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I close my eyes, and I pray that I’ll dream of you
for a day when I’ll get your point of view
We’re so alike but
we’re different in many ways
Like fairy butterflies wanna go in
You like shopping, I like reading
I ride a bicycle and you drive rental
I’m so visual and you’re into
We can’t agree on what we wanna do
But out of all
the girls that God and I know
You’re the one that I wanna
How my hearts beats when I’m with you
you’re my baby boo
By Lumiere Le Dumpiere
I’m that face you see strolling by you
In a sea of strangers every morning
I see your eyes shifting away at the right moment
Your affect sheds a little fear as we cross paths
And my eyes hit the ground again
Because you’re gone, rounded the corner
And my eyes search for the end result
While a memory moves through the space
I wonder again at lunch when across the room
Your friends are laughing while unnoticed
My eyes search for your connection
If only just a passing glance I am complete
Again for a couple of hours to relax and dream
That later in the day when our desks are rows apart
We can look across the room and indirectly interact
Quiet moods are real even I believe that can be true
Our lives exist by responding to a passing smile
An acknowledgement that feels real is the peace
That exists when from afar a person can connect
With another human being that gives them hope
Allows that instance to be enough inspiration
Intrigue, delight, fascination, to hold onto their memory
I will appear again in the morning ready for our routine
To cross paths early across the sea with an imagined wink
We are two souls that notice our lives are intertwined
Lacing the tangles that allow ourselves to really believe
Thom Amundsen 2013
A life is filled with things we might have done
Choices not taken that we later wish we’d picked
Other times there were things said or actions
In retrospect, our own behind we should have kicked.
Yet none of us are perfect so we do make mistakes
Too many times we overreact and have our minds set
Whether just a wrong course or feelings gets hurt
We can’t dwell, spending our days living with regret.
We must learn from the past and look to the future
Not everyone will accept that we can change course
Those are the ones that will never let go of doubt
All you can do is move on, not making things worse.
We look to ones that will accept us as we truly are
Realizing the person we are inside, offering a hand
Look through the windshield, not the rearview mirror
Find those that will, by your side, always stand.
At the back of those high trees in junior school.
That never ever seemed to grow gold in autumn.
It’s still there I bet – petrified. Old. stone skin.
Knees supporting a chin somehow still held high.
With a muddy arse on blooded school trousers.
Just still lacking whatever that place kept
Telling me I lacked.
We are different people him and I
He is my Bukowski’s bluebird
The boy I nurture and protect. As me and my own.
No one sees him – no one hurts him.
Only problem is –
He tells me what he used to tell everybody
“I’m fine, nothing to worry about, I just fell over”
I wish I didn’t know any different.
to go on
by tracing back
among hills and backfields
along muddy streets
beneath electric wires
spun like spider webs
coated with bird dropping
to be and become again
in that moment
before our eyes
locked each other
shoreline and sea
with crashing ocean waves
countless leaves have fallen,
even the year already changed her names
since our journey began
from those long seasons of waiting
for armors and chains
to be softened and broken
casted off and replaced
with warmth rivaled
only by first fire
forged from long sad ages
those pieces are still there
buried, and waiting
i have to find them
even as i no longer
remember their finals forms
but what remains of their shape
eaten by the delicious mouth
of when you first arrived
might ignite certain memories
allow me to smith them
to new forms
stronger, sharper edges
to serve as shelter and home
from what howls and roams
even under the light of day
from those with silent feet
arriving in the night and cold
held off at bay before
by your own arms
is a shorter journey, as they say:
long this road may be
but i know the bends
their twist and turns
even dark alleys
no longer hide fear
under the light of memories
coming even without my call
and in their worthy company
i could take my time
—it was here, on this
wide field where hunger
of the flesh enjoyed the feast
of siomai, lumpia, pancakes;
where the thirst of my soul
drank from the cup filled
with the intoxicating wine
of your smiles…
—there, on that very spot
where we abruptly stopped
to look up and gaze
upon the moon and stars
deep in the belly of the city
we laughed when others
curiously followed our eyes
and yet nothing
of what we did see…
the memories are many…
…but they are all that i have.
and yet i will go on
with my face and my shadow
even as i wonder
where are you now?!
i know we share the same sky
but not the same clouds.
in between rest stops
after I close my eyes
but before I go to sleep
i will delve and seek out
for that secret province
in the country of my soul
where stands a simple house
an ordinary wooden box
within whose halls
waits a simple map
that charts the path
not for me nor for you
My name is Denny B. Reese. I am a poet of Canada who graduated from Nipissing University with a Bachelor of English degree and am now working to be a self published author. Here is the poem “The Colours of Summer” that I would like to showcase on your site. I am thankful for the wonderful opportunity you offer.
The colours of summer
Come walk beside me on a summer day
See the children tossing sand
As they run across the beach with red pails in hand
Flashing smiles like the sun
And laughing with the gulls
See the white sails on the blue tinted horizon
Bobbing in the water like toy boats
In an overflowing bathtub
As the rush of water fills your ears
See the ball go up
Spinning away into the blue skies
Into the eye of the sun
Over the heads of children
Into the shining blue
I’d like to submit this poem mine to, “Promote Myself”. http://ampitheaterwords.wordpress.com/
Of what may become of this rose
only fate will know.
Its life’s string can be just as frail as our own.
Somehow much more beautiful in its sun touched petals.
The perfect drop of water hanging off its bent red cloth,
asking for just a little bit more time on the velvety smooth surface.
The rose is nothing exceptionally unusual
that it would have men and women glorifying its presence
more than their gods.
The rose calls, and it is heard.
Tainted with pain, painted with chivalry.
The rose is what stands above the rest;
without knowing why.
They say you can drown
In just a few inches of water
Well I drowned that night
As naked as the day
That I wish I wasn’t born on
In the tepid water
Of what looked like a bathtub to you,
But was Panthalassa for me.
It was our last night together –
You’d lost your warmth towards me –
I sat there.
Water circling iceberg knees.
In your arms
Violently weeping for an hour and a half.
No body or being
And the hope that you would lower me
Into that tepid water.
I drowned that night.
Or at least wished that I had.
She watched her oppressor
Every move he made was important to her
As she planned her escape, his demise
Freedom, finally, from the emptiness in her eyes.
Drunk on lust and whiskey, he attacked
She bore the pain and performed the unthinkable acts.
No longer afraid,
She attacked him as he stumbled away.
His anger erupted, the vicious swings came
Without fear, she picks up his gun – takes aim
Bullets pierced the night and his blood rained.
He was dead in an instant,
But she paused only to wipe off her fingerprints.
She walked away from that place
Renewed hope, and for the first time in years, a smile on her face.
Thank you for this opportunity. For the last few years, all of my poems have been written, and put on my hard-drive, never to be seen by anyone but me. I realize now, that although protecting myself from critique, I was also violating the basics of being a writer – we write for ourselves, but we also write for others.
Trysh L Thompson
As we journey through this uncertain life
We live, we love, we laugh, we grieve
We can hope that days will be joyously filled
But we lift our heads high and try to believe.
We are given one heart and we protect it
Not that we won’t make mistakes in trust
Broken can be mended, just don’t harden
Give freely when in love, not just for lust.
We deal with the loss of those that we love
Sad, but one of the truths we must now live
We don’t forget them but we try to move on
Knowing they would want us to still give.
We are given each day the things that we need
However, wants that we have are not always met
We make the most of the time we are given
Hoping that love and life is what we might get.
Goose Fair has been celebrated from days of old
When geese were brought to Nottingham to be sold
Thousands would gather for the sale
While many others came just to drink the ale
With so many people gathered there
The sale gradually changed into a bustling fair
An annual celebration to be enjoyed by all
A time of entertainment when the autumn began to fall
Folk gathered to watch the wrestlers and performing bears
Feats of skill by jugglers they had practised down the years
There were side shows with freaks thought to be funny
And folk could have a laugh if they paid their entrance money
You could have your fortune told if you had a penny
The gypsies told their stories,but did not convince many
They took it in good humour,but some hoped it would come true
Especially when they were told ‘ good luck would come to you’
The barrel organ was invented,the music was loud and shrill
And this added to the pleasure of those looking for a thrill
The development of the steam engine led to the carousel
Which waits to join the action when the Lord Mayor rings the bell
At noon in the first Thursday of October in every year
The Lord Mayor gives a welcome to everybody there
They come from far and near,there is excitement in the air
The geese no longer come, but it’s still called Goose Fair
Memories are always part of us
Whether we share them or hold on
The mind can replay when needed
Especially from dusk to dawn.
Thoughts spill forth of you still
The curve of your face and smile
Scents of a shower or your perfume
Eyes closed you linger for a while.
Soft cotton slips to the floor
Candlelight dances on your skin
Light kisses and caresses flow
Emotions heighten once again.
Two hearts beating in unison
Fingers laced as we make love
It might be just a moment now
But still fits like a glove.
Dreams might be all that’s left
Keep them safe and hold them tight
The sunrise will bring a new day
For now, there is still the night.
hello, I have poem that I would like you to promote on your successful blog, if you wouldn’t mind doing so.
its called “can you?” by myself, Tatiana Agatha Ennin.
my friend, Dajon Hoyte-Bruce and I run the poetry blog known as “ourpoeticinsanity.wordpress.com” just for reference
You could bathe in a tub of cloudy tears to keep your mind “clean”…
You could feed yourself false propositions to oppose the hunger in your heart…
You could keep yourself warm with the scalding words that his tongue produced…
You could dress yourself in an attire of which consisted of a burden balanced on your head,
A weakened covering to protect your chafed, run down, calloused feet,
An emotional scarf weaved from the fibres of hardship, guilt, confusion and doubt.
Wrapped chokingly tight
around your neck.
To protect yourself from the cold air striking and reaching your chest.
Your chapped mouth…
Your insensitive nose.
Can you ever die in a home of wretchedness?
You could strangle yourself with the ropes that restricted you from trusting and feeling emotion.
You could hang yourself with the words that lifelessly and meaninglessly dangled from your lip.…
You stand on the boulder of corruption.
Hoping to majestically land on the base of which an overabundance of reliability and
inhabitation existed on…
And wonder if you’re committing one of society’s most conventional motives.
You took the leap of something that would offer you ‘faith’.
You gracefully took the leap of death.
I would also appreciate it greatly if you gave me any personal feedback or response, via email. As I am a budding poet, aged 14 and I could definitely use some mature response.
from Tatiana and Dajon :).
The rains came today
Amidst news of government shutdowns.
In a mid-town café
All the faces held practiced frowns,
High pitched with banters pledged
“Well I figured,”
Shouted a nearby man on the edge.
When the skies lit up
There wasn’t any discussion of reprieve.
I could reach for my cup
Of java while around the room a sieve,
A genuine distaste
Reactive politics by those thought elite.
Withheld ideals erased
While outside quiet rains began to isolate
See, there is beauty
When in and around me economics falter
Somehow I feel pity
A kind soul is caught in rains without shelter
In the morning
A burst of sunlight will endure the horizon
And while waking
Our society is left to once again find reason
Yet in the midst of cloudy judgment and scattered reigns
Might our heart and soul appreciate just the simple rains
When you look upon the written word
How do you read what thought was sent
It isn’t the type or print that can influence
It is our own emotion, times we spent.
For black and white, possibly color added
The pages cannot give us the intent of heart
So why do we feel the words deep within
Can we know the end, reading from the start.
As we read the words that another has shared
We feel with the thoughts that we put to word
Not like a recording where we feel their emotion
The words read give us any emotion that is stirred.
Each has a reason why we read someone’s word
And I’m thankful for those that return to read mine
If I could put my emotion clearly into each word I write
You’d understand the reason for each letter of a line.