I can make a confession
that I am alone on this trip
confident, though
quite old
with my husband long departed
this is a confessional piece
about when we went to the lake
and I swam
and he was watching
and we were quite young
and I thought I might marry him
and I did
and after the drying off
and the drink of water
he was telling me about Ludwig, looking out over the Starnbergersee
with his mournful eyes
I cannot say if I loved him now
I cannot say if 'summer surprised us' as the poem said
he liked the poem
his mother was named Marie
and our house had a wonderful garden
so that poem was evocative, I suppose
you could read it that way
I didnt open my body again

I often wonder if the silence
owes something to my
nightly ritual
my method of calm:
I lie very still in the dark
burrowed into the sheets
and I imagine each being
reposing in the uniform rooms
the light outside almost without colour
within, it is only I,
repeated throughout each room
and each room's little boxed being, I am
luming over the bodies
to extinguish any little vestiges
in those cognisant minds –
the memories falling;
dim petals around me
every time my hand
on a bright body
the sssssss sound
that leads to the inevitable blossom
that is falling around me
Michael W Noland Apr 2013
Gonna be
What i'm gonna be

Doesn't matter
How you sing it

I have to be
Fluid and free

It doesn't matter

Where the breeze
Takes it

They are gonna see
What they wanna see

It doesn't matter to me

They are gonna think
What they wanna think

With only half the story

It doesn't ******* matter

I'm gonna be big one day
Get stuck in a cave

And i'm gonna sing one day
Into your blades

A slave to the pain
We will float away in a daze
Of my ways straying
Through the stains
Of my disdain

And of my profanity

Happily
******* clad

For all to see

The worn scars
Of moonbeams
Puncturing my heart
With fresh starts

And of parts grown
Big enough to impart

Mourning

Oaring throw the dark

From broken homes
Of loneliness
And atonement

To your unknowing
Unto mine

Bigger
Blacker
Cloud of nine

Pull me closer
Track the mileage

See me through
Or see me out

Just shut
Your ******* mouth

hear it out

The wind
It blows

A cinder of thought

The grin
From whispers

Tickling to talk

The clock
It spins

In predictable sections

But the hand
It slows

In lesser lessons

Be a friend
Be an enemy

Just don't disrupt
The creative energy

Take me

Take me down the stream

Make me
Make me see again

But forgive me
Forgive me now

I will leave you there
Crying out

For crying out loud
From emptied stares

We can laugh
When its way back there

And nothings as barren
As it seems

Gonna be big one day
Gonna get stuck in a cave

Gonna sing to you one day
Sing to your blades

Gonna slave to your pain

And we

We will still be

Okay
Seán Mac Falls Feb 2016
A lone, lorn traveler
In silence and memory,
Writes to one flame at night
In a room where no answering
Appears, only shadows speak
With out lips to endear.  A lone
Traveler has time sutured to will
Cast in a tomb of what might have
Been.  He scrawls on chalky sheets
In the mausoleum of murk and dream,
His flame was once a face, real as now,
Filled with light unlike the later seasons
Of split rooms crowding.  So much of life
There once was to be lived, her flesh, burnt
Fertile, her eyes knowing promise, her blood
Red rains of hair, endless sojourns beyond myth
Or fable, a thousand barks, her swains over ocean
Silenced by her lips of love for you, only, a lone traveler,
Captain of all oaring ships launched from the plain shores
Of loss under a cliff so high, where his once long devoted
Before wrote a vow of love to all his follies, fates, travails
And gave her hand, to bloom of youths so glorious.
Carl Miller Feb 2019
My bedroom ceiling, I've noticed, is not perfectly smooth
A vast little land with little bumps, bruises, stains, and holes
I like to lie and think of the little battles that took place there
Just above My restless head while the nightlights sway and soothe

My brother sleeps across the room, loud, roaring, and snoring
Enough to keep Me up past midnight, enough to make Me scream
Every hiccup, belch or restless motion, tosses him up like an upset ocean
And as I lie there, growing tired, I begin to find his noises boring

My canine ears enjoy eavesdropping
On animals, cars, people and things
An airplane soaring, a gondolier oaring
The neighborhood dog growling and barking, or My sister's movie night popcorn popping

My stuffed pets lie, awake with Me too
They won't drift off to sleep until I do
I hold My stuffed dog, Rover, to My chest
Trying to sleep, at My father's behest

There will be evenings, just like this one, where I climb into bed, and lie awake at night
Where sleep will cleverly evade Me, and dreams will ignore My every plea
But blessed am I, to be safe in My bed, safe in My home, safe with My family
There's always a chance, that You can drift off to sleep, as soon as You turn out the ceiling's light
Written 02/06/19

Everyone has nights where they can't fall asleep. I wrote this late one of those nights. And this poem transcends My every thought when I think of drifting off to sleep. Feel free to give this one a read if You're feeling sleepless. God Bless.

-Carl
Seán Mac Falls Jun 2017
.
A lone, lorn traveler
In silence and memory,
Writes to one flame at night
In a room where no answering
Appears, only shadows speak
With out lips to endear.  A lone
Traveler has time sutured to will
Cast in a tomb of what might have
Been.  He scrawls on chalky sheets
In the mausoleum of murk and dream,
His flame was once a face, real as now,
Filled with light unlike the later seasons
Of split rooms crowding.  So much of life
There once was to be lived, her flesh, burnt
Fertile, her eyes knowing promise, her blood
Red rains of hair, endless sojourns beyond myth
Or fable, a thousand barks, her swains over ocean
Silenced by her lips of love for you, only, a lone traveler,
Captain of all oaring ships launched from the plain shores
Of loss under a cliff so high, where his once long devoted
Before wrote a vow of love to all his follies, fates, travails
And gave her hand, to bloom of youths so glorious.
.
Mike Adam Apr 2016
water boatman oaring
surface tension

lotus floating
tadpole below
snail mudsliding

koi refracting

frog jumps in

SPLASH!
Penelope Winter Jul 2017
S oaring over cotton clouds, so close you can feel them
E levation rising, even the peaceful feel butterflies
V ery little leg room, time to pace the aisles
E astward we fly, the Atlantic waves wave from below
N othing compares to watching the Sun rise from a front row seat in heaven

H ow magical, and powerful, to glide with the wings of an industrial bluebird
O ver mountains and skylines, even skyscrapers become building blocks, leaving nothing left to be awed
U ltraviolet rays weave by on their way to scorch soft skins
R estless temper tantrums of rebellious winds cause turbulence

F lying with my head in the clouds
L iterally
I think of how many miles each passing minute puts between us
G ently but surely this machine pulls me away from your embrace
H ow long these next few weeks will last
T il I see you, back home, again

- p. winter
A quick poem during a long, seven hour flight away from home...
T R S Mar 2018
Joy jostled just jitters
Kidding, kindness kindled
Lots, lowered lifted, leaving life, leaving love
Missing mindful mana, making mindbreak messes
Nothing nestles, nothing nests, Nothing needs no nowhere
Only owning our own oars, oaring on
People pawn past pieces
Quit quiting, queerly quizing
Row, Row roundly rays round
Softly shade. Sowing softness, sounds slick, so supple
Take timid, take trouble.
Dennis Willis Feb 2019
I've got a vibe
I've got an energy source

Thrumming
and humming
and summing

Additive waves
helloing
in ever higher
notes

Letting them run
through
me

No panic no friction
and they do not stretch me out

Clenching on time
ages you fiercely

Upstream and downstream
equally wet

Dealing the difference
'twixt analogs 'n' ions

I am time
hardening

into now
that fragile all

and I am not
my mind
on some absent minded
tether
skittering vaguely
about what appears to be
my actual life
partially oaring
itself
to sure



Copyright@2019 Dennis Willis
Orakhal Jun 2020
The subtle cuts high sail
Nips to the heel of a trepid surge
A courtesy bends in its open fern
Recoiling its claim into remembrance
Heaping pose on the dead dark glut
Neath its oaring heave

In base the bluff kerbs no intent to a swift swallow
Perching its down on the widows yern
Its close fervent smish haps placid
Again the blighty moor
Stone as cold in its nest of negation

Pressing her pulse to symphatic  nuture
Her tempered tender tongues its way
Taming its shrew to the cain of Eel and arrow
Its slip , sharp across the eery veil of guilting
Pierces deep to the dull *****
Birthing its pangs upon the sickly clad
Thickened to stew in slithe and slither


Ruse
Hollows pale
Filling every mercy to its brim
Belting its breath to a brazin bow of command
Its fleet stale as marrow
Plunder its slackened writ
Steadfast on beam
Her Blood Red Compass

— The End —