The Gap, Australia

#6040 Feb 4, 2013
I speak to you across cities
I speak to you across plains

My mouth is upon your pillow

Both faces of the walls come meeting
My voice discovering you

I speak to you of eternity

O cities memories of cities
Cities wrapped in our desires

Cities come early cities come lately
Cities strong and cities secret

Plundered of their master's builders
All their thinkers all their ghosts

Fields pattern of emerald
Bright living surviving

The harvest of the sky over our earth
Feeds my voice I dream and weep

I laugh and dream among the flames
Among the clusters of the sun

And over my body your body spreads
The sheet of it's bright mirror.

Level 6

Since: Apr 12

Location hidden

#6041 Feb 4, 2013
What about some new poets coming on this thread.

“Raising hell since 1989”

Level 6

Since: Jul 12

Location hidden

#6042 Feb 4, 2013
She digs her heels into his back
as he bends at his knees in worship to her
She whips him hard and leaves scars for all the world to see
He walks around with his head hung low
there's no other place for him to go
She's the only one who knows
what gets him up and ready to go
It's a pity that a man can be stripped away of his masculinity
and a wonder that a woman can have so much control
She says she wants it now
and upon her demand he does as she commands
Handcuffs and chains get the blood pumping
Scratches and screamin get the adrenaline rushing
So caught up in the x-rated moment
A slap across the face and a lash to the bottom
Notice me dear friends- this isn't abuse
For some crazy people this is the definition of pleasure
A melting high and an "end of life" fear
Combine it together for an exquisitely erotic experience that won't be forgotten

The Gap, Australia

#6043 Feb 7, 2013
Make it real.
Make it gritty.
Make me believe,
That this is the truth,
That you’ll never leave.
Scratch my belly,
Kisses on my navel,
Moonlight in your eyes,
Full of passion,
Let me know
That this is real,
Not some fevered dream,
Can’t handle it any more,
Flesh to flesh on fire,
As the ice freezes to the frame,
Criss-cross in delicate patterns,
Like the veins across your hands,
Like the cobwebs,
Above our heads as we hide in the abandoned,
Live in the forbidden.
And I gently wipe the tears from your cheeks,
Kiss your forehead,
Whisper, what’s wrong?
And I love you so much,
Can’t let you go,
Can’t let you know,
As the edges grow dimmer,
As they fade and shimmer,
I’m not real,
You aren’t, too,
There’s no life about us,
Nothing is true.
Not your soft caress,
Not my strong promise,
An artist’s mind,
An author’s wish,
We don’t exist,
How could our love,
Not break free of this realm?
As the dawn rises,
I cry freely in your arms,
Known they have moved on,
The sun is our funeral pyre,
As they waken,
From this fevered dream.

The Gap, Australia

#6044 Feb 7, 2013
Gentle morning light filtered through their apartment window. It was her day off, and he was a "kept man," so they were permitted to lounge a bit longer.

When she had woken, she had without thought curled into his warm body, and the movement had woken him. He lazily pulled his fingers through her tangled hair, taking care not to pull. She rested on his chest and they gazed into each other's eyes, neither inclined to get out from under the quilt and greet the winter morning.

She traced the outline of his eye patch.

"Stop that," he gently scolded.

"I can't believe you sleep in that damn thing."

"Why not? If you saw the scars in the middle of the night, you'd have nightmares for the rest of your life."

"I would not." Still she traced it, her fingers light on his cheek. But she allowed him to cling to the crutch of his eye patch. She would permit his weakness in this one thing, his vanity and his fear of the past. She could grant him that much.

When he had returned from the North, finally returned to her, a Corporal, they knew that nothing had changed. Neither their feelings, nor the laws against fraternization.

So he declined re-enlistment and retired. His duty to the country was as paid off as it was going to be, and now, he spent his time making up the years lost, away from his love.

So she would grant him the eye patch, since he was willing to push aside the rest of his guilt, and stay with her.

"You have beautiful eyes," he suddenly said. "Such an unusual shade of brown. A mahogany, really. Almost as though there were some red in them."

She smiled. "Are you saying they look Ishvalin?"

He looked thoughtfully down at her. "You know what? I think you could have some Ishvalin blood in you." She cocked her eyebrow at him. "That wouldn't be a bad thing. They are a sturdy people. You know, that would explain your stubbornness too. You're steadfast."

"I think being raised by my father might have more to do with that than a fraction of ancestral blood." She reached up, this time tracing the cheek and brow around his good eye. "What about you? See how dark your eyes are? How they narrow? I think you might be related to somebody from Xing."

He smiled. "I could be the descendant of a prince." She laughed, her body gently shaking on top of his. "What? Are you making fun of me?"

"No," she whispered. "I think your eye is beautiful."

His expression turned wistful. "Eye. Not eyes, anymore."

"You're beautiful." She ran her hand through his hair, traced his jaw, followed the muscles down his arms.

"If I'm beautiful, what does that make a gorgeous woman like you?"

She traced her hand around to his lips, laid a finger across them, and he fell silent.......


The Gap, Australia

#6045 Feb 7, 2013
........They lay for a while longer, the room catching the morning light and some of the chill that remained despite the heater started to leave.

"Mmm," he mused, "What color eyes do you think our children will have?"

"How should I know?"

"Just imagine, my love." In the silence, they mulled it over. Round black eyes. Narrow brown eyes. Somewhere in the middle, dark brown eyes. "You know what it means, if we were Xingese and Ishvalin?"


"It means a blue eyed Armestian decided, at one point, that they loved somebody who wasn't like them. At one point, our country didn't despise others the way they do now. And even if the country as a whole did, our ancestors were strong enough to choose love." He tightened his arms around her.

She thought about it. A lot of their friends had blue eyes. Havoc and Winry. But a lot had other color eyes. Scieszka and Hughes had green eyes. Fuery had black eyes, and she wasn't even sure about Falman's eyes. The Elric's metallic eyes were unlike any she had seen before. Their late mother, at least in the photographs she'd seen, had green eyes.

"You know," she finally answered. "Blue is the absence of pigment. The more pigment, the darker the eye."

"Makes sense," he murmured. "But what about golden eyes? Or red eyes?"

"I don't know."

He gently cupped her face in his hands, his own dark, narrow eye staring straight into her very soul. "I can't wait to see what our children's eyes look like."

"Well, you'll have to wait another eight months at least."

His jaw dropped and his eye shot wide.

"Plus," she continued, "baby's eyes change with time. And with what the mother eats, and what chemicals she might be exposed to---" but the rest of her words were cut off with his kisses.

When he finally pulled away, his face was filled with mock anger. "When were you planning on telling me?"

"After breakfast."

"When did you find out?"

"Yesterday. I didn't want you to lose sleep over it; I think you'll have enough sleepless nights in the future. Just think—walking up and down the hall with a wailing baby, popping in on sleepovers to tell the children to quiet down, staying up waiting for them to return from dates…"

"You really have this thought out, haven't you?"


He wrapped his arms tightly around her, protecting her, protecting their child, watching the shadows of the curtains dance their way across the room. He could feel her eyes on him.

He knew the eyes he could imagine, could never match the beauty of the real thing.

The Gap, Australia

#6046 Feb 7, 2013
The stairway is not
a thing of gleaming strands
a radiant evanescence
for angels’ feet
that only glance in their tread, and
need not touch the stone.

It is of stone.
A rosy stone that takes
a glowing tone of softness
only because behind it the sky is a doubtful,
a doubting night gray.

A stairway of sharp
angles, solidly built.
One sees that the angels must spring
down from one step to the next,
giving a little lift of the wings:

and a man climbing
must scrape his knees,
and bring the grip of his hands into play.

The cut stone
consoles his groping feet.

Wings brush past him.

The poem ascends.


Level 3

Since: Oct 12

Greensburg, IN

#6047 Feb 7, 2013
Too much poetry, lack of sex.
That what make you look depressed.

The Gap, Australia

#6048 Feb 7, 2013
"Tell yourself
as it gets cold
and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself—
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon’s gaze in a valley of snow.

Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going.

And you will be able
for once to lie down
under the small fire
of winter stars.

And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back
and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing
of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are."

The Gap, Australia

#6049 Feb 7, 2013
Sweet Peace ascends on open hill,

sage seekers wait in morning chill,

night mists arise in bright'ning skies

where truth is sorted from the lies.

Lay claim to power set by king,

like mourning dove on broken wing,

a wounded way that circles round

no pledge of peace can thus be found.

Undo the patterns of the past

and walk the path of heart at last.

The Gap, Australia

#6050 Feb 7, 2013
A luminescent moon

slips twilight’s thin cacoon...

somewhere a muted horn

wails of death, of being born...

Red dust is swirling in

off the encroaching desert,

as a pillar of draped indigo -

a nubile flowing statue of ink -

navigates a narrow lane

of dwellings square and low,

squinting in the gritty wind,

cold as fresh-drawn drink,

bringing a message –

or has she delivered it;

will the plot succeed

do you think, or has it failed;

things left to stumble on,

forever veiled, thick

as tar and hopelessly



The Gap, Australia

#6051 Feb 7, 2013
Hanging on the lush green tree
Only if I was
The parchment on the tree

When wind blew
It went through me
when sun would shine
It passed through me
My irreguler ends
My tatterted holes
Only if I was
The parchment on the tree

When thunderstorms arose
It clang to branches
With care and love
Leaves engulfed me
Like no on else
How lucky I was
To be
The parchment on the tree

When snowflakes came
They frooze the life
But I kept hanging
Only if I was
The parchment on the tree

When millions of years would pass
Sitting beneath the tree
A weary traveller
Looking up
Would say
Oh here it is
A sign of life
Someone has passed
Only if I was
The parchment on the tree

Whenever I want to leave
My trusted tree
Branches entangle me
Crying for me to stay
But I would break away
Flutter in the winds
Catch a smile
Rub a tear
Heal a wound
Cover a flesh
Only if I was
The parchment on the tree

The Gap, Australia

#6052 Feb 7, 2013
Sand granules drip sequential doses of commonality,

dropping grains of frailty, one by one, in life’s hour glass.

Weighted down on a scale of accumulation,

united, they force the edge of time.

In glass reflecting glares of outer appearance,

hearts arrive at tipping points, inborn, a continual quest for balance.

Where equations puzzle appeals, searching for soft words and definition.

Frivolities’ light heartedness, leaves barely detectable footprints,

on weighted burdens, impressions left in the outline of steps.

Costly payouts for the eagerness of soul;

signed in the ink of co-joined hearts.

Huddled, in the grasp of imposing thoughts from yesterdays,

we believed we could make them safe in our tomorrows.

Now eyes close and escape in dreams, awaiting a hope, for sheltered passage.

Why are you so afraid of the dark?

The Gap, Australia

#6053 Feb 7, 2013
Standing in a down pour,

clouds cracked open in shifts and spilled their tears.

I raised my face to let them wash a childhood fear grown old;

a distraction, a frail mind, afraid of you.

Hear the scream of pride echo through the forest trees,

wrenching under the heel of a broken neck, and renewed thoughts?

Take this brittle hand and step from the darkness,

fill your eyes with the sun, purify a simple love.

I have been waiting for you since my awareness bloomed in a secret place.

Through the ‘blacke’ of night, I struggled to feel your touch.

Let rain wash away my need for safe passage;

with the power of strength, crush the walls of slumber.

Take rest in early morning sunshine,

look away from a love that would forsake.

Speak healing into broken flesh;

with eyes that melt yearning, stir to rise above these days.

Stand close my love, can you hear the bird’s song?

The Gap, Australia

#6054 Feb 7, 2013
A lonely summer incident,
Remembrance giving just knowledge,
varied from belief
In adversity.

Destiny fretfully reached,
- lovely zinfandel -
A sweet red,
Drenched graying reason.

Here I gave half,
Believing destiny fulfilled.
Juxtaposing kinetic bridges,
Greeted at
Dark fantasies.

Level 6

Since: Apr 12

Location hidden

#6055 Feb 8, 2013
You become a poet when you fall in love.

Broomall, PA

#6056 Feb 8, 2013
Humhainna wrote:
You become a poet when you fall in love.
"At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet."

United States

#6057 Feb 8, 2013

Broomall, PA

#6058 Feb 8, 2013

Broomall, PA

#6059 Feb 8, 2013
“And a woman spoke, saying, "Tell us of Pain."
And he said: Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.
And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;
And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.
And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.
Much of your pain is self-chosen.
It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquillity:
For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,
And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the
Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.”
― Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

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