Tag: poet

Infatuation, Poetry by Anna Sue Benson

I am a skilled,
dedicated,
stalker.
When I can sneak out,
I walk across town,
over the river bridge,
creep up the one way street,
imagining the subject of my desire.

Genre: Dark, Horror

Infatuation
by Anna Sue Benson

I am a skilled,
dedicated,
stalker.
When I can sneak out,
I walk across town,
over the river bridge,
creep up the one way street,
imagining the subject of my desire.
One my way home
from work,
the grocery store,
running errands,
I drive by,
slowly.
I wonder
what the neighbors think
about my constant presence
on this quiet side-street.

This object of my desire,
this house,
is mine.
Mine in an unexplainable,
not of this world,
kind of way.
It’s perched up on a hill,
surrounded by trees,
vacant for years,
slowly succumbing to decay and neglect.
I peek in the windows,
see that a remodeling project
has been left unfinished,
building materials long untouched.
The pull this house has on me
is palpable.
I feel,
wholeheartedly feel,
like I should walk up those steps
and through the front door.
It’s my house.
The house makes me believe
the padlocks on the doors,
the deed in someone’s else’s name,
are irrelevant.
I want to,
I need to,
step foot in that house
feel its energy.

I’ve found out everything
I could possibly research.
Built in 1910,
changed hands 19 times
in 40 years,
owned by a company
in Bakersfield, CA
that has no business
owning a house in these parts,
a company
who hasn’t paid the taxes
on my house
in two years.
I imagine,
writing them,
offering to pay the back taxes,
take the house off their hands.
If only I had the means,
to restore it
to the way it deserves to exist,
I would.

I have asked around,
learned all the local history.
People are afraid
of my house.
The land around it,
encircled by many known
Native American burial mounds.
People wonder
if any other burial mounds
were disrespected
in the building of that home,
wonder if there is some curse,
some bad energy
for what might have been done
to a sacred resting place.
Local urban legends
revolve around this house,
the woods around it.

I am undeterred.
I pace the woods behind my house,
pondering a way
I could get inside.
I feel uneasy
the closer I get
to my house.
Maybe it’s that I’m a rule-follower,
I know, from a legal standpoint,
I’m trespassing.
Surely the uneasy feeling
couldn’t be that something is wrong,
off about the property.
I don’t understand
how something so right
could be out of my grasp.
I can’t accept that.
The house
pulls me in.
I don’t know how,
but I can make this happen.
It will be mine.

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A Mention of Minchin, Poetry by Allison Welborn

There will always be a percentage
Of people who don’t agree with your message.
Some will love you and follow your profession;
They will chant “Tim is God,” and you’ll be their obsession.

Genre: inspirational/motivational

A Mention of Minchin
By Allison Welborn

There will always be a percentage
Of people who don’t agree with your message.
Some will love you and follow your profession;
They will chant “Tim is God,” and you’ll be their obsession.
Some will adore “White Wine in the Sun,” and agree with “The Fence,”
But will completely reject your religious stance.
And some will hate you and will never give you a chance.
Some will get out of their seat and on the toes of their feet
When I say, “What do you think of Minchin? Here, I’ll give you a beat.”

“He’s loud and obnoxious.
He’s rude and rambunctious.
He will never make it as a comedian.
He’s overly sarcastic and rudely bombastic.
He’s offensive and aggressive.
He will always be a fool, scum, a godless bohemian.
He’s racist and tasteless.
He’s ignorant and arrogant.
I’m sure he’s heard it all, that fumigant.
How dare he use the word nigger?
Whatever happened to tar and feather?
It’s shit on a page!
Get off the stage!”

To them I would say,
“Here are a few questions if I may,
Did he offend you? Are you mad?!
Did he come a little too close to home for you, lad?
If you’ve answered yes, it was probably rightly due;
Maybe you should change your hue, or get a clue.
If you heard the words that were applied,
You’d know that he was on the right side.”

They would see what they were missin’,
If they would just give it a listen.
Your music is the Xanax to my anxiety;
When I’m down, your lyrics pick me back up entirely.
Every time I wake, something emerges in my gourd.
Why, it’s you; whether it’s a line, a verse, or a chord.
Surely I haven’t been misconceived,
For this is what I have perceived . . .

“He’s articulate and accurate.
He’s crude but shampooed.
He will be a hit or miss for the religious clans.
He’s clever and a scholar.
He’s relatable and inspirational.
He will be a fucking legend to his biggest fans.
He’s considerate and elaborate.
He’s honest but modest.
He has changed some of my views, for that I am fondest.
He’s one of a kind, a true performer!
He give me chills, even if it’s summer!
Like cheddar, he only gets better with age.
For Tim Minchin will never be caged!”

They fall back in their seat, in what seems like defeat.
“I’ll give him another go, maybe there’s more to Tim than I know.”
If I’ve done my part, perhaps they’ll have a change of heart.
I may have created a brand new fixation,
All due to a mention of Minchin.

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GENERATIONS, Poetry by Thomas K. Hunt

Fathers build and mothers smile
Bear their fruit to drop their seeds
Within us all lives a child
In soil rich beneath the weeds

Genre: Life

GENERATIONS
by Thomas K. Hunt

Fathers build and mothers smile
Bear their fruit to drop their seeds
Within us all lives a child
In soil rich beneath the weeds
Years of changing faces
Given eyes tell the truth
Aged lines leave subtle traces
Still, blossom from just one root
The torch we pass is everlasting
Red embers of bloodline names
Many molds from just one casting
Each one different but yet the same
Still the foe of time fights against us
Always the victor in the field
Though we struggle with mighty vengeance
We suffer a wound that never heals
Faces change to granite markers
Fleeting memories of what we were
Photographs in old footlockers
Become unfocused, faded, and blurred
Like the horizon steals the sunset
The ages rob our life of time
Yet like the sunrise in the morning
Another life is born from mine
Immortality does exist
Survived with each new fertile womb
Natures own enduring seed
Again will flower, again will bloom

Copyright © 2015 Thomas K. Hunt

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so here is mine, Poetry by Ghada 20

You are the love

you are the fate

you are the soul and

its mate

Genre: Romance, Love, Relationship

so here is mine
by Ghada 20

You are the love

you are the fate

you are the soul and

its mate

you are a dream

and debate

you are the morning song

and relief

you are me… my very

special case.

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Spooky, Poetry by Billy JnoHope

choose your phantom

wear it well

candy for your fears

Genre: Dark

Spooky
by Billy JnoHope

choose your phantom

wear it well

candy for your fears

as daylight ends

masks taunting every door

life tricks and death treats

in the hands of the beholder

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After the War, Poetry by Stone Fox

There was nothing remotely familiar,
I could see no one and every one all at once.
These people were lost, they were all dead.
Salem grew dark-blushing from a freshly spent temptation.
A seduction created from the ideas of rash men,
that was then danced into destiny’s details by the devil.

Genre: War, Society, Political

After the War
by Stone Fox

There was nothing remotely familiar,
I could see no one and every one all at once.
These people were lost, they were all dead.
Salem grew dark-blushing from a freshly spent temptation.
A seduction created from the ideas of rash men,
that was then danced into destiny’s details by the devil.
It continued breeding shadow as every flame,
owned by the light was savagely snuffed-out.
Murder was now on a most elegant hunt.
Each diminishing spark documented each kill,
becoming a growing list of victims.
Meanwhile the thick lingering Blackness
kept a informal score as the shadow grew in strength.
Secretly, far off in the distance, a melody of sweetly soft smothered shrieks
signaled and started a symphony of serenely sobering sobs.
Sobs that began shaping and shifting into
unarticulated sighs and cries that never faltered.
But still, it was met with one lone menacing Nightmare.
A over stayed it’s welcome Terror.
It circled any remaining flame of light like a bottom feeding vulture.
Pushing it’s poor neglected lies unto any and all close by ears.
It could be heard loudly whispering to your hopes and dreams:
“Fret not” it almost always began,
“For though you have truly lost it all-your lives included-
there is a promise to clothe you.”
There was no hiding the disdain from it’s voice or face at the last two words.
But as quickly as the emotion appeared, it was replaced
with a plastic sneer as it finished with,
“All things look good, even better, dressed in our monograms.”
I found it’s night terror or tall tale amusing,
meeting this Nightmare face to face
as my insistent smirk escaped my control,
unnoticed by all including me.

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T H E I N T E R N M E N T, Poetry by Melodic Rose

They will lie and impale you
Throw your bones to the wolves.
They will castrate and frustrate you
Bound for damnation.

GENRE: Political, Social Commentary

T H E I N T E R N M E N T
by Melodic Rose

They will lie and impale you
Throw your bones to the wolves.
They will castrate and frustrate you
Bound for damnation.

They will toss you bits
Of mouldy bread
You will eat the shreds of
Flesh hanging over an open carcass.

Gorge your belly
with the repugnance
of rotting meat.

And they will tell you to be happy.

Be satisfied that your palace is made
Of dirt,
Your throne built from the bones
Of the dead.
The floor a sweltering dingy pile
Of crud.
Because it is still a palace,
After all.

They will offer you bare bits of change.
Dangle precious pearls before your eyes.
Taunt you with every sort of desire,
your flesh has longed for

They will beg you to dine at their table.
Make you an honoured guest,
If you will only sacrifice
And sacrifice you will.

For they will pour vials of poison
Into your veins.
Drive blades through your sockets,
Remove your tongue with the blade
of the knife

And toss the gun from hand to hand
Playing games with your very fate.

They will psychologically rape
The intellect out of you,
Shoot an arrow through your
Heart.
Plunge the dagger through your belly
and skewer you like a sunday roast.

You will be nothing but a pile of ash.

They will tell you to sit,
To laugh,
Be gentle
Be strong
Move like a semi automatic sliding door.
All gear clogged,
Created on a factory assembly line.

Until there is nothing left
Your body a host for spare electrical parts.

They will chain you up,
Beat you to submission.
Lead you like an animal to the slaughter.
Herding you into maximum security
For safe keeping.

Your ignorance, the only chain
Needed to keep you under captivity.

They have fed you fecal matter
And called it a gourmet meal.
Clothed you in burlap
And called it silk.

They will thread wires through your ears
pulse you with electrical currents.

They will radiate your very will to live.
Steal the words from the tip of your tongue
and tell you never to speak.

They will laugh at you,
puppet wire you
and pull you by the strings,
They have made you into the byproduct
of the their intention.
They will claim you were their i n v e n t i o n,

And you will dance on point
and learn to laugh.
Move like all the other droids.
They will remove the very breath from your lungs

one tear gas,
one vial of poison
one compromise
one deception
one war,
one institution
one moment
one historical m a n i p u l a t i o n
one vote
one protest
one force
one grand consummate scheme at a time.

They will call it a D e m o c r a c y

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Second chance Love over 60 years old, Poetry by Jonell Kirby Cash

A Ring, A Dance, A Second Chance

Jonell Kirby Cash
A Ring,
A Dance,
A Second Chance;

GENRE: Romance

Second chance Love over 60 years old
by Jonell Kirby Cash

A Ring, A Dance, A Second Chance

Jonell Kirby Cash
A Ring,
A Dance,
A Second Chance;

My darling’s gone,
Now I’m alone

And then
The Phone…
A love I’d known

Reminded me
That now I’m free

To Live
To Dance
Another Chance….

And Love Again

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Fallen Knife, Poetry by Gokul Baby Alex

The journey of a knife

That fell upside down

Out of its tainted edges

On a melting pot of love and life

In a state of inverted coma

Genre: Nature, Observation

Fallen Knife
by Gokul Baby Alex

The journey of a knife

That fell upside down

Out of its tainted edges

On a melting pot of love and life

In a state of inverted coma

Ten seconds before it could groove

A meaningful mist over the grass

Piercing through the foams of lust

Reached the wicked wounds of a heart

Of a cloudy mind, of an ellipsis creature

Caused no ache to the veins and vessels

Wrapped up in a silence, outside its mystic

Carried it away, carved it nice and plotted large

A picture so poisonous that only the wound is left

To cry foul on the flesh of its appetite

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Forgiveness, Poetry by Sherille Williams

His interest are no longer my interest.
Now this love that went on for so long has now become distant,
or should I say it’s the distance thats making my heart wonder .
They say shit like this makes the heart grow fonder. When he is around, all we do is bicker.

Genre: Relationship, Love

Forgiveness
by Sherille Williams

His interest are no longer my interest.
Now this love that went on for so long has now become distant,
or should I say it’s the distance thats making my heart wonder .
They say shit like this makes the heart grow fonder. When he is around, all we do is bicker.
His outlook on life is not the same when he first met me.
He cheated, which means all his morals and respect for me depleted my standards of what a real man wouldn’t do.
This made my heart bleed, because I thought I was his flower and seed, a seed that grew o’ so happily. Since then it’s been all backwards bends on my end.
All my deepest feelings are now complaints, and all his dreams is what he sees to succeed.
I mean, time and time again
I daydream of him being my husband.
My love for him runs so deep even
my G-spot senses him before he turns the corner.
Then, reality snaps me back and I recognize it’s just hopeful love that I’m fucking stuck in.
Holding on days he will change and maybe I can do the same.
Now, it’s not at all his fault because at times my emotions take me over the edge. I become weak and a bit needy instead. Give him head so he can forget the argument we just had.
Then I’m still fucking empty.
He never held me when I cried,
I just wanted a bit more attention and for him to stop thinking money will be by his side when he’s dead.
NO!
It’s not the bills, it’s his wife that will be there because once he dies I will too.
See my mind is misleading into thinking
everyone should love like me.
Now, statistically that extremely rare to find.
You know; the kind of spouse that sees things before it happens and that women’s intuition that never steers a man wrong.
A good women will make you shiver even after you bust a nut, making him wanting to kiss me on the forehead asking if I can hold him instead.
I hope one day this love theory of mine will come alive.
Yet its my fault, because I’m telling the story to all my family and friends of how much he’s hurt me, but I’m still with him in the end.
I love him and if forgiving includes spitting some poetry to mend
my heart then I guess this is where the true forgiveness starts.

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