Apr 27th

DIFFERENT TWISTS

By Depth Writer

 

 

 Arms of length feel its touch,

 the azure brightens, as it begins 

the bend into the unknown.

 Billets condemn thorns

 of itch and thirst, bleeding 

of tongueless empathy.

 

 

  Shiny chains and chaplet

 dine on past meals,

 banishing the mark of beastly ego,

 pretending it is not there.

 Bare crimsons gallop on bareback dreams.

 Like wild animal pulling, destroying

 the surroundings of a symphony.

 

 

  Chevron faces staring blankly

 into darkened coral enigmas, 

and cross the eyes of its blind,

 feeling its way through death's

  threshold. Dressed in falcon

 wing feathers, and disposed 

of a hemisphere.

Nov 23rd

Bagpipes, Pages Countless

By Depth Writer
An apprentice to history's muse
She sat unamused by today's rthymic tone;
                     poetry of all forms paraded across the checkered, black, and red tiled floor, swinging to the beat of the lines that sang to the tune.
      Words decorate his courtyard of an unending passion, and grace.
      Their eyes riddled with letters, words, thoughts
                     " a contoured mind "
 
                          Somersaulting into the mouth of dawn
                            Carrying experiences on his torso,
                                    "artisan of compassion", 
                              ''an architect to the forthcoming."

         
 Long, narrow fingertips cutting through the bone;
          trace back to days, hours,
                     seconds gone
                    "assimilate meaning"
                 The reasoning behind vibrant arches, 
     absorbing rainbow, dreamy lava desire, 
            kissing lips, necking thoughts, all walks
                         rustication of the assessor,

          "the artificer, art objects" 
                                An author to musings,

                           inspiring all walks of life, 
                             a bachelor studying the curves,
                                       'yesteryear's ambiance' dancing with its arms across the plethora, the moaning of waves gather at your bangs...
         
                        Furrowing drainage ditches thirsting for acceptance
                          where tears once lay stale
                                           love's passion igniting the wicks of unbalanced candle sticks, dripping of wax sillohettes, models to...
       "aplomb ventures outside the boxes"

Assuring his followers that he is stronger,
it shows in writes by faith in things not seen, the oblivious peace
tween mind and unchained soul...

     "settling into the soil feeling its moisture"

Whilst, evenhandedly, thriving to find the balance, 
                             belief of things he has trouble to hear with sound ears, touch with laughter, or find with ambitions attire....
 
          "understanding, or to 'See'th'  in opus"

                       Cabala is bold, striking the cheeks rosy, 
                                          ...expectations rise blue with excitement...
            Information unravels like a cork-screw,
                           ...its barrels blast away.at streets unformed...

           "His voice utters prose like an alto horn
            speaking in tongues at a timid skyline."

   Baritone whispers illuminate through the lips of a gentle wind
          ...bells choking at the sound of footsteps, as the hand of the sun moves quickly... life is following me....

             Dragging across instruments untouched
           He bellows, its symphony slowly beating;
Soon the audible play organs unnoticed, unprepared for what is ahead...
                        
                      "like a thunderous storm. It speaks rapid, like an ironed digit in the moments before neither then, or now."
           
  A distant boom is heard echoing through
             .it's thoughts dancing on a naked ground
                       Needing a place to rest their souls
                               "Canals of liquid aqua tears"
                   ...spew to bony feet, in carillon colors
                          swirl like ink dropped into a well,
                               spinning, weaving dreams never spoken of...

                              Bagpipes sing in the afar isles, '
                                   bassoon, and oboe dance,
                                      beating the tree limbs 
                                         Against the saturated hills -
                  '' veins in lengths of string 
                           lay flat like ironed lace bowing...
                             
                      "At the sight of first light"
                      ...his arms move cello faces 
                                  tending to fiddle-stick's
                                      Scroll through
               countless pages never seen, 
                   exposed inside an atlas map, 
     
         Routes never traveled, never dared to be explored, robes of cloth neath blossom'g garden; their beauty unmatched by rising suns...
            "Affront attempts to be the best man"
 ...he can be his battle cries still racing 
           -in unmentioned derby's

© Karen A.S
Nov 23rd

The Weight

By Depth Writer
  An apprentice to history's muse
She sat unamused by today's rthymic tone;
                     poetry of all forms paraded across the checkered, black, and red tiled floor, swinging to the beat of the lines that sang to the tune.
      Words decorate his courtyard of an unending passion, and grace.
      Their eyes riddled with letters, words, thoughts
                     " a contoured mind "
 
                          Somersaulting into the mouth of dawn
                            Carrying experiences on his torso,
                                    "artisan of compassion", 
                              ''an architect to the forthcoming."

         
 Long, narrow fingertips cutting through the bone;
          trace back to days, hours,
                     seconds gone
                    "assimilate meaning"
                 The reasoning behind vibrant arches, 
     absorbing rainbow, dreamy lava desire, 
            kissing lips, necking thoughts, all walks
                         rustication of the assessor,

          "the artificer, art objects" 
                                An author to musings,

                           inspiring all walks of life, 
                             a bachelor studying the curves,
                                       'yesteryear's ambiance' dancing with its arms across the plethora, the moaning of waves gather at your bangs...
         
                        Furrowing drainage ditches thirsting for acceptance
                          where tears once lay stale
                                           love's passion igniting the wicks of unbalanced candle sticks, dripping of wax sillohettes, models to...
       "aplomb ventures outside the boxes"

Assuring his followers that he is stronger,
it shows in writes by faith in things not seen, the oblivious peace
tween mind and unchained soul...

     "settling into the soil feeling its moisture"

Whilst, evenhandedly, thriving to find the balance, 
                             belief of things he has trouble to hear with sound ears, touch with laughter, or find with ambitions attire....
 
          "understanding, or to 'See'th'  in opus"

                       Cabala is bold, striking the cheeks rosy, 
                                          ...expectations rise blue with excitement...
            Information unravels like a cork-screw,
                           ...its barrels blast away.at streets unformed...

           "His voice utters prose like an alto horn
            speaking in tongues at a timid skyline."

   Baritone whispers illuminate through the lips of a gentle wind
          ...bells choking at the sound of footsteps, as the hand of the sun moves quickly... life is following me....

             Dragging across instruments untouched
           He bellows, its symphony slowly beating;
Soon the audible play organs unnoticed, unprepared for what is ahead...
                        
                      "like a thunderous storm. It speaks rapid, like an ironed digit in the moments before neither then, or now."
           
  A distant boom is heard echoing through
             .it's thoughts dancing on a naked ground
                       Needing a place to rest their souls
                               "Canals of liquid aqua tears"
                   ...spew to bony feet, in carillon colors
                          swirl like ink dropped into a well,
                               spinning, weaving dreams never spoken of...

                              Bagpipes sing in the afar isles, '
                                   bassoon, and oboe dance,
                                      beating the tree limbs 
                                         Against the saturated hills -
                  '' veins in lengths of string 
                           lay flat like ironed lace bowing...
                             
                      "At the sight of first light"
                      ...his arms move cello faces 
                                  tending to fiddle-stick's
                                      Scroll through
               countless pages never seen, 
                   exposed inside an atlas map, 
     
         Routes never traveled, never dared to be explored, robes of cloth neath blossom'g garden; their beauty unmatched by rising suns...
            "Affront attempts to be the best man"
 ...he can be his battle cries still racing 
           -in unmentioned derby's

© Karen A.S

 

 

 

Nov 23rd

The Weight

By Depth Writer
  An apprentice to history's muse
She sat unamused by today's rthymic tone;
                     poetry of all forms paraded across the checkered, black, and red tiled floor, swinging to the beat of the lines that sang to the tune.
      Words decorate his courtyard of an unending passion, and grace.
      Their eyes riddled with letters, words, thoughts
                     " a contoured mind "
 
                          Somersaulting into the mouth of dawn
                            Carrying experiences on his torso,
                                    "artisan of compassion", 
                              ''an architect to the forthcoming."

         
 Long, narrow fingertips cutting through the bone;
          trace back to days, hours,
                     seconds gone
                    "assimilate meaning"
                 The reasoning behind vibrant arches, 
     absorbing rainbow, dreamy lava desire, 
            kissing lips, necking thoughts, all walks
                         rustication of the assessor,

          "the artificer, art objects" 
                                An author to musings,

                           inspiring all walks of life, 
                             a bachelor studying the curves,
                                       'yesteryear's ambiance' dancing with its arms across the plethora, the moaning of waves gather at your bangs...
         
                        Furrowing drainage ditches thirsting for acceptance
                          where tears once lay stale
                                           love's passion igniting the wicks of unbalanced candle sticks, dripping of wax sillohettes, models to...
       "aplomb ventures outside the boxes"

Assuring his followers that he is stronger,
it shows in writes by faith in things not seen, the oblivious peace
tween mind and unchained soul...

     "settling into the soil feeling its moisture"

Whilst, evenhandedly, thriving to find the balance, 
                             belief of things he has trouble to hear with sound ears, touch with laughter, or find with ambitions attire....
 
          "understanding, or to 'See'th'  in opus"

                       Cabala is bold, striking the cheeks rosy, 
                                          ...expectations rise blue with excitement...
            Information unravels like a cork-screw,
                           ...its barrels blast away.at streets unformed...

           "His voice utters prose like an alto horn
            speaking in tongues at a timid skyline."

   Baritone whispers illuminate through the lips of a gentle wind
          ...bells choking at the sound of footsteps, as the hand of the sun moves quickly... life is following me....

             Dragging across instruments untouched
           He bellows, its symphony slowly beating;
Soon the audible play organs unnoticed, unprepared for what is ahead...
                        
                      "like a thunderous storm. It speaks rapid, like an ironed digit in the moments before neither then, or now."
           
  A distant boom is heard echoing through
             .it's thoughts dancing on a naked ground
                       Needing a place to rest their souls
                               "Canals of liquid aqua tears"
                   ...spew to bony feet, in carillon colors
                          swirl like ink dropped into a well,
                               spinning, weaving dreams never spoken of...

                              Bagpipes sing in the afar isles, '
                                   bassoon, and oboe dance,
                                      beating the tree limbs 
                                         Against the saturated hills -
                  '' veins in lengths of string 
                           lay flat like ironed lace bowing...
                             
                      "At the sight of first light"
                      ...his arms move cello faces 
                                  tending to fiddle-stick's
                                      Scroll through
               countless pages never seen, 
                   exposed inside an atlas map, 
     
         Routes never traveled, never dared to be explored, robes of cloth neath blossom'g garden; their beauty unmatched by rising suns...
            "Affront attempts to be the best man"
 ...he can be his battle cries still racing 
           -in unmentioned derby's

© Karen A.S

 

 

 

Oct 2nd

Confession

By Tarringo Basile-Vaughan
                                                                                                   

I have committed adultery.

                My marriage to poetry was rock solid until I looked in the eyes of prose and became infatuated.  We began to share words and thoughts I didn’t know was inside of me and I became a different person.  I begin to sneak around at night when I knew poetry was sleeping just to spend time with this new fascination. This lust took control of me changing my behavior and the way I touched the love of my life.  I tried to lie but I couldn’t explain the lipstick stains on another form of literature left on my soul, so I confessed.  I apologized for this transformation and promised poetry I would end my love affair with prose, but poetry took my hand and made me promise to continue because I needed prose to make my connection to my lover stronger.  This process of self-discovery changed the way I looked out at the world; it changed my vision of thought and triggered new habits of incorrect grammar.

                The love affair with prose started on a silent midnight afternoon in the middle of winter.  There was coldness in the air only my breath could see and a shiver in the wind only my wind could keep warm.  I admit I was upset with poetry for that moment because of its selfish ways and its refusal of new memories of expression; I called it a writer’s lock.  So there I was in the middle of a barren field clearing my muse and trying to figure out ways to reconnect with my dear poetry.   A whisper in the clouds looked down on me as the sky darkened into a winters gray.   The reminiscence of the moon sparkled in a residue of inheritance half hidden behind a large Birch tree that was arguing with the stars.  I saw a familiar translation but a new clarity in interpretation.  Prose became a new desire that gently kissed the neck of my tone; it embraced me with a new language becoming the piece I needed to make my poetics whole again.  This wasn’t infidelity at all because I was making love in a whole new way with poetry.  It was just a new scent in an appealing fragrance of language and in all it is all a commitment to the journey of my heart and soul and how everything around me is a story to be told. 

I confess my loyalty to the written word.

© 2010

Tarringo T. Vaughan

Jan 18th

Harlequin

By Depth Writer

Harlequin

In the aftermath;
Where Pantalone, and Punchinello collide
An ambiance is seen flattering the plateau's of ago

The Brownian movement glides prospurous 
the public bondage between living, and dying 
Indian files flank towards the soiled fingertips

Absurb artifacts are agitated, an abyss colorful
Yet, in all purpose his influences run amok
On wildernesses tame, and solid- but un-grounded

Bear witness to the book, keen sportsmanship of life
the backbone slanted on tilting axis, a stalk buried
In gravel once verboten to the regular opus

O' silent one, let the whispers escape the buff
of unheard speeches, and present history, words
Shining of light... but invisible to the streets

© Karen A.S. Dewitt

Feb 14th

POWER OUTAGE

By Depth Writer
Americana lost in the opus
feeling spirits jump from spine
Love is around the corner;
getting tired, an hourglass
romances in the wind, lost in time

I want to let go... fly to distances unknown
the tears pour to pint size kisses, kneading within soil
Inter my soul somewhere... out there where its bare...

Sultry emotion flying away, down embankments sour
acid memories float high in a blank existence, headed down
...down through time my mind glides...

Lost in the opus, the core of stalkless relationships,
abandoned tears fling to the other side... captivating, teasing
Right from wrong has planted itself in a different location
neighboring compliments sit... around the fire tossing dreams

Americana, sutry, I the writer wed with lonely ink
pulling the sun closer to my chest, I cannot give up, legs of weights
keep me hung on the souls hook, losing sleep over tomorrow



 
Jan 18th

When the Ink Dries (Short Poem)

By Jason Anderson

When the Ink Dries

In time, these words that spill from my soul
will no longer touch the canvas on which I
write. When the moment for this vessel to
descend into Mother Earth’s soil and my
spirit ascends to the great sky above arrive
these words will remain within my heart.
As I take my place by my father in Heaven
my gift of poetry will cascade over my
family, friends, and those who yearn for
inspiration.  The book of a poetic heart
will then write its final page.

That is when the ink will dry.

Written by: Jason Anderson

Dec 12th

Her Guardian Angel

By Jason Anderson

Her Guardian Angel


The day I was born a pair of eyes stared into mine
which had the same warmth and depth as that of
my mother’s. As I looked into those eyes of ocean
blue I witnessed a soul matured in age, but wise in
years. Not only was it her eyes that captivated my
little heart, but the smile of pure joy upon her face
when my mom handed me to her and she held me
in her loving arms. Carefully I looked at her face
lined with wrinkles yet with rosy cheeks and I knew
she was my grandmother.


I was only a baby, but she called me her guardian angel.


Golden days of childhood would begin as I grew into
a young boy looking out into a whole big world from
inside the four walls I called home. As I lived in one
home with my parents and brother, another home just
across the street was the residence of my grandmother.
After school she would always pick me up and we
would go pick up lunch to have at her place. Days off
school I would go over and play with her collie or help
her do chores. The happiness she expressed radiated
through my childish heart as it made me happy.


I was only a child, but she called me her guardian angel.


Childhood would quickly fade away as my teenage years
drew near. Through time I would experience the loss of
close family friends and yes even relatives that I have come
to known. Although difficult it was for me to handle the
reality of death apart of the life I knew it was one of many
lessons that life teaches us. The one constant that stayed
with me those rough years was the knowing that I still had
my mom, dad, brother, and especially my grandmother. Friends
were made and less time was spent with her, but my love never
weakened for the wise old woman who greeted me the day I was
born.


I was becoming a young man, but she still called me her guardian angel.


The year of two thousand and six was when I faced one of life’s
tests. My grandmother fell victim to a stroke and had to be sent to
the hospital. Diagnosed with the mental illness of Dementia she
was no longer able to live on her own. Here I was standing literally
at a crossroad on my path in life. Nineteen years old, a high school
graduate with a golden ticket to college in the form of a scholarship,
and I was on my way. That was one road, but as I looked at the other
I knew it was the one for me, because I believed God paved it just for
me. It was the decision I felt was right and most wouldn’t understand
for I had to put my college plans on hold in order for me to help take
care of my grandmother. I was willing to do it, and as I look back on
that fateful day in two thousand and six, I shall never regret my decision.


I am now twenty five years, but I am still her guardian angel.


Written by: Jason Anderson

Dec 10th

The Bird With The Broken Wing

By anne p murray

A Bird t

I sit - looking at the river gracefully bending

Flowing smoothly over moss covered rocks and stones

Measuring in endless time -my life

My loves, my losses

Posing my thoughts with unspoken words

Just me and the river…

Sitting all alone

I shed my whetted, salty tears

Like the river who weeps her warm liquid waves

Showering the earth with promising shades of life

As she breathes her liquid grace over all the lands she saves?

Yet…

I could not save us

My hungry heart hides my tears as I breathe in your image

Calling your name - gently whispering our story

And all the tender pieces

Of our once remembered glory

With my thoughts softly weaving their dreams

I trace memories of the sweetest fruit from the vine

Painting pictures of soft candlelight and roses

That turned into a bitter tasting wine

My grieving spirit hides the breeze that softly blows

Whispering in its low, hushed voice

My sad, lonely story…

That only I and the river know

Hiding my shattered heart

A bird…

With a broken wing

*~*

But now...

I'm letting go and letting God

Taking my first step into His love - His paradise

To renew my spirit- refresh my soul

Yesterday is long ago

Today... is right before my eyes

Because now - I'm letting God and letting go




h

Photobucket

written ^ c/r by anne p murray

 

 

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