by_davespertine @ Deviant art

I know People
I know people
Whose lamest words are deeper
Than my profoundest thoughts
I have read words
That make mine….the best of them…
Look like child’s scrawl.
I have known eagles
Who soar faster and further
Than I can keep up with
As I plod, a dirty faced kid
In a field of grass and flowers…
The one thing
That I can be
Accused of…
And have been
Accused of…
And plead guilty
And no contest of…
Is being…
Influenced.

written by Joshua Paul Bechtel

 

photography and poem  by Lara Biyuts

My Song

I go home!
To the heart of the northernmost mountains.
It’s so hard!
It’s so hard to get to me now.
To the heart of the northernmost mountains
I go home.

Lara Biyuts © 2007

by_ageofloss @ Deviant Art

I could smell the cold outside
Filling me up from a secluded couch
The unwanted silence creeping through
Desolate hallways and empty rooms

The world seems still-life from my window
Though the wind moves evergreen branches
With a sense of aplomb

I want to hide from everything
But nothing moves me to take action
Sitting here
A victim of my own dismissal
Leaving a void within each breath
Noticed by the one who holds my heart

Only she can sense such things
But sometimes love is not enough
To quell the heartache
Of a life less lived

The solitary tears for humanity
For myself
Are water to a desert/ed man
Who no longer feels his thirst
Yet remains shackled by emotional decree

There’s no doubt I wish to leave this place
As badly as one wishes to flee a festering sewer
The overwhelming stench of hatred
Clinging to every burned out pore

Yet every day there’s another reason to remain
Refill
Recount
Remand
The thoughts which desperately long
For solitary exodus

Sometimes I think I stay for her
Oft times I believe there is some purpose
Which keeps me writing down words
No longer vibrating with intention
But only a sad outline
Inevitably erased by time

Sadly, my love and I both know
There is not a single strand of truth
Within those sentiments

Only my fear keeps me another hour

If someday I looked into the mirror
And found it absent of cowardice
I might use a straight edge for my daily shave
Or fill my morning glass with arsenic
Perhaps take a long drive within my garage
Confessing everything
During one long uninterrupted monologue

The cold sun setting upon my admission
Leaving another unmarked grave
Upon the temporary landscape
Of a lonely planet spinning in darkness

My spirit left to ponder
Fifty-three years of random movement
As the next life enters stage right

But…

The dog needs to walk
My friend needs to talk
And the wife expects me for dinner

Who am I to say no to such things?

If I knew the answer to that
I would understand
The question never needed to be asked
In the first place

Poet Leigh Binder

Follow Leigh Binder:  http://bindo.wordpress.com/2012/03/02/still-life/

by_WiciaQ.@Deviant art

These are poems and thoughts of Michael Jones, dreams in his every day world, he loves being able to envision an unwritten future. And then relay them onto paper. These poems and thoughts mean a lot to him; they come from a place very seldom visited by someone special in his life, and for that matter to even himself at times. Michael Jones is from a small town named Kellyville in Oklahoma, growing up in a farming town was something that he never had any desire to do. He moved around a lot through his adolescent years with his father from state to state. So many schools, that is was impossible to make friends, when he was going to be gone at the end of the year or the next, so he mostly kept to himself during those days. He graduated from High School in 1987 from Hammon, Oklahoma a small town out in western Oklahoma.

Dammed Sadism

Death dances all around me as I hold my black rose of life

While Celtic pagans sing an un-earthly lullaby of pain and sorrow

As death adder lays motionless at the foot of my cradle

My demising mask is made of soiled dirt and the blood of the dammed

Thunder rolls across the devilish shadows of the pit less gorge

A godless war erupts from the evils of false prophets

As it’s crushed my revivification to once was pure and true

While religions become an obsession, it’s our destinies to crash

The gloomed stage is set, a theater of tragedy performs its greatest act

As the deceiver of un-opened eyes speaks, as I want to breathe again

With streams of passion and nostalgia crystallizing in my dreams

My heart cries out, but not of tears or blood, but for the love of man

With zombies in my fairyland I sit broken but will never surrender

So I wait for my rebirth into the golden paradise of that which is promised

I’ll ride the red sun and crawl on its scorching face

As I am a blasphemer entangled in my rotting corps called infidel

My name is silenced, while I carry my dark lantern into the un-known

A bittersweet nightshade covers my wounds at the edge of the world

As I watch humanity collide in the lifelines of a blackthorn winter

With all colors drowning in the same dark waters of time

Blind me forever and put the weight of my world on my shoulders

Give me eternal night by the last train to hell and black rain

Chain me to the beautiful death that awaits the sins of humanity

As I am lost in this universe, destroyed by the evils of man

Kings and Queens of all nations we are lost in the dreams of sanity

It’s the mutter song of a grandiose fever of your luciferian elegy

Only the dust of past lives gives us the calling of an illuminating sound

As I lay here in my cradle of filth, I pray to be un-dammed by his grace

4-26-2011

Michael Jones

(Original)

© Drowning Silence Poetry & Thoughts 2011 Unauthorized use of Michael W. Jones’s Poetry is prohibited

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Drowning-Silence-Poetry-Thoughts/216894708350637#!/notes/drowning-silence-poetry-thoughts/dammed-sadism/216905838349524

it’s my facebook link..

Poet Michael Jones

by_nices1 @ Deviant Art

Elephant bar

there is an elephant bar
along a salty rim in Santa Barbara
a port shaped building in disguise
palms trees with pitch fingers
plucking out against 1:30 black
lamp posts standing
in their metal helmets
pagan samarais
with white hot eyes
could’ve been the ecstasy
making my furry skin crawl
throwing myself up
in a face down ditch
a barefoot bar wench
brought a pint of Fat Tire
with alabaster skin
(frozen mug not wench)
a tap of hazy drum
interrupted my stare
its mad language speak
rolling off snare tongue
and we spoke of nothing
going about life that way

© Cochise 2010

by W Lyles Jr

by_19andrea87 @ Deviant Art

The Climb

I stand at the bottom of the mountain,

Looking up, my mind so uncertain.

It is so high, the way looks treacherous,

Steep, almost unnavigable.

Yet this is a journey I must make,

For to live s to climb.

To climb is to live, for in not climbing

I would not be, not exist.

I start, slow and unsteady at first,

Gaining skill and knowledge as I go.

Still unsure, but not quiet so much,

Not as I was as I made the beginning.

I slip, I fall, it hurts and I am bruised,

I feel like quitting, giving up, turning back,

But in life there is no going back.

To quit, to give up, brings no second chance.

The hurt will heal, the bruises will fade,

Knowledge will be gained, the path less steep.

Life must teach, so I must climb again.

A new mountain as from the start.

Now I have less fear, less uncertainty,

I feel I may be able to make the top.

I start, I reach for the next ledge, handhold.

The next step, I reach, I miss, I fall.

Bloodied again, bruised, broken, scraped,

I sit, I cry, I wonder “Why?”

I lift myself up, tend my wounds, dust me off,

Start the climb again, one foot, one hand.

More sure, more cautious, more skill gained,

I climb on and up, sight on the top,

Feet on the ground, hope in my heart.

Learned skills to put in play.

So life will be, for all my life.

A climb, a journey, a test of will,

A task learned and tools mastered.

A test that must be passed.

Each hill a challenge, a lesson learned,

An opportunity to grow, to be better than I was.

I will not travel unscathed, un scratched,

But bandaged and broken.

Travel I must, ever to the top, the final resting place.

I can make it easier if I am will to share,

Share the burden of others that also climb,

Others that will help with my load.

I have made it hard for myself and hard

for my fellow travelers at times.

Thought of myself only, not of them,

Only to find myself alone, listening to them cry.

I have been lifted up as I lift up a friend,

Bandaged their wounds and cool their brow.

Thought of them, not myself,

Finding myself in good company, hearing them laugh.

Today is another day, more mountain to climb,

More steps to take, more times to fall too.

More chances to help and be helped by you,

As you climb, searching for your own trail, your own path.

Ours may be parallel, or crisscross, even the same for a while.

I may follow, I may lead, we may walk the same path

Never seeing each other, not knowing, unaware,

Blind to all, tunneling from sight all but our own way.

In my climbing I have bloodied others, knowingly, unknowingly,

But bloodied them just the same.

I have been bloodied by other climbers as well as by the climb,

Known and unknown, I have no right to hold malevolence.

I have my own sins during my climb, my travels,

Can I hold another’s sins against them? No.

I will climb, I will stumble, fall, get up and climb again.

Each day I will look for a hand to help, one to help me.

I would make your climb easier, if I can,

Lift you up a step; hold you sure and safe for a time,

Give what strength I may offer, share your load,

Walk at your side, company you in your journey.

When our paths are no longer the same, I will wish you well,

Pray “God speed”, hope for you smooth trails before each climb,

Shady glades for rest at each crest, and that the lessons cost

Only small cuts and minor bruises.

We each climb, travel the path we choose,

Taking the path chosen for us if we do not choose.

I know I must choose how I will climb, how to face each days

Travels, each fall, every challenge, to continue or not.

To learn or not, to use the skills taught, or face the teaching again.

If I learn, if I remember, if I teach, when I reach the top,

I will look down the mountain, smile, and feel good.

If you smile back at me I will know my climb a success

Rst

by Russell Eversole

“My passion for poetry was locked in a dungeon until I came across Theron Kennedy’s poems. His poems are addictive. I

Theron Kennedy

couldn’t stop myself from reading and feeling his words. His lines are beautifully crafted. Each poem is well versed with amazing metaphors and sweet and beautiful imagery. His words paint abstract yet vivid emotion. He artistically creates nude images and feelings. The intensity of his emotion radiates like energy touching my heart, mind, and soul. His beautiful mind leads me on a journey to his whole being. He remarkably redefines love and its culture. His expression of pain is impressive. Each of his poem is a song. As I swim through it I see beautiful movies featuring the life of this amazing poet.” ~ by Nenita Gutierrez

Being Bukowski

“I envy your opportunity to be a mother.
You get to experience something with that child
that no one else in the world will ever experience.
Then after he or she is born you never have to worry
about anyone taking them from you or interfering
in that relationship.”

Abby said “You are the only man I’ve ever heard say something like that”.

She sips her Caramel Macchiato, reads “Women” by Charles Bukowski.

She is so Beautiful.

Eye aM Bukowski.

She’s a Cancerian.

My sign is “Readers wanted” or flashes “Ghostbusting”
When its time to deliver some lines.

When you’re Bukowski the world is the space between
pen and page. Where the story lies.

Waiting for you to say “let there be Write”.

Cassidy and Jay Z whisper in either ear
“She’s a hustla homie”

I said “but she hustles with me”.

Abby said “What”?

I smiled and said “Ah, Just thinking out loud”.

The things I see and the things I’ve seen
wrestle inside me in a fight to the death
for my sanity it seems.

It gets bloody at times.
The blood spills from my lips.
Or my finger tips.

Eye aM Yin and Yang.

My inspiration for this poem would be Charles Bukowski, conversations with Abby, my thoughts about life in general, some spiritual beliefs, and having listened to music a lot since a very young child and a lot of Hip Hop since age 9.

“I Said Mister” was written to keep the memory of Kalil McCoy alive, and to continue the deeds she began. She died at the hands of her class mates, a single-shot to the head, in June 2o11.

 Just graduating from Andrew Jackson High School, with a promising future ahead for her.

 Author Karen Dewitt has dedicated all proceeds, from the sale of the book to the  Kalil McCoy Foundation & The Fight Against Violence Organization, in Jacksonville, Florida, Duval County.

 The book contains emotional poetry, short stories, and prose. That will arouse

the soul, dig its roots into the hearts of all who read.   When asked, “Why, would you donate all proceeds of book sales to a stranger?”  Her reply was… “She is not a stranger! She is an angel.” The official press release will go out for “I Said Mister”, this month (April 2o12), followed by greater things to come. Not even eight-weeks out “I Said Mister” has received an Editor’s Choice Award, with other recognition.  During her nineteen-years on earth, she has inspired all walks of life, been kind to all faces, building mountains instead, of walls. Breathing in, all of what life has offered her. She is and will remain, in all the hearts across the sphere. Kalil was an active dancer, friend, daughter, sister, and many other things.

  If, you choose to purchase the book, you would be supporting a cause (organization), that will be speaking across the United States, reaching out to our youth, young adults, and so forth. The Founder, and CEO of the ”Kalil McCoy Foundation”,  is Patti Roebuck, of Jacksonville, Florida, along with Vice President Shardea Nicole.

 They will be traveling to schools, prisons, detention centers… speaking with youth, and young adults, on the consequences, and the affect that violence has on people. When, a loved one is taken too soon; it not only hurts the family, but it consumes, and devours the souls of everyone, (the town, its youth, parents, siblings). The trial is still on-going, to see justice served accordingly, and to give her family closure.

  “I Said Mister” can be found here  — About Foundation —CEO & Founder: Patti Roebuck — Vice President: Shardea Nicole — Donations — Contact The Author

Author Karen Dewitt

 The Power of Love is so many things….

by_Haziness @ Deviant Art

My Love Poetry

As she hides within me,

buried beneath the root

of my heart, expressed

through the intimacy of

my every thoughts. You

understands the joys I

feel and you fulfills me

immensely, oh poetry.

Poetry it’s easy to love

you and I’ll answer when

they ask what inspires

me to write you. Daily

I share you because my

pride just wants to show

you to the world because

poetry you’re my cure,

it’s you I adore.

Poetry you are my life

experiences, you are

the words I write, the

depictions of my life,

the past and present

I’ve seen and the dream

my love forever wants

to reveals.

Poet Andrew Vassell

Andrew Vassell (Ntyse) © Copyright 2012

http://www.facebook.com/Andrew.Vassell.Author.page

“Born in Jamaica,I was lucky to have been bought up with both dedicated parents and 3 younger sisters. I spent my holidays with my Aunt alongside my 4 female cousins .Having been raised in a highly Religious home, at the age of 18 I decided to venture and went to Canada where I began to find and understand the meaning of relationships, love and the feelings were a part of this new life I had found. I pursued a career in plumbing and heating and security management….was it my passion? From an early age I found it easy to express heart through my poems and song writing which leads me to be working on a collection of my love poem books which will soon be in a store near you . My life’s experience in words…..I am following my passion….
I am following my Heart….”

The_window_by_theflickerees @ Deviant Art

Your Vessel  
 

Your vessel.. 
I want to sculpt with my hands…. 

Stimulate you with a graceful flourishing of amber 
inside the veil of your over whelming…. 
Gently press against your love wall 
and drag the garden out of you.. 
while I glory in the blossoming 
of your brown snow

 Dim the lights of your eyelids 
and fall deep into your shadow 
We blind fold the clock, so he may lose track of time
and know how it is to feel lost 
inside the portal
of love

 © 2012 Orlando Murcia

Orlando Murcia