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  • Rookie Donald Goodside (1/22/2014 12:04:00 PM) Post reply
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    Night Shift ___

    Each of us has an image of paradise,
    A destinations resting reward, and yet
    I am troubled as my own view is dim.

    Deep down many levels beneath the sun
    Where hand hewn roots of Sequoia support
    the Marble hall of others, I am sweeping
    the dust gatherings and collecting into piles
    The cardboard refuse of gifts not meant for me.

    Toiling the forever among vague others I never knew
    While I was sleepwalking somewhere up there
    I go on, in the certainty that eventually
    I too will rise to the Alabaster Porticos
    Washed by brief sweet showers of rain.

    Till then I accept my role
    As Janitor, this side of the Gate.

  • Rookie Melissa Ann Parker (1/21/2014 9:15:00 AM) Post reply | Read 2 replies


    The day turned into the city
    and the city turned into the mind
    and the moving trucks trumbled along
    like loud worries speaking over
    the bicycle’s idea
    which wove between
    the more armored vehicles of expression
    and over planks left by the construction workers
    on a dusk of summer morning
    when no work was being done but by the birds,
    and us, because no matter the day,
    we tend towards
    remaking parts of it—what we said
    or did, or how we looked—

    and the buildings were like faces
    lining the banks of a parade
    obstructing and highlighting each other
    defining height and width for each other
    offsetting grace and function,
    and the hearty pigeons collaborate
    with wrought iron fences
    and become recurring choruses of memory
    reassembling around benches lovers sat in once,
    while seagulls wheel like immigrating thoughts,
    and never-leaving chickadees
    hop bared hedges and low trees
    like commas and semicolons,
    landingwhere needed, separating
    subjects from adjectives,
    stringing along the long ideas,
    showing how the cage
    has no door

    and the lights changed
    so the tide of sound ebbed and returned
    like our own breath
    and when I knew everything
    was going to look the same as the mind
    I stopped at a lively corner
    where the signs themselves were like
    perpendicular dialects in conversation and
    I put both my feet on the ground
    took the bag from the basket
    so pleased it had not been crushed
    by the mightiness of all else
    that goes on
    and gave you the sentence inside.

    Replies for this message:
    • Rookie Jeannette Lucas (2/3/2014 12:32:00 PM) Post reply

      I love: " the buildings were like faces, lining the banks of the parade." This whole stanza could be a great poem in itself. Alone, it seems more unique. However, another poem could conta ... more

    • Rookie Scotty Dogg (1/21/2014 9:58:00 AM) Post reply

      M, this is terrific! Post it on the " Discussions" and see what the gang thinks. (don't mind Therrie, though) . Fantastic effort here!

  • Rookie Mohan M Prasad (1/20/2014 1:44:00 AM) Post reply

    Time will tell and ring the bell

    Nice it would be to let ‘that’ alone decide
    While you and I not take easy sides

    On who is right and who is wrong
    On what’s right and what’s wrong

    Till then let’s learn to move along,
    Suspending judgment all along

    That will make life so beautiful to live
    When we to TIME the judgment leave

    ‘Let’s keep the silence’ is the simple appeal
    And wait to hear the soft voice of time peal

  • Rookie Fred Nwaozor (1/18/2014 12:03:00 AM) Post reply

    Don't pursue a rat as your dream 'cos you dreamt of a rat in the previous night.

  • Rookie G A (1/17/2014 2:45:00 PM) Post reply


    What is to be forgotten?
    To be forgotten is to die,
    and die without dying.

    I myself forget.
    I forget how people smell and look,
    but most of all
    I forget the way they look at me.

    I forget their eyes,
    be them sweet or sad, or both.
    I dread that they'll forget
    me too this way.

    by Job Foster

  • Rookie G A (1/17/2014 2:44:00 PM) Post reply

    A Man

    I am an immortal.
    I live in the present,
    for me there is no Past
    and the Future is unknown.

    I am not a God
    but something else,
    a man among men.

    My soul is clean
    and my hand untouched,
    people watch me and see themselves
    like the Sun, the Shadow of a Shadow.

    That is not a man I am
    but a man I wish to be.

    by Job Foster

  • Rookie Iliya Gotby (1/17/2014 2:09:00 PM) Post reply

    I see you somewhere between that broken man, and the wishful thought, somewhere where a time can't live, and a dream is far. What is the distance?I can't tell in light, but every time I close my eyes your only steps away, dancing in the mirages of my mind, teaching me patience.

    For what is real is perfect, and what is broken, the foolish man throws away.

  • Rookie Iliya Gotby (1/17/2014 2:02:00 PM) Post reply

    Right now my love is a broken Mirror, shattered by my hearts discontent
    I sit by the mirror for now, my own personal moonlight, piercing into the melancholic waves named Misery. I am here, still waiting, waiting for the day to reach your arms, wherever, waiting for the day, to stand in the same moment with you, to walk a million footsteps in the same path, stricken with joy, that every step was mine and yours. Waiting to tease each other with soft spoken words of the eye, because i know your eyes will speak louder to me than any tongue. I am still waiting for the day we hold each other, but I will not only understand you, I will understand me. And they will tell us this love we share is one of loves infractions, but we will only hear each other's voices. Living each day as if time stood still, under the warm untainted shelter of each other's skin, as I kiss you.

  • Freshman - 544 Points Adam M. Snow (1/17/2014 11:32:00 AM) Post reply

    She became My Gallows
    Written by Adam M. Snow

    What of this! ?
    Her sweet madness beautiful as snow;
    that by starlight! The rushes lean over her wide!
    The intoxication of her insanity draws me close.
    Her voice, calling out my name;
    haunting me.

    The moonlight pours out upon her -
    her wickedness is shown, who dreams with
    - a nest of mad kisses; a thousand years sad regrets.
    She is my agony -
    my cage -
    my demise.
    My loss of sanity is due her.

    She is haunting,
    such madness is this?
    I cared nothing for all,
    she is my breath, I can't live without.
    My essence
    - sighing around her where the stars are sleeping.
    The scented twilight, I hung there.

    She became my gallows -
    my wandering noose -
    my demise -
    the fall of a tragic poet.
    She is the bearer of my heart, locked away;
    I am nothing.

    I am nothing
    but a man locked in chains,
    who bears no voice;
    a victim to her madness
    - her bitter sweet madness beautiful as snow.

    She stole my heart -
    my voice -
    my name.
    I am her insanity as she is mine.
    She left me, her ghost to wander
    - sighing around her where the stars are sleeping.
    The scented twilight, I hung there.

  • Rookie Nkashyap Nk (1/17/2014 4:55:00 AM) Post reply

    Kehne ko h sab humare sath
    fir bhi hume teri kami kyo h....

    jo kashish thi
    teri mahoobat me..
    us kashish ki talash kyo h......

    ku wo hoke apne bhi
    .begano sa saluk karte h.
    Har kisi ki nazro pe naqab kyo h
    uski tanhai o me hum h......
    humri tnhai yoo me
    kami kyo h....

    dil ki samjha wese to
    asan h
    bol ke samjhana mushkil.....
    .aj bhi sachi mahobat ki
    bekadri kyooo h....

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