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BLACK GREY GRAVEYARD

Submitted by Nordic cloud on Sun, 2011-12-25 11:13

Black of yew, birds hide,
where poisonous berries, red,
drop on grey graves.

Silent stones, moss draped,
pale green and bleached by time.
The air aware, a latent air, expectant,
nothing stirs.

Below our bones, they sleep,
they cannot weep.
Souls haunt them yet,
expressed in quiet unspoken melody,
nature's own sweet breath.

Of dreams, regrets,
perhaps of happiness,
they weave new life
into the myths of man.

S T A T U R E F U C K W I T

Submitted by Esker on Sun, 2011-12-25 10:35

closet hair shirts
and silk embroidered
floggings moist
as a fog

ambrosial bright
petals pure as poppies
smeared with the
pain of a true kiss

limp here on dirty heels
let me taste your
quiet squeals

read poetry bruises
petulant and deep
an Autumn Dusk
all torn with trust
wild hair bright
as shipwrecked
rust
smoking fires
from pent up
lust

Third Eye Logic

Submitted by docmaverick on Sun, 2011-12-25 07:08

Wayne and I are observers
quite aware of all that we see,

one might say we're the founding fathers
of the Third Eye detective agency.

I'm seriously not boasting
it just may be the saddest fact,

and neither of us are exaggerating
these idiots really don't know how to act!

There hasn't been a "fleeting moment",
or a "fraction of a while" that's gone by;

where someone during the day's movement
hasn't taken something, and turned to lie!

Shadows in the Wind

Submitted by docmaverick on Sun, 2011-12-25 05:49

The crispness in each breath
announces the time of year.
I exhale, and it seems that the leaves turn.

All of the possibilities of spring
pull the leaves down to the ground,
and chance comes into play where each will land.

In the end, the earth is nourished,
time has continued on,
and we are blessed, with the yield of the harvest for that year.

While surrounded by our pleasures,
we find ourselves hovering nearer the hearth,
and bundling-up to erase the solstice chill;

Name Invader

Submitted by Search on Sun, 2011-12-25 02:29

On the walls
On the cars
On the bricks
On the trucks
And on the trains
You invade
In imagination
You participate
Making a summary of society
With retrospective theory
Achieving freedom with notoriety
Off the walls of normality
Into colorful reality
Making serendipity of what was once a blank canvas
On the walls
You create
On the minds
You invade
And it could not have been more beautiful.

in the presence of joy

Submitted by Seren on Sun, 2011-12-25 00:33

silence surrounds rustling tinsel
the true meaning of christmas
left yesterday

gasping for breath
tears of loneliness
glimmer a memory
shining a sad smile

with a rising glance
A miracle appears
as each drop falls

Irene Sure Was A Bitch!

Submitted by emogothgirl on Sat, 2011-12-24 21:19

"girls, we have to go to the firehouse!"
Maggie's mother poked her head through the bedroom door.
Maeve squirmed on the top bunk
as Maggie sat up as fast as she could
while she was still half asleep.
it was 7AM
and hurricane Irene was currently
tearing through the east coast-
no one had expected the mountains to be hit so hard,
and the valley was feeling it most.
she got dressed, gathered her notebooks,
and cursed under her breath when the sink didn't work.

THE RUNAWAY FILES

Submitted by stargirl on Sat, 2011-12-24 15:23

The ground was cold and hard;
i was gasping for air as i ran.
barking, barking was behind me
i dared not to look back
for i was afraid that if i did
i'd be trampled by the dogs that chased me.
i was guessing there were about five or six of them,
all police dogs,
oh shoot, i thought, as i dropped the runaway file.
ahead of me i saw Allie and Ben running for their lives.
i was tired, yet i kept going,
running,
running for freedom,
for a new life.
i stumbled backwards, though,

Entwined

Submitted by loved on Sat, 2011-12-24 10:26

Some humor aroused
In an otherwise
mundane audience...

Penisculey ...vaginesque poetry
lockingly, loffoblle, ,spermotically
Horgasmically too
Well done can I say
Friendson to you...

Creativity at is maxshimum
Shakespeare shuvverring…
In the beneath colde

York Pork Man

Submitted by PianoBoy on Sat, 2011-12-24 09:09

There once was a lad from New York,
who could eat nothing but pork.
His insides were burning.
His acid was churning.
Then he threw up and looked like a dork.

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