Beauty Of Pain
Behind your face
was cleaver
releasing past poem.
The sensual milk
flows from the palm
into your lake.
Grieving for
the torn wings of pink
light.
Cruising on thighs
with eyes closed
death utters a shriek.
The eternal flame
closes on pollen
to tell a lie.
poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cruising
Melodies without a sound kissing you
Million miles up off the ground it's what you do..
Don't need no one to rescue me you feel so good
Nothing sends me there the way that you could
Cruising on a journey to your heart
Cruising every secret little part
When you're making love with me
I want to be lost in your love night and day
And let the sight of every star light the way
Cruising on a journey to your heart
Cruising every secret little part
Cruising to eternal mysteries
Cruising when you're making love to me
Making love with me
Rockets are blasting off
Time is set free
The way
You're making love to me
Cruising on a journey to your heart
Cruising every secret little part
Cruising to eternal mysteries
Cruising when you're making love to me
song performed by by Earth Wind & Fire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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London Stone
WHEN you come to London Town,
(Grieving-grieving!)
Bring your flowers and lay them down
At the place of grieving.
When you come to London Town,
(Grieving-grieving!)
Bow your head and mourn your own,
With the others grieving.
For those minutes, let it wake
(Grieving-grieving!)
All the empty-heart and ache
That is not cured by grieving.
For those minutes, tell no lie:
(Grieving-grieving!)
'Grave, this is thy victory;
And the sting of death is grieving.'
Where's our help, from earth or heaven,
(Grieving-grieving!)
To comfort us for what we've given,
And only gained the grieving.
Heaven's too far and earth too near,
(Grieving-grieving!)
But our neighbour's standing here,
Grieving as we're grieving.
What's his burden every day?
(Grieving-grieving!)
Nothing man can count or weigh,
But loss and love's own grieving.
What is the tie betwixt us two
(Grieving-grieving!)
That must last our whole lives through?
'As I suffer, so do you.'
That may ease the grieving.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cruising
Philip bailey, roxanne seeman, morris pleasure & sonny emory
Melodies without a sound kissing you
Million miles up off the ground its what you do..
Dont need no one to rescue me you feel so good
Nothing sends me there the way that you could
Cruising on a journey to your heart
Cruising every secret little part
When youre making love with me
I want to be lost in your love night and day
And let the sight of every star light the way
Cruising on a journey to your heart
Cruising every secret little part
Cruising to eternal mysteries
Cruising when youre making love to me
Making love with me
Rockets are blasting off
Time is set free
The way
Youre making love to me
Cruising on a journey to your heart
Cruising every secret little part
Cruising to eternal mysteries
Cruising when youre making love to me
song performed by by Earth Wind And Fire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Seeking
The falling poem was
in bruising gamble of winter
of troubled life,
bound to a staircase:
up and down
up and down,
on the rosette of grieving thighs.
From sunset to sunset
a moon rises in all its glory
as the night flows in crevices of thoughts.
Will you lift the veil from the golden face
and sacrifice the lamb?
The infinite was waiting to come out of crotch.
poem by Satish Verma
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Torn Butterfly
Torn butterfly torn butterfly
Seeing you there it makes me cry
Torn butterfly your wings they tore
From the weight that they bore
Torn butterfly it's plain to see
That you are just the same as me
Torn butterfly the world is tough
Hard as stones and just as rough
Torn butterfly I know your pain
And I don't want to know it again
Torn butterfly come join me now
And we'll regain our wings somehow
Torn butterfly it's sad but true
In death our wings become brand new
Torn butterfly just fade away
And we will fly this very day
Torn butterfly this note I send
And hope that you will cause your end
So we can fly in clear blue skies
Where no one hurts and no one cries
Torn butterfly with my last breath
I ask you to come join me in death
poem by Anonymous Ghurl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Secret Joy
If it were not for you
It seems that every day would be
A life unfulfilled.
Winter then forever and no smile of spring.
An icy lake without a melted heart within.
You are my secret joy.
When first I saw your face
A satisfaction took the place of sad distraction.
I knew my mind had been in a phase of leaving,
You drew me back a pace, with you I saw commitment,
This time there could be no dreaming,
No time for grieving what was past.
My secret joy was here with me.
So many times, I saw her face in your face.
That special wisdom of her eyes in your eyes,
I knew a child I thought was gone for always
Had brought joy home.
I watch you watch the joy you have made
Wonder if you know the joy that you gave
Would like you to know that the joy that you made
Is my joy too.
However long before the joy that you made.
That little blue the two of you gave.
I had a little joy of my own.
Even though the joy that I made,
Has gone the road that life takes.
Singing love songs to the joys of her own,
I see reflections of the Joy that I made,
In the eyes and the heart of the Joy, she has made.
I can see pink joy reflected in blue joy,
When I see it.
My secret joy.
poem by Susan Casey
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Death and I
When death comes
I’ll need not love –
Consumed,
No wreath or dove
Could offer me salvation,
Not when I’m no more.
A weathered stone will bear my name –
Identity of once a being
Living out existence in
A world of risk, and never seeing
Sense of why we’re here.
My genes will die away thro’ child –
Hue of eyes and hair, the way of thought,
Will quickly dim with generation –
Bow to future dominance –
Memories of provenance
Resigned to curious few.
When death comes
I’ll need not grace
Below; no grieving face
Will call my resurrection,
Not when I’m at ground –
Death and I so bound.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
D eath Crawl
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Rose of Midnight
The moon is now an opening flower,
The sky a cliff of blue.
The moon is now a silver rose;
Her pollen is the dew.
Her pollen is the mist that swings
Across her face of dreams:
Her pollen is the April rain,
Filling the April streams.
Her pollen is eternal life,
Endless ambrosial foam.
It feeds the swarming stars and fills
Their hearts with honeycomb.
The earth is but a passion-flower
With blood upon his crown.
And what shall fill his failing veins
And lift his head, bowed down?
This cup of peace, this silver rose
Bending with fairy breath
Shall lift that passion-flower, the earth
A million times from Death!
poem by Vachel Lindsay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Death' is when 'You' milk 'It
'Death' is when 'You' milk 'It' and milk it, milked
and you drive it, forever and ever,
upward and upward and never down ward, insane.
Death is two silky hands covered in hot burning oil,
that start at the base and death loves to covers each lamp.
While the flame burns inside the brown paper bag exposed.
Pushing death deep without compassion through the pale
full moon, as death walks around, ignoring your cries.
Heaven for death and coming so close to death you find.
Death makes you come over to your friends house once
again, in your mind while those pearls in the bag,
are laid up on the shelf that you share, with deaths pink pig.
Death moves both horns closer, driven unforgiving together,
one here and one there, ever closer, untiring you are laid out as art.
Death knows when the sky is on fire, say it again and again.
Death and truth, death is like an epileptic seizure,
when more than those silky soft hands,
never moved all the way down,
and a river of hot molten 'death' sprays,
in your hair each black day.
Death is as proud..and as proud of you, Death is,
as you splash it around, all about town,
Death and 'Death's' protein mask so tight, you peel it off.
Death was just the tip of the ice burg and death melted it,
with death's thick and full, red buried, unyielding lips.
'You' love to have your fun with death, as you milk it over
and over, the milk never expires, death never tires,
and many,
many are deaths executions from death's weepy milked eye.
poem by Is It Poetry
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For a Lost Poem
Dedicated to the poem 'Moon Light' that was written a few years back.
For a Lost Poem
A poem written long ago –
disappeared on the face of the earth
as if it never existed – but somewhere
beyond this skyline it did;
where the moon sits, and shines its light –
this poem has been erased from history,
from where it was put into storage.
Oh poem, I feel a loss for you!
Where have you gone? Oh where have you gone?
Moon Light, once many people read,
and praised me for such delicacy,
now she is gone too.
As if death has to come with:
the darkening sky, oh ye poem –
ye selfless poem come back and
let the light shine upon you.
A poem has gone, but where?
poem by Celine Berghmans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pink
Feather light wings that float softly through the air tickled by specks of dust.
Bright white light inflamed with pink and laced with gold.
Raising flowers, changing seasons,
singing in high pitched voices that only children can hear.
Little tiny people in little tiny clothes.
Pink, White and Baby Blue,
Only innocent eyes can see.
Pink nail varnish, Pink lipstick, Pink eye shadow, Pink blusher, Pink clothes that reveal too much Pink skin.
Standing on street corners innocent eyes forgotten.
Long ago were the days when fairies were believed in.
Lost memories and lost dreams,
innocence killed, for a life of nightmares and love ripped at the seams.
poem by Laura Cummings
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A wold made of pink
It's just a new obsession
A color which makes me go insane
Pink is not any kind of fiction
Pink always helps me gain
Faith, confidence and everything I need
Trust, joy and a bit of laughter
This color helps me succeed
Pink is the color of my eyes
Only when I look at you
Pink makes me an angel in disguise
It's the color which brings joy to me and my crew
Pink is a color so mighty, so great
Pink is the color my face
Turns when I'm late
Pink is the color which nothing can replace
It's the color which I can't stop thinking of
Neither day nor night
Pink symbolizes my love
Pink is the color of the light
Which shines in my heart for you
It's the color of a wonderland
This color shouldn't be withdrew
It's the color of my imaginary sand
Pink is the color my cat wants to be
Pink is the color of the sun which shines
Pink is the color the world can see
Pink is the color which gives me signs
poem by Mia Peterson
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Spangled with pink
Spangled with pink
by the blue sky's dropping
of fantasy. I'm cornered
like a starved rat
who has been keeping
his eye on the cheese
between my legs.
Spangled by pink
passionate clouds and thighs
divided by wind chimes
condescend
to usher in her love.
It comes in
then out of her
spangled with pink
on the wings of ephemera
caught forever
in the unforgiving mouth
of salacious snapdragon.
poem by Richard Ilnicki
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A Poem Is Just A Poem
a poem is just a poem and if it is just a poem
it must be just a poem just like another poem
a poem is nothing but just a poem otherwise
it cannot be my poem; it may speak about
anything, or something, or about everything,
but my poem is just a poem just like anybody's
poem, which is just but a poem, like any other
poem, for a poem to be a poem it must just be
a poem: it has nothing to do with my love, and death
my life, or bliss, but as i have told you, once, twice
thrice, eat some rice, and be that wise, a poem is
just a poem, just like your poem. Why do you insist
on asking, what is happening to me? I am not a
poem, for i am but just the composer of the poem,
need i tell you again, that a poem is just a poem?
just like any other poem, which is just a poem
it is just a voice in my head that i have heard
someone comes and speaks and i listen so
this poem is not actually my poem but the poem
of someone else's: theirs not mine, from a mind.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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There Is Something In Us Always
there is something in us always
that closes and opens like fingers
there is something inside that watches
for love, and waits, and anticipates,
something that feels home, and
goggles for familiarity, and when it
finds it, it opens so confidently,
unmindful of any pain, expectant
of the excitement, promised and
betrayed, and mourning, and then
there is something in us that closes,
no matter what, it is still closed,
despite the death of time, it still
closes upon itself, curling, thickening
unwilling, wanting to die, but couldn't.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Him And Her....
he tried to understand
what his hands are
she didn't, she had no
expertise on those hands
closed like a living clam
under the sea
to the bottom below the
sand
she could not see his
flesh
he did not see her face
the story is rabid like a dog
after the bite
death is sure
feared is light
and the cell closes on in him
she was gone
like a glimmer
of the sun
dawn to the deeper part
of the forest
breathlessly
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Single Candle/Death Herself
A single flame lights her face
The face of death
A single candle holds her fears
The fears of death
Her hands clasped anrond their souls
The souls of the dead
She feeds of their screams
The screams of the dead
Her legs lay bellow her
Bellow death
Her black gown over her body
The body of death
Her chest rises and falls with her breath
The breath of death
Her cloak drawn over her long flowing jet hair
The face of death
Her eyes unmoved unfeeling
Do you see it?
Do you see the soul of death?
Do you feel it?
Her skin as white as snow as it fades into darkness
The snow of tears
Her cloths as dark as night that swallows the light
The dark we all shall see
Her eyes close as she feels their souls flow
Flow from the dead
She leaves them there to lay in darkness
She steals from the dead
A single candle lights their faces filled with her
Filled with death
They fall into the darkness of her eyes, of her heart
The darkness of death
A single candle shall stay to light their way
Their way through the dark
A single candle holds their past
The pain and trials
A single candle lights her face
The face of death
A single candle holds her fears
The fears of death herself
A single candle
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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For The Grave....
three minutes past dying...
the body still warm.
the cat and the dog sit quietly
by the grieving door.
sunlight drives shadows to corners,
as the sound of low voices.
speak up, sister!
he cannot hear!
yet the damp place in the palm,
maybe the hummingbird outside the window.
a truck hurtles down the street,
with frantic need.
dont call the preacher...
call the farmer, the carpenter,
the garbage collector,
the transient bum!
past the point of kindnesses,
shout 'ha! ', pour a drink...
give the thief an incentive,
unlock the door.
send Jesus an email,
pay the past due light bill...
if poverty's flowers be an abomination...
collect thorns and thistle for the grave!
three minutes past death...
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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You in your closed bleeding hands
The palm that closes
Cannot hold anything
Just like this narrow mind
Unable to grapple with
What is newly given
I see your fingers are closed
I tried to tickle you so they may open
I tried to tell you something puzzling
You closed your fingers some more
What is it that you are hiding there?
It is causing you so much pain
Your hands bleed, please open them
Is it the nail? Is it a broken glass?
You are not nodding still
Is it something so important?
That even with death you still refuse?
You are not nodding still
You shake your head, you keep mum
And numb to what I am asking
So be it, close your fingers
Hide the lines in your palms
Let your hands bleed some more
We shall wait what happens next
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mark R. Slaughter
Just like the dahlia
Death comes in all its beauty
And so I stroke her petals
Push my feet root-deep
Into the composted soil
As weary clouds unite
Coalesce
Darken through the greys
In preparation
Incontinence prevails
Lachrymose in empathy
They cry for me
Sharing tears
Mortality brings
As twilight closes
I rot
(They fade)
To be the plant
(They'll water)
I, denomination Mark R. Slaughter
Struggle thro' my fantasy
To seal the state of mind
That I of soul
Remain eternal
Back on the windowsill
A daffodil stretches
From a bulbous foot
Flirts like a ballerina
STOPS
Wonders of the world
My cat hears the brassy thoughts
From yellow trumpet
Pricks up his ears
Iridescent eyes
Focussed on the future
I'll wait
For his appraisal
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2012
A Trail of Death
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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