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Tanner Bryan Nov 2012
Vignette, vignette, vignette
A vin yet
Have you been yette?
Vignette vignette vignette
Bus Poet Stop May 2015
dedicated to all the better poets here...*


don't know much about a quatrain
don't know how to write a refrain,
surely could not compose a
courtyard elegy
maybe after
and still untilled,
I been buried,
'n checked out
the neighborhood competition...

as for limerick,
that is Dr. Seuss
and Ogden Nash's shtick
with whom, eye,
a believed descendant,
cannot compete...

Oh dear me,  
no ode node-ed within,
as for a pastoral,
kinda hard to feat,
where I live,
a pastoral is grass cracks
surviving under,
breaking through to the other side
of concrete and blacktop rulers

Maybe one of you
will haiku,
send us a senryu,
send off, see ya!

the doc once diagnosed
a severe case of inflamed iambic pentametery,
with antibiotics and a diet of Hamletery,
was cured most satisfactorily

this silly pen-man-sinking-ship
ain't capable of dat,
boy how 'bout
an epitaph
for a graveyard stone,
should be plenty of room...
as it will be plenty short...

all eye see and all eye know
is vignettes that birth in me
walking down the street,
that's my bread and butter,
my soul's delicacies...
and moments that recorded
here, for a posteriored posterity,
as noted in my all my living
testaments,
drinking and spilling the vin,
from the uninvented igniting vignettes
that consecrate and connect our
knowing each other though odds are
we will never meet...we can yet
drink together
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Don't know much about the French I took.
But I do know that I love you,
And I know that if you love me, too,
What a wonderful world this would be."
eyes eye eye ** ** ** ha ha ha
This is the first of many poems I wrote from 1996 to 2011.  Most of my work, as you might be able to tell, is heavily influenced by the Beat school of poetry.


thunderbeat vignette

I’m fresh from an interview with you and I’m filled with more than I can bear to hold inside.  I hope you don’t mind my saying so but you were beautiful today, an elegant goddess glinting in the bohemian daylight.  I’m seeing right now that golden star dangling between your black turtlenecked ******* and I recall that tiny dark stone high on your necklace and when I held it in my fingers I had this  mad short vision of my hand repelling down the necklace letting my knuckles gently caress the curve of your ******* as they fell and kissing you and I recall how that kiss was what I really wanted even more than feeling you up.

I hope this doesn’t scare you off it’s only like what I said about spontaneous prose the idea is to get everything out get it all on the page and then go back and work on it fix it up make it pretty for history and isn’t that what’s just happened with us?  I believe it has though as is typical with human encounters things worked out just a little bit backward didn’t they moonling?  because all that talking I did all that talking and writing and explaining I practically drew you a blueprint of my beatup heart and as far as I could tell you were more bored than anything else but then I tossed all that chickenshit stuff out the window and I came back and dumped all my cards on your lovely table with just one short sentence and I was amazed to see that it was just that one short sentence that impressed you and maybe touched your heart.

I walked away from you a little shaky but proud of myself because I rediscovered my daring and I’m happy because you want to be my friend even though its probably still scary for you and things haven’t really changed.  I still have grief in my heart I’ll never escape that but maybe now my grief will be a little more bearable.  I don’t expect you to rescue me I know no one can do that and funny but I didn’t really believe it until today.  listen to me I’m making it sound like we’ll be lovebirds any minute now when really we haven’t even had coffee yet but the door is cracked now and who knows?  maybe this will lead to my secret vision of you and me as modern day beats, kerouac and ginsberg, true bohemians linked in history by our great minds and poetic spirits people will point us out and say “there they go those two” and we’ll be to all the world like brother and sister or maybe this will lead to warmth and tenderness (those fables) I really don’t know and I feel uneasy speculating it takes so much away from the moment.

but you know I am completely insane sometimes a real blank and life is such a dark sorrow but I think of you and I hear thunderbeats and drumfire and I think of how all that selfimposed frustration and exasperation can be justified so easily if this could lead to just one sweet kiss from you.
Patrick H Aug 2014
The freshly severed heads
of dandelions
explode, silently, at the gentle
puff of a child’s breath.
Their hollow stems shed milky tears;
the seedlings fill the air.
Tim Knight Dec 2012
Taken, whisked, picked from the plug,
grass grows inside crack walled shrugs,
built by hand by a northern named man.
His dog lays still in the heather,
in the fog,
on the hill,
by the river;
resting in the bleak hill town, morning weather.
pilgrims Nov 2021
In all my strength as a child
I was a pebble in someone else's shoe
and the boulder he rolled every day.
tranquil Dec 2013
sinking echoes lined upon
the purple skin of night
past a curtain of her dreams
strewn into lumpy skies

a wave of solemn emptiness
a taste of seeping prayer
be melt into a blue of dreams
and banished to despair

truly this core of twisted mind
karma in disguise
feeds upon my every pore
and trace the stony eyes

you linger on as traces still
vignette of phantom love
but into the shades of gray
chased upon by world

yet know my muse the arms of sea
were made to hold the sky
when brims of time fade to dust
my love shall survive
Gossamer Jul 2013
I look over at my clock for the fifth time in the past hour. 2:07 a.m. I pull the sheets closer to my face, as if that alone will help me fall asleep. But, as I turn to check the clock for the sixth time, it is apparent that I won’t be sleeping anytime soon. I sigh as I get out of bed and pull on his sweatshirt. It doesn’t smell like him anymore, but if I close my eyes long enough, I can sometimes remember. Sensory recall, I think; yes, that’s what it’s called. I’d just call it love, but I guess a technical term can work, too. I head over to my window; it’s already half-open, so all I have to do is remove the screen. After setting it aside, I climb through the space linking my room to the outside world. The shingles on the rooftop are gritty against my bare feet, but I don’t mind. I just like the comfort of the nighttime summer air, with its coolness and distinct scent. I gingerly tiptoe to my favorite spot on the roof; it’s not too far from my window, but it’s the highest spot. And the highest spot is the best, because it has the best view of the sky, and all the stars that encompass it. I sit down and look up. All I see above me is a dark indigo blanket, dotted with hundreds of little shining specks. I trace them with my finger, searching for the brightest one. As I do this, I begin to talk to him.
“Hey, Ash. It’s really nice out tonight. But you probably knew that already. I miss you like crazy. School’s been rough…I’m still trying to find someone as smart as you to help me with my calculus homework. English is good, though. We have to write a paper on someone we admire. Don’t tell mom, but…I think I’m gonna write about you. There’s so much I could talk about; how you chased the monsters out of my room after dad left. How you cooked me pancakes on Sundays when mom got called in to work- and how you gave each one a chocolate chip smiley face. And then there’s the time we went sledding and I tried to use my sled like a snowboard - like you did - and fell. Remember that? I couldn’t stand up on my own, so you carried me home. You were so strong- and not just physically. You were there for me when dad left. If you hadn’t been there during that first year after he moved out… I don’t know what I would’ve done. Or what mom would’ve done, for that matter. You kept us all together, Ash. You were like the glue in our broken family. And I never did get to thank you for that. I wish I could thank you in person. You know I would if I could. There are a lot of things I would say and do and….I just miss you. So much…” I stop talking to wipe a tear from my eye. I try to stifle the sobs that are threatening to escape my mouth. I have to be strong, like Asher was. I gaze up at the sky again and continue.
“I really hope you can hear me. I’d like to think you can. Mom said that you would always see us, and hear us, and feel us…but I don’t know. I just need a sign. I need to know that you’ve heard every word I’ve said on this roof for the past six months. I need to know that you’ll hear every story I’ll share for years to come. I need to know you’re still here with me somehow.” I search the sky for an answer. Nothing. Tears stream down my face, burning like a liquid flame. He couldn’t hear me. He never has and he never will. He’ll never know how much I miss and need him.
The stars are blurry now, the tears in my eyes clouding my vision. But even with this distorted perspective, I see it. The flash- incredibly fast and incredibly bright, like a mini supernova. It was right there one second, and gone the next; just like Asher. It was a shooting star - something I hadn’t seen since he and I sat on the roof last summer. A grin spread across my face, tears still falling onto the black shingles.
“I love you, too. Goodnight, Ash.”
tangshunzi Jul 2014
Vow Renewal ha davvero bisogno di presentazioni .Perché appartiene Gene Simmons e la abiti da sposa on line sua splendida moglie Shannon di Kiss !E.a parte il folle .folle d'amore che tutti noi sappiamo che condividono .questo duo sa anche come ospitare un impressionante bella festa - con file di Pretty in Pink .schiocchi di favoloso e una devozione a tutte le cose ballare degno.Creato da Lady Liberty Eventi + un cuore Matrimoni con fotografie di Trish Barker .c'è molto di più nella galleria .

Condividi questa splendida galleria ColorsSeasonsSummerSettingsAl FrescoStylesModernRomantic

Dal Liberty Woodman di Lady Liberty Events.I hanno conosciuto Gene e Shannon per anni ed era così eccitato quando hanno deciso di rinnovare i loro voti alle Hawaii !Abbiamo collaborato con i talentuosi One Matrimoni cuore che gentilmente hanno contribuito a portare tutto il glamour alla vita!

Gene e Shannon volevano un incontro molto intimo dei loro più stretti amici e parenti di essere una parte del loro rinnovo di amore .Abbiamo deciso di fare un palato nero .fard e oro per riunire l'atmosfera glamour e moderno.con il suggerimento perfetto di nervosismo .Il progetto per questa occasione era semplicemente incredibile e era la rappresentazione ideale della loro morbida lato romantico mescolato con il loro rock \u0026rotolare personalità !

All'arrivo gli ospiti hanno fatto la loro strada attraverso un bianco appeso all'ingresso 25ft parete del fiore .dove erano seduti a splendide vignette in stile.Una combinazione di divani vintage.pouf e poltrone accentati con moderni cuscini neri e blush tiro .creando un ambiente opulento per i posti a sedere cerimonia.Flutti che scorre biancheria coprivano le pareti e soffitti .mentre blush e avorio nastri proposto come lo sfondo perfetto per la sposa e lo sposo a dire che faccioènuovo.Affiancato da lussureggianti centrotavola di ortensie e un corridoio personalizzato in mostra il loro monogramma .la passeggiata lungo la navata era niente timido di stordimento .gene \u0026Figlia Shannon ' .Sophie .ha messo insieme una cerimonia calorosa e cordiale e con l'aggiunta dei loro voti personali .non c'era un occhio secco in casa .Poco a poco gli ospiti sanno che ci sarebbe stata una cerimonia a sorpresa da seguire!Shannon illustra la sua sorella Sara .e il suo sposo Greg .felice di poter condividere questo giorno speciale con loro.Sara \u0026Greg ha proceduto con più di una cerimonia tradizionale stile hawaiano che ha aggiunto un'aggiunta unica e incantevole per i festeggiamenti .L'amore era certamente nell'aria !Come la coppia ri - sposato.e sposi fecero il loro ritorno lungo la navata.gli ospiti gettati petali che sono stati elegantemente presentati in sacchetti di rete a ogni sedile rosa .Gli ospiti

diretti verso l'area cocktail .che si è svolta sotto un albero magnificamente fiorito che è stato appeso con centinaia di candele appese .Un albero augurio visualizzazione degli ospitiècarte escort perfettamente ondeggiava nel piacevole brezza hawaiana .Le melodie contemporanee suonate dal duo stringa a condizione che il suono perfetto come ospiti sorseggiavano un cocktail speciali e mordicchiò bocconi .Gli ospiti

sono stati poi invitati a fare la loro strada in reception e zona pranzo .guidati dal suono di freddo jazz suonata dal vivo banda di 9 pezzi .La tavola era apparecchiata con biancheria blush frizzante .carica d'oro eposate e nero cristalleria moderna .Ogni impostazione è accentato con neri abiti da sposa on line laser taglio plexi Consiglio vetro carte.che sembrava incredibile contro il rossore e oro toni .Overhead .festoni di blush tendaggi e lampadari splendidi con sfumature nere fornito una magnifica atmosfera .Oro candelabri \u0026votive oro mercurio sono stati mescolati con le modalità lussureggianti che consisteva di fragranti rose da giardino e ortensie stabiliti nel colpire le navi nere .Le sedie erano vestiti con flirty battiscopa blush che fatica complimentato il paesaggio tavolo .La vivace verde vivente che circonda la zona e il suono luce delle cascate perfezionato l'aspetto della sala da pranzo .

L'enorme pista da ballo bianco incandescente con Gene \u0026Monogramma Shannon ' stato circondato da 4 .100 £ lampadari floreali che erano semplicemente bocca caduta .Vignette Petite circondato il pavimento e sono stati accentati con personalizzati monogramma cuscini di seta dupioni con ricami in oro .Una volta che tutti hanno fatto la loro strada verso la pista da ballo .feste la sera ' aveva appena iniziato !Shannon aveva chiesto karaoke per abiti da sposa corti la ricezione .così abbiamo pensato



così cosa c'è di meglio che avere una band suonare dal vivo come la loro musica di sottofondo !Sophie ( Gene e figlia Shannon ' ) ha iniziato le danze via con la sua interpretazione diè eeautifulèeè et Ultimoè?mentre i suoi genitori amorevolmente ballavano tra di loro e hanno accolto i loro amici e familiari a unirsi a loro sul pavimento .Gene saltò sul contrabbasso .mentre .Sophie \u0026Nick ( i loro figli ) ha cantato tutta la notte .Hanno sicuramente tutti scosso la casa .e ci siamo divertiti tutta la serata !
la serata si è conclusa .Gene e Shannon sono stati presentati con una splendida torta 3-tier .che consisteva di due livelli oro con finiture nere.e un livello inferiore di perfezione filodiffusione avorio rose .Mentre gli ospiti erano riuniti attorno .un solo cuore matrimoni avevano sorpreso gli ospiti con una giornata di modifica video l'intera attività serate .ogni ipotesi era in soggezione .E 'stato il modo perfetto per concludere questa bella raccoltaèsi poteva assolutamente sentire l'amore nell'aria

Banda : Jimmy Mac \u0026 The Kool Kats | Dress Brides 1 : . Jenny Packham | Dress Brides 2 : Badgley Mischka | Cake: DesignerCakes | Restauro : Sugar Beach Catering | Sedia Covers : Wildflower lino | Coordinatore / Progettista : Lady Liberty Eventi | Assistenza design: bianco Orchid Weddings | Designer : Matrimoni Un cuore | Fiori : Uno Matrimoni cuore | biancheria: La Tavola biancheria | Fotografia : TrishFotografia Barker | Luogo Carte : Pitbulls e Posies | String Duo : Don Lax | Luogo : Haiku Mill | caricabatterie: BBJ LinenBadgley Mischka è un membro del nostro Look Book .Per ulteriori informazioni su come vengono scelti i membri .fare clic qui .Wildflower Lino.un'orchidea da sposa bianco .INC .BBJ e Lady Liberty eventi fanno parte del nostro Little Black Book .Scopri come i membri sono scelti visitando la nostra pagina delle FAQ .Wildflower Linen vedi portfolio un'orchidea da sposa bianco .INC vedi portfolio BBJ vedi portfolio Lady Liberty Eventi visualizza
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Gene Simmons Vow Renewal_abiti da sposa 2014
Miss Masque Apr 2011
Sing me a berceuse,
Sweet melody abound,
In your astral glow of your effusive vignette,
Play with your celesta sweet
beguiling with evocative speak

Turn with your astral glow
abound with pungent, redolent snow
and gaze at the symphony
before you

Sing in sweet felicity
Joy you bring,
Serendipity,
Asylum you bring,
None shall come,
but the brave warriors who
knock and question.
In another life,
We must have met
And with undying passion,
Admitted our love and
Lived by it
We must have made memories
And framed them in
Soft vignette
Of holding hands and sharing kisses,
And saying, in our last breaths,
That we would find each other again –
We must have embraced
And remembered the harmony
So that in this life
We could keep our promise
And not ever dream
Of breaking it.
Old one again.
Frankie Apr 2012
When I think back to the past, my memories seem to blur together as if I have spent twenty one years on a non-stop merry-go-round. Ups and downs, too much to take in at once, the people you love only a splotch in your spinning, ever-changing field of vision. You wonder how long they’ll stay, leaning over the metal railing separating them from you; you wonder if they’ll call out to you until they become hoarse…but no one stays for long.
You think it’s fun and harmless until the carousel stops and you realize you’re the only one left. You clamber off the platform in a drunken stagger and wait for your mind, still caught up in the whimsical whir of charisma and carelessness, to catch up with reality. Eventually your thoughts slow and your vision steadies. Everything comes into focus. It seems eerily quiet compared to the cacophony of conversation and carnival music that was swirling and intertwining in the air just minutes ago.
Now there’s silence and you’re left to contemplate your past…and your future. This is the reality check, the wakeup call that sends so many adolescents into a panic; an early mid-life crisis if you will. Twenty one years spent so quickly, so carelessly…only eighty more to go.
And you can only wonder, “How will I waste those?”
N R Whyte Nov 2012
Whose women these are I think I know.
His housefly’s dead on the vignette though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his women pick snowdrops.

My little hornpipe is quite queer
He stops without a farce or sneer
Between the women with their frozen ‘la’s
The commonest everyman of the yawl.

He gives his harlot beldams his shaft
To assure they are his mistresses.
The only other soundtrack's the sweat
Of easy win from downing flagons.

The women are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promenades to keep,
And migraines to go before I sleep,
And migraines to go before I sleep.
This is an Oulipian poem I wrote based off of Robert Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"
Reece Jan 2014
The rain was dully falling
and the cats were hidden
Under high rimmed cars
with the lights turned off

His Mother was out calling
when the lightening struck
And his charred body scars
were stains on the new road

They sat inside and watched
furor in the streets; mourning
With the television on real low
eyes fixed on smoking remains

Street cleaners came and washed
adolescent flesh from the street
Ajar window *******, put on a show
there's a certain perversity to death
RL Smith Jan 2014
One man and lots of women
Gathered in your kitchen
For a barbecue and luncheon
Full of banter, wit and glutton
Wrecking ***** and chat roulette
And an 80s design vignette
The food was finger licking
And the company uplifting
What congeniality
Thanks for the hospitality
For my friends - I haven't laughed so much as I did yesterday for a long time
tangshunzi Jul 2014
Sono abbastanza positivo che avrei potuto essere migliori amici con questa coppia : un duo che ha avuto il loro primo appuntamento e quattro anni dopo .il loro impegno sul Colbert Report ( vedere che la proposta qui !) e una abiti da sposa corti sposa con un amore profondoper il corallo ispirato il suo preferito Essie smalto per unghie color .Sai solo questo matrimonio era destinato ad essere impressionante e così offre.I fiori di Kathleen Deery nel colore preferito della sposa .la sensazione di un incontro informale con i propri cari .ma sollevavano un miliardo di tacche sulla bella scala e le immagini di Meg Smith che non possiamo mai abbastanza mai abbastanza ;tutti fanno per davvero splendida galleria .Guardalo qui .

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Megan e George sono incontrati durante l'allenamento per una maratona insieme a Brooklyn .George ha invitato Megan ad una registrazione di The Colbert Report per il loro primo appuntamento e un paio di anni dopo la riportò a quello stesso abiti da sposa corti spettacolo da proporre .in onda !

Per il loro matrimonio Megan e George avevano così tanti tocchi personali .da bocce set personalizzato ai cocktail tovaglioli sulla barra stampato con vignette divertenti George - nessun dettaglio è stato lasciato unpersonalized !La loro zia Kimberly è una meravigliosa graphic designer e si avvicinò con il logo per il loro matrimonio - ponti gemelli ( il Brooklyn e il Golden Gate ) intrecciati a simboleggiare questa Coast East meets West Coast coppia .Megan proviene dalla Bay Area e George da Brooklyn .

Una delle tradizioni preferite della coppia a casa è la notte di gioco e così avevano Corn Hole e Bocce campo giochi sul prato così come un mazzo di carte da gioco personalizzate nei loro sacchi di benvenuto .Per incorporare la maratoneti amore di esecuzione hanno tenuto un 5k Fun Run .la mattina del loro matrimonio e spediti Marathon Pettorali come Save the Date .colore preferito

della sposa.che abbiamo spesso trovato il suo da portare nelle nostre riunioni di pianificazione .era Corallo .Ispirato da un marchio Essie di smalto ( California Coral ) abbiamo condotto che colore attraverso il tema del matrimonio in modo che tutto sembrava festosa e coesa Fotografia

: Meg Smith Fotografia | dell'artista: vestiti da sposa . Weddings On Film | Planner: Shannon Leahy Eventi| Fiorista : Kathleen Deery | Cake: Sweet Cake | Rosticcerie : Paula LeDuc fine Catering | personalizzata Dance Floor : Yonder



| Hair / Make- up : Julie Morgan | biancheria: La Tavola di lino | Musica : Notorious | Musica : mai Music Group |Materiali di carta: Kimberly Richardson di Seal Bianco Graphics | Photobooth : Magnolia Photo Booth Co. | Residenza privata: Black Swan Lake | Luogo : Black Swan LakeLa Affitti Tavola bisso .Wedding Hair and Make up da Julie Morgan .Sweet Cake .Paula LeDuc Fine Catering e Magnolia Photo Booth Co. sono membri del nostro Little Black Book .Scopri come i membri sono scelti visitando la nostra pagina delle FAQ .La Tavola bisso Affitto PORTFOLIO capelli Wedding and Make-up by Ju ... vedi portfolio dolce sulla torta vedi portfolio Paula LeDuc Fine Catering vedi portfolio Magnolia Photo Booth Co. VIEW
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Diane Oct 2013
houses so close you can’t have sunlight without voyeurism
but how can one resist this air of night’s invigoration
her thick ankles can be seen through the lifted shade
next to the beer and rumpled magazines on her coffee table
it is 7:30, the kids are in bed, the husband, who knows?
it’s pull-tab night at the corner bar,
he likes that young girl who sells them
flicker, it feels good to sit down
how ironic that my long awaited silence feels so lonely
flicker, maybe if i bought that he would look at me again
flicker, do i even care anymore?
*** is more work than it’s worth sometimes
flicker, Jacque and Lisa keep me company, maybe
i DO want the deluxe faux ruby necklace and earing set
flicker, i wanted to be a ballerina when i was little
my god this house has awfully low ceilings
flicker, all this thinking is making me tired
inspired by passing my neighbor's window last night and saw her watching the home shopping channel.
i
youth is your neighbour's Bee
hive wax, candle lights, flickering Flame
lovely sorrounding delicate contours
on a pale gently shaped face

ii
thou eyes still shine with
chesnuts burning flambouyant
charcoals, who can lit Free choice
of will and thoughts of Heart

iii
eclipses of centuries covereth
you, waiting for a Cosmic chariot
to take this moonsoon romance forth
holding the Sky's beau crinoline

iv
I feel wurthering imagination
floating and tearing my passion for You
when Thee become Thou in my deepest
love passion taking chapeau off
~
Imagined by
Impeccable Space
~
Poet of love and beauty
i.
​As the looking glass feels the soul
strength will be revealed
in the song book of life,
as it is told true beauty fully wonders.

ii.
​Were we born in the arms of Angels
with heaven standing by
thats finds a way to the heart,
that had been bound by love forever.

iii.
Fate somehow bestowed on us
the arms of a shooting star
no one will ever love me,
that will be forever more.

iv.
The forever was willed upon this earth
pursued my way along
the corridors of heavens horizon,
in the vessel in the land of the stars.

Debbie Brooks 2014
Zac Shawhan Sep 2020
Is it another year so soon?
My little man, my dear big boy
as time goes on it begins to wound
yet still there remains a lasting joy.
Surprise hugs and silly kisses
shrink my world to you and I
and time’s wounding power decreases
as you teach me to deny
all I have and all I desire
to give it up, to self forget.
This is a truth that reaches higher,
to become content as vignette
Son’s third birthday
Artem Sep 2018
Yellow, and waxy smooth in shape they spiral down
The color of banana peels and rubber ducks,
Not enough to crunch,
Just the occasional skittering sounds from an accidental nudge
Of a laced up black boot.
It’s all lit up by pouring color
Painting the world pale gold and dusty blue,
Dimpled footprints across dusty sand,
Perhaps foreshadowing of future eons of crushed cement.

Evoking an image of rusted door hinges and creaking sheds,
Orange drips from ripened fruit,
Dappled dry reds of a curling leaf or faded velvet skirt.

And down below and oil painting of bottle green glass and soft leather,
Glinting and undulating in a translucent serenity.

Paint turns to pastel further out,
Smooth hints of pink on touches of sighing blue and perfect cream with lemon zest.

Oddly blending with the metallic rumble of heavy strings,
Thin black wings
And soft fabric on palms,
Warm light and a cool breath.

Interrupted by a jolting movement of a graceful, curious silk spinner,
Who dropped, and frightened the delicate moment away.
WickedHope Sep 2014
Waiting on my back on the stone bench at my second home. Outside with my feet tucked up on the bench and my head back. Ear-buds in listening to the radio. Waiting. Holding my arms up above my face with a book, reading. Or perhaps just watching the clouds. Waiting.
            I’d get a text asking where I was and asking if we could meet up. I’d answer. The car would pull up and then they would get out and walk up. Of course they’d laugh and ask what I was doing. The fresh air is good for me I’d reply grinning. We’d just do something simple then. Together. Something utterly childish. They’d think it was great and so would I. The fact that we weren't like everyone else wouldn't bother them. Wouldn't bother us because we were happy with or without it. The way it should be. And it would be perfect. Because we’d be together.
            I love him. He’s my best friend.
Something old I felt the sudden need to post.
Christine Ueri Feb 2015
A pair of crows streaks the skyline. I watch their graceful flight above bare treetops, concrete, and steel constructions, on a backdrop of exhaust fumes.

One crow alights after the other; their claws grip the bars of the signal tower a few feet away from where I wait for the next bus home. I wonder if they built their nest on that giant, manmade constellation of angles . . . From there they would have an exceptional view of the surrounding area, and few predators would dare to go up there.

"I found a dead crow, tangled in a wrought iron gate, once." His voice taps inside the nerve hollows of my mind, and I am unsure if the loud, clicking noises coming from the crows, and the perfectly synchronised squeaking of the bus' brakes, amplify or dampen his tone.

The bus driver greets with his usual, "Hello, Sweetie." I want him to be the bus driver, instead. He would never be late, he said. He wouldn't make me wait for what sometimes seems like an eternity. I mumble an almost-civil reply, biting back tears as I stumble forward against the pull of the engine to flop down on the nearest seat. I avoid eye contact with the other commuters; my gaze fixed to their reflections on the windowpane -- doppelgängers obscuring my vision -- a zeitgeist of movements . . . "Don't look at the window, look through it, silly . . . and don't miss me, I am just far away . . ." I always miss him more when he says that.

The coral trees are in full bloom, adding robust warmth to the faint copper glow of the winter sunset. Are their flowers the same vermilion colour as the 'fire tree' in his garden? Above the coral trees, I spot a pair of magnificent wings: a sacred ibis . . .

Fly south with me, Sacred Ibis. You are a goddess. White wings, neatly trimmed with a pearly black hem . . . when will you come down again, so I can show him what Isis really looks like? I won't be able to capture your image in flight, although he would love to see you like this -- spread-eagle . . .

The Ibis remains within view until we reach the nature reserve at the foot of the mountain. Here, the road forks into choices; I have but one -- keep left. The driver has a heavy foot and the next stop is mine. I get up from my seat and stumble down the narrow aisle towards the nearest exit, my hand tightening around a canary-yellow handlebar as I brace myself for the ****.

The hydraulic hiss of the opened doors spit at my heels. I leap from the bus, onto the pavement; my feet meet the concrete -- a long, silver-grey slab, slapped onto dry, red clay -- with a thud, dust settles on my coat in a whirlwind of the bus' departure.

Pigeons. Too many to count. They line the flat roofs of smog-stained, one- and two-storey buildings. Could they be soldiers? "No, my Love. Doves and pigeons are peacekeepers . . . and there is war in the Gaza Strip . . ." Yes, but what about the buildings? I walk on, thinking about the mourning dove he nursed; the one that followed his smoke rings . . .

We found an abandoned laughing dove squab last summer -- he, or she, made it. Sam was hand-reared, survived, and flew away on one of those bright summer's afternoons . . .

At the corner, I wait for the dust to settle further and the traffic light to turn green -- there are always those who don't need saving.

Turn right.

The Chinese maples are bare. Their deep-red autumn leaves have returned to the earth for redemption.

An Egyptian goose honks, calling his mate from the top of the church tower on the other side of the road. Perhaps, after so many chance encounters, he recognises me while he spreads his wings, flapping them slowly, without rising from his position, in what I imagine is a display of empathy.

I notice that I'm standing on the same patch of lawn where I found the barn owl's feather, months ago. Owl feathers ought to be kept in the dark, away from the day birds'. . . In the distance; I see the grove of pagoda trees that lead the way home -- beacons, providers and protectors. I follow. 

An assortment of feathers, haphazardly stuck into the wooden frame of the French doors, welcomes us home; fragments of unlocking and entering are placed on the dining table where we do everything.

Textbooks, dictionaries, software manuals, bird guides, the salt- and peppershakers -- guano has lost its value; it's all pink, organic Himalayan crystal salt, now. My children's empty cereal bowls were left on the table in the morning rush; they remind me of the years we have to catch up to -- I dissolve gunpowder pillulets under my tongue: Homeopathic medicine for this virus.

Balance -- like the flamingo, or the blue crane in the bird-guide-photos. On one leg, I reach for the light switch . . .

He glows in the weak ambiance -- electric bulbs cast a sepia vignette that invokes the scent of burning rose petals -- something akin to the gestalt of Rama, or a Buddha in blue . . .

Supper is a bland affair; I think of the Krishna temple I haven't visited in over a decade. How do they do it? Serve such exquisite meals on donations (feed the masses and the masses will feed you) . . .

Dishwater drips from my hands and runs down the inside of my arms as I absent-mindedly reach for the crow's feather, hidden in between the wrought iron candleholders on top of the grocery cupboard -- a gift or a donation?
 
I have donated my life to causes and movements, as a bird gifts its feathers to the earth, and to feather collectors, but will it be enough to sustain our future?

 

Aug/Sept 2014
Aug/Sept 2014
Lil Moon Moon Jan 2022
I imagine my happy place,
I picture it in vignette taste.
Like looking through colored glass,
There's a sepia quality to its grasp.

Like wading through a dream,
There's a vagueness to its every gleam.
Everything's the same yet different here,
A constant familiarity hangs in the air.

The picture varies from time to time...

Always it would be a house of some kind;
The edges forever unrefined,
Be it a cabin, a mansion, a farmhouse or two or three
Every ***** nook and cranny this mind could carry

Always it would be somewhere remote;
By the sea, the countryside, by a cliff, or under trees,
Sometimes in an open clearing of endless green grass swaying in the breeze.

... Home.

Though every version varies,
One thing's for certain in this house of made-up stories.
Always, always, and always a thousand times more,
You'd be there standing by the door.

Now I never questioned this part somehow
Cause here's the truth of the matter in tow:
This place could be a garbage dump for all I care
But I'd still call it heaven so long as you're there.

And I find that it's the only thing that matters;
To have your figure carved into this place's corners
I'd gladly let this place take your shape
The smell of warm bread and books here you shall drape.

This landscape is treacherous and ever-changing.
But I know as long you're there in my dreaming,
These childish mock-ups of reality
Shall remain my favorite moments of clarity.

It is my piece of heaven on earth,
My secret happy place while I'm on this dirt.

Heaven don't have a name
But God forbid I find it fitting
That if it did, of course

It would be yours.
touka Dec 2022
I am fixed
to the walls of this house

so tightly joined to it,
this bed
through sinew and bone

thread, thread, thread

another plait into me

the night, the breed she is
with that ****** needle
and thread, thread, thread

knows I can’t stand within it
the vignette
the solitude

the white coats,
the men of the word
those in the mire of the clay
all prescribing the same thing

a hit of perseverance

“Oh, okay,”

“oh, okay,”

“oh, okay.”

I lick, lap at
the slow drip
so tightly fixed to where I always have been

don’t come in,
don’t go out

“I’m sorry,”

in the pooling of spit
one hand in the *****
reaching into the pit

the *******
night
I don’t say in vain

“Okay,”
“Okay,”
“Okay,”

she waits
loosens my thread
slips those little tethers
so much good slack

I run
take my hit of perseverance
I burn
burn, burn, burn
right up in the fire of day

she waits for the ash

the sun rises and sets
on the same thing, always

always
always
always

they don’t understand
those free feet, walking the narrows
I watch them all go
no wince, no limp

no thread, no spit

the way that it seems,
from my portion of shadow,

“Oh, okay,”

so easy
Lia Dec 2018
Art was religion’s enemy, but nobody knew it.
Ignorance’s persecution and deception’s excommunication
are invisible marks stamped onto every wooden pallete.

What with the saints’ every feature executed with the finest human touches,
it’s divinity could not be more countoured and highlighted.
The bold kisses of sunlight onto the walls of the cathedrals
remind tense shoulders and pointed slippers how much they are adored by the universe..

while they, not as much so.

God’s fingerprints are engraved onto every human brain
for the mind is powerful enough to imagine
vast forests and fine cloth,
sweet wine and golden crusts of bread,
cherry lips and tamed silver hairs,
the softest pillows for varnished beds,
herds of sheep and gallops of mares.

The artist is glorified, admired and lusted for the deceptions it’s brushes could print onto textured paper.
Perhaps heaven’s mess sent graciously upon wiked ground,
unfertile for carrying the growth of who is gripping too lightly on the artist’s  border for beauty,
were the wrong tones of purple, blue, red, yellow, or brown.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2014
October
2014

White Tissues

a thousand years ago
I had to do the shopping,
(short story, irrelevant)

angry, she,
always angry,
the ex called me careless+...
never quite remembered to buy
the no~color tissues,
white only, on the list ordered,
to avoid decorative mismatch clash
to not offend the bathroom guests's
sensibilities and refined fleshy color palettes,
and not to match thereby,
to unduly reveal
the mismatch of
two lives incompatible

she ****** the color from my life...

still now,
buy only
whitely, precisely,
always,
for the colors
in my life, of my life,
have now been returned to me

but they are best cherished,
visible inside, looking out,
painted filter to enhance,
to reveal!
the joys inherent
in the colors of a
refunded, redounding rebounding,
re-fined happiness internal

tissues white now employed
to store the joy colored in colorful tears,
re-defying re-de-finding-fining
the contrast
from the sorry past,
tears now in living color
shed while writing
this happy colored vignette

~~

Poems of Color

just too much
colorless cold,
to decamp to,
sit upon
the well weathered Adirondack throne
that is by his name,
by the cold waters,
now winter coated with
white-capped amber bluewaves
arriving jack-frosted on the lifeless beach

over this weathered sanctum,
natures supremacy reigns,
no matter the season or
his faulty human body's
weak reasoning,
it rules,
despite your frail poetic absence

but without your imposition
upon companion grey,
ensconced patiently
in that rarified atmosphere,
where and when
the sea sword
knights and inspires
the benign, benighted poet,

the human in him
frets and worries

where and when
ever again,
will nature deign to rain
poems upon him and his
winter-storaged writing organs?

the poet,
through his own
winnowy window reflection,
sees the sight of
the empty chair
between him and the sea air and
pondering more,
how shall he ever write
in the upcoming months of bleak?

through the frost-edged glass,
that old chair,
now sudden animated,
sensing his poetic human presence,
it turns toward its missing occupant,
voice aged reassuring,
speaking,
rhyming, 
it chants,
somber intoning...

"the poems writ yet still  undiscovered
but inscribed upon
my weathered slats and armrests,
have your name and no other,
therefore, there fired,
perforce,
they await your return,
come spring...come summer

now is the season of your hibernation,
we sense your fearful
winter forebodings and
speculations of consternation

know these unopened poems
are in fluid stored,
when you return
to our joint station,
we jointly will celebrate their
first day of naissance

you are charged,
you sole possess the
eye colored liquid visions
to see them
in the splinters and the breezes
through to their natural
childbirth revelation"


~~~

The Colors of Life Everlasting

blondes, brunettes, redheads,
the goodbye colors of the
street's tree choir members
and their leafy gowned denizens,

the good stiff chill upon them,
the selfsame chill,
in my anguished mind,
now hiding

those partial unclothed trees,
to me sing,
a comfort food song
heard above the quiet terror of the
noises of a winter's wind precursors

*"we green,
will be again
tho old,
spring green
is signature of our almost
life everlasting

once you wee were,
free green uncaring, youthful,
presumptuous presuming
that you too were,
in possession of
life everlasting

your colors
have changed too,
the process,
your process, different,
unlike our scheduled
rebirthing maintenance

yours a continuum slide,
with no reversal allowed,
no returning
you
to your first days of
crayon drawing youth,
unlike us,
a calculus of impossibility

we will turn young again
for many seasons more,
you,
never will

new eyes will feast upon our
glories refreshed
and love our
green visor shade cast

yet special are you,
the man-poet
who was chosen
by forces controlling,
to see and to tell,
witness-write of our annualization
during our overlapping
frames in time

when to the shade of hades
your physic sent,
our limbs, our leaves, our lives,
as-long-as-they-too-shall-last,
will cover thy remains and
give your poems back to the
sultry summer breeze from
whence they came,
and the colors
of your words
will be then
the colors
of your life everlasting"
10-26-14
Braxton Reid Mar 2016
White vignette dream
Someone came to me
They asked if they could have my child
And I said yes

We talked for a while a smoked a few cigarettes
It all felt so real, and different still yet

I couldn't understand what was going on
Why I was giving up my child
Why I thought she would be better off
But the deal was struck

We went to the hallway where she was waiting to leave
With her blue owl backpack, and I couldn't believe
What was going on
She started walking towards me crying
And it all moved so fast
She said "Bye" in the sweet, shy, shaky, and child like way she does
And I broke down
I wept on the floor
And I wish I could rember what that sounded like
Because that would be the most captured performance of pain
This didn't happen, but **** that dream was intense

— The End —