Category: poem

The Fractal Debris, Poetry by Keefe R.D.

Genre: Rhyme, Thriller

Title: The Fractal Debris
Writer: Keefe R.D
Blog: http://www.keeferd.wordpress.com
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THE FRACTAL DEBRIS

The house buried under the sun,

the shimmer they hid couldn’t run,

for the age they held,

no more than a hesitancy.

If one could shallow a sinner thought,

the old cabin would allure,

for the smoke and ashes to sue.

The tantrum was lifting a tragedy,

of what they said about the wood;

a frantic horror and panic.

For what they had consumed,

they might remain the same.

The cabin wouldn’t look alive,

and the brown shade would suffice.

as if the fractal debris were there to swirl.

As the only living place in the wood,

oh, the agony to lose that place has raging,

only for them to survive,

from the wild roses.

Once the wolf echoed,

they should know their place.

 

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YESTERDAY, TODAY, TOMORROW, Poetry by Eve Noel

Genre:    DARK, PAINFUL, HOPE

YESTERDAY, TODAY, TOMORROW by Eve Noel

His eyes are ocean blue, wide with excitement. He loved me. He cherished me. He laughed with me.

Wanting to touch his new friend. I hunger for him. His companionship. His warmth. Know me he not.

I revisit today with anticipation. The stares piercing. His eyes, the color of night. The long gaze sends a volt of lightning into my heart. The knife dipped in poison is thrust deep into my heart. The aim is to
kill. But I survived. I retreat. I am a clam.

To bring my soul back to life is tomorrow’s journey, which is now today.

Eve Noel

WGAE

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DREAMS AND REALITY, Poetry by Natalia Gorbunova, Spain.

Genre: Rhyme, Inspirational

DREAMS AND REALITY

At last! From the heaven some sounds touch your ears:

Like a rapid stream is my fluent speech,
My words are mixed with your gentle tears.
Of course, I’ve made my option which
Helped me to defeat this cruel world.
Do understand, my little bird
All the melodies of my daring mind
(It was difficult to do so far).
We can create a lustrous star
To illuminate the humankind.
              *
            *     *
Oh, God! A bell is ringing on
And an ignis fatuus falls upon.
Natalia Gorbunova, Spain.

 

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Deadline: FREE POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
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I am, Poetry by Allyson Olivia

Genre: Inspirational

I am
By
Allyson Olivia

Clear droplets falling from a gray sky,
making you beg for the sun.
Pouring hot into fine china, tea bag dipped to sip.
Shooting out of a hose, clearing the cluttered path,
powerful with every spray.
Turned off.
Torrential, ruining parades.
A mist, danced in.
Flowers flourish.
Falling from faces in pain.
Steaming, I whistle.
Ice, I clunk.
Contain, yet contained.
Towels soak me up.
Tongues lift high.
Kool-Aid stirred in, kids gulp.
Buckets of me put out fires.
You swim.
You drown.
I am still, reflecting the sun.

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Deadline: FREE POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
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Society Poetry: SLYME by Michelle B. Assor

SLYME by Michelle B. Assor

Prime Time!
No time to dawdle or rhyme.
No time to swish this ghastly mite.
No time to flowingly write.
Camera lenses ogle
through the dark eyes of the iPad.
Beware roaming pens…..
You will be chomped and your ink run dry
Bet you didn’t know devices bite like mites.
Slyme!
Pens prepare for your finale.
No more writing rights!

No time to listen to melodic chimes.
Free time demands a puny dime.
Flat faced phones are advanced.
C’mon they are not that smart,
but they sure know how to keep
blushing face to face conversations
woolly worlds apart.

Spaced out…..
Slyme!
Where am I? Mars or the Moon?
Earth is too flat. I’d rather be as high as a kite
Yet I’ve forgotten how to climb a tree to take flight
If time permits I’ll slink the clock,
forego my stinky socks
and try to hurdle that trunk.
I’m salivating for that slimy lime
dangling high from a branch
on some wayward, distant ranch.
It’s begging me,
Be mine, be mine,
Slyme!
No time.

No time to reinvent the mime,
No time to whisper in your ear
“Be my Valentine”
Daytime-Lunchtime-Bedtime
It’s all the same suppressing chime
There is no half time, part time,
Only foolish fulltime

The cat is no longer in his hat
He doesn’t purr
And he’s losing his fur
Who, Who, WHO is Horton?
Looks like his trunk
is severely shortened.
Oh, but I do have one special wish
Yuck, no it’s not a slimy fish
I want that grimy, green grinch
The one who stole Christmas.
He ought to mind his own business.
SLYME!

The grimy, green grinch

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Deadline for POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
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Society Poetry: Social Fretwork by Dermott Hayes

I posted a thought,
it flew away
down through dark,
cavernous cyberways,
to bump and grind
with other lonesome thoughts
in the hotbeds of social fretworks.

And worried then
where it might go
unguided, misunderstood
to liaise, frolic and fret
argue, debate
opinionate
in a world of posts,
untethered,
away from me,
gone, awaiting its return,
alone

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Deadline for POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
http://www.wildsound.ca/poetrycontest.html

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Society Poetry: Consumer by Jeremy Duhart

Consumer

I want it all, goods and services. Money’s not a problem, I’m excited when purchasing. On the internet stores I stay surfing looking for the product to make my life perfect. There’s always something to buy to fix all of my prefects and defects, just need a 16 digit card number and an address for FedEx. I’m looking for value not trying to give it. I want it in seconds, too long is a minute. Sacrifice my rent payment for some reckless spending. Can’t get my mind off that new product, it’s addicting. That ad I just saw definitely has me influenced. Can’t wait to exchange this old thing for the newest. The coolest gadgets and fashion are waiting in my wish list. I’m in line online looking for my next wish. Spent hours shopping from home. Don’t cook, don’t clean, the DIY movement is wrong. I have a life full of improvement via products I’m consuming.

Too hot
Language has transformed from spoken to virtual.
Words now less spoken than texted with emojis.
Smiling faces looking at screens not seeing
what lies underneath their walking feet.
Dirt roads made into concrete constructing
freeways until they are complete.
Skyscrapers and buildings our ancestors wouldn’t recognize.
Mass creation on a scale not imagined by past lives.
Simulation of all things moving closer to perfection.
Or an illusion so good we delude ourselves into satisfaction.
The drive for knowledge and relaxation is the sponsor for robotics.
Creativity advocated by heavy usage of hallucinogens and narcotics. Development is going so fast the future can’t brace enough.
Are we coming in too hot?
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Deadline for POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
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Society Poetry: Pocket Sized Wreath by Cassandra Swan

The elephant-grey, cracked walkway clacks with alacrity:  
as the tedious, stiff facades in a talentless circus of mediocrity  
plod, and trek to their typical, mechanical homage – a life my   
insurrection rejects!  Instead, at a lowly, junk-ridden, rickety   
desk – on sixteen-hour, voluntary shifts – I regurgitate injustice.  
  
Will I ever switch my rabble-rousing, misanthropic existence  
for a steady salary, car and otiose days off at Christmas?  
Swivel chairs – in an unholy, goldfish bowl – with chains!  
Pub jaunts, cream cakes with petty, civilian saints,  
and dreary, clock-watching years, with lottery syndicates.  
  
This rantipole poet re-mortgaged her lifeblood to repossess time:  
decrypting the tangled-web of a tortured mind’s production lines.  
My supernatural re-incarnation – as a poetic, psychic surgeon –   
pledges petroglyphs of Donatistic lyrics, and complex lamentations.  
I survive by devouring plentiful plenilunes in valiant dimensions.  
Jekyll and Hyde’s allotment cultivates fine verbs and nouns.   
  
Fifty years devout, sterling service awards and android-head,  
with an ingot watch, a pension and an orthopaedic bed!  
Yet, starving lyricists live eternally in folios: their cicatrices  
flood like wordy blood, as knife-edged, quality-controlled rectos  
cut into eternal ebbs and flows of etymological, mystagogic tides.  
  
An android’s watch – rasped by retirement, coronary and death –   
ticks on as a by-passed heart, gasping for breath:  
under a charity shop counter, it flops; limp as an amaranth,  
in a swiftly-decomposing, demoralised, pocket-sized wreath.  
  
This wage-less wordsmith’s spine-chilling lines will outlive  
the hands and face of mechanised life and time; by sculpting  
denticulate epistles – with a scalpel – into epidermis then epitaph. 

Copyright Cassandra Swan

 

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Deadline for POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
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A Slow Train to Gwalior, Poetry Movie by Amitabh Mitra

A Slow Train to Gwalior by Amitabh Mitra

Amitabh Mitra is a poet, visual artist  and a medical practitioner at East London, South Africa. He heads the Department of Emergency Medicine at Cecilia Makiwane Hospital, Mdantsane, Eastern Cape. Widely published, Amitabh’s love poetry revolves around the city of Gwalior, India to which he originally belongs.

Amitabh Mitra

April Past, Poetry by Slowmoto

April Past

A devil in my calendar
He eats, lives, and breathes
Pour in happiness
To exhale disgust
Do you see that me?
To this demon I remain hostage
No amnesia,
Or Armor,
Or Alternate belief
I hate this month
Being torn apart
By the devil it revives in me

Poet: Slowmoto

@slowmoto
Genre: relent

 

 

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Deadline for POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
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