Knoble Kaller
2021-02-05 02:00 am
They met like the first time rainbow met sun shower, wave met sandy seashore, and heart met Cupid’s arrow. They laughed like the first time green eyes gazed brown, sunup chased sundown, and chuckles met deep frown. They learned about foreign subjects on local soil, shared time in familiar toil, and explored how their lives could coil. They wondered how we two could meet and find their feet and live to eat and rinse repeat and begin again and keep the peace for family sake. She touched my heart with smile on face depositing hope of our loves deep embrace. Unlocking a gate of emotions oppressed from that bygone time cloaked in cynicism and hate. She used her power applied her grace revealing a world where nothing waits and the weak grow strong those loved and displaced. Then together we pledged to always be true to all that matters to me and to you and to guard this ethereal space.
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Knoble Kaller
2021-02-05 01:34 am
How much does she do with things of me and you Throughout the light of day Pining life away How much does she do for people in the room From cradle to the grave All rising and depraved How much does she do keeping busy till night falls Exchange excitement for a fall Off to slumber fore he calls How much does she do no time left for you Wanting only to be near And support when things go queer How much does she do unwilling ne’er to bend Or experience more than friends No intimacy on the mend How much does she do Till the end
Gord
2021-02-04 03:12 am
Open lies, a world full, Ocean tides, border known, Mapped upon a mobile phone, Burning eyes, wait in line, A door, for more control; Face comes first, defines, Then maybe later stones. Which would be more alone? Sitting German in Lederhosen, Burning all my former clothes, Formal close, cutting ties; Or a heart of glass, love inside, Which fights a world, nothing like?
Gord
2021-01-21 10:16 am
Of stem and leaf, Love fed at ease, Of ends and meet, Of fair and sweet, When we speak of things We speak so freely, Of flesh and teeth. Shanty after shanty, See the men at sea, See the heights they reach, Lows so permanent and deep. Well, that's sweet, Yes, that means, Go ahead and feel, Just know, there is no you and me.
Lynn
2021-01-13 05:29 pm
holding the box between two fingers so it does not fall the hand is not pandora’s; she has been dead for centuries inside the lid, an amateur’s attempt at a cumulonimbus the sky behind them greener than the clouds before a tornado the clouds themselves whiter than the dust after what will become of the box? will it house bangles and bracelets and small forgotten memories? will the hinges rust and the sky become separated from the ground? will it ever find its way home?
Gord
2021-01-01 07:42 am
In a sense, where you? Fear if you see hex screws, Warranties irked, jerks, I want to repair my life, It's enough to affect them too. What is the leg's next move? What some other leg says do, Running until bears get you. You get 'get well soons' But lost one of the duo, Best friends adieu. To use a phrase, shall I fetch them too, Listen to Daniel Dumile in my bedroom?
Innasense
2020-12-28 09:42 pm
Obsessions What power you hold over me... Every action, every thought Is just a push in your direction Feeding into the obsessions, Lost connections, misdirections, Absolutely positively coerced into these affections By a brain constantly seeking tiny moments of perfection. Though you kind of must admire this curation of adoration, All the mental efforts required to keep up the constant cultivation Of this undisturbed fixation, The impropriety and distraction of a single-minded meditation, All these mind-numbing, pacing, clock-like rotations Theoretically leading this obsessive mind to pure elation, The uninhibited fruits of this persistent dedication. Happy sighs and exhalations... But then... The sobering realization That somehow life existed before this shrine’s erection And perhaps the cracks start to show, Unexpected but apparent imperfections, Initially denied and resolutely rejected, The shattered shards of a crystal ball that disagrees with my projections, The deflation, depletion, extortion Of my vexation, Maybe leading to complete and utter exoneration... The disintegration of my fascination. Maybe someday... But for now I prefer to float in my comforting contemplations, Giving in to the infatuation, These happy delusions of my mind’s incarceration. And if the worst this should cause is These false exhilarations, Then I shall stay here for a while And enjoy the scintillating sensations Of my obsessive ruminations. A Temporary Salvation.
Gord
2020-12-23 03:32 pm
Drawing breath, intending a scream, Time passes, wake from dreaming, Sometimes excessive zeal demeans, So squeak like the law itself, Garlic men, in the broadest sense, Concentrate on the bread when pressed, But what of butter and how it melts? Even of appalling strength, Does it correspond to depth, or meaning? Rocking chair, what have you seen, Beside the bedside and people watching? Even if time lacking, population immense, Despite desperate pleas: fences.
Lynn
2020-12-17 01:12 pm
sitting on the red couch eating rice and beans straight from the pot the rice is undercooked and toothy it sticks to my spine it burns my throat picking around green peppers while the south winter sun runs through the window and reflects off the floor and is blinding bright it burns my eyes it doesn’t feel warm at all despite the two pairs of socks and layered shirts and oh i’m so tired. might just. wrap up in a blanket and go to sleep.
Gord
2020-12-04 02:41 am
Ball fist, if wishes could talk, One would place their chips down; If life were a play, or odd film, Kings would admit our wrongs, But it's not. Wishing could be in your head, Talking all things that god is, Appending the self at the end, Thinking itself less important, But it's not.
Gord
2020-11-29 11:53 pm
Debbie downer of many outcomes, Money protected against downturns, Fathered from powerful maelstroms, Freshly showered out of sleep, What is deep? What is to and from, Blue sea, who flowers their queen, Without a penny, empty bellied, 'You let them down, son' Sour cherries, as he devours many Let them down yourself, please, Out of envy, twenty thousand leagues.
Gord
2020-11-25 04:33 am
To hurt him, like ordinance, Without pair, like oranges, I know the judge, stole from her, And I showed the world, Like porcelain, life and purpose. Too curt of whim, by your judgement, Like my origins, like ordinance, I simply shoot from the hip.
Gord
2020-11-24 05:18 am
And what is knowledge, Seeking cage or collar, Blue, An ocean fathered, Or Purple, red and other; Purple, being safe, Circle, being safe, Purple screaming veins, Journal speaks of rage. Press candles, pages, Stress handled in stages.
Gord
2020-11-19 01:01 am
Bindle stiff of simple things, Fake brickwork buildings, Frugal beginning. Mind filled with bitterness, Still feeling ideas stone: Life constatant, slowly. Hands in gauze and clovers, One makes a river of oceans, A farm of forests, dogs of horses. Yet smashes up against the stone, Dark and lonely, eyes gloss over.
Gord
2020-11-13 07:17 am
To scratch to paper to feel, A rat pampered can keel, Catch as cant, caped and kneels. To manage a brokerage well, Manger broken, belly swells, Change hopeful, soon quelled. The train is gold but gone, Pain is old game to fawns, Again retold, they carry on.
Gord
2020-11-12 06:34 am
He writes on reeds, Rides on steeds, Likely feeling. He sees the sea, Steels a seal, Greets, then eats. He wastes away, Hastily his days, Vast mountains sway.
Gord
2020-11-06 12:40 am
A Fool, wreath of barbs, Writing of films' stars, Barns, and what lies beyond; Tools for reaching disembarkments, A cool way to clean her clock, A gun, put into a mouth, Entire crowd in shock; His cigar takes tocks, Ticks boxes and lives onward. He rewrites his ducks: swans, Cooks his brownies blonde, Looks at his frowning fawn, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Like drowning frogs, A fearless John. When he writes of life, It's to a howling mob, Sexy songs, luck gaunt, One of us, One of us, One of us, Eteonicus lives, reeds or not.
Petar Kostadinov
2020-11-02 10:04 am
“Writers ———————- Have gentle souls Have a heart of a sunshine The one written word they paint From their lives with each brush in their hands The good times The bad times The treasured of times Their words are best told From its beginning to no ending They paint each season They create each reason They form each line As they stand even at the bus line As they wait for their train to arrive As they drive their car they must stop At the parking stop and quickly write Otherwise they will lose their track of Song they want to sing” (c)10/31/2020 by Petar Kostadinov
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