Speak softly.

Reblogged from thetargetbird

thetargetbird:

The heart just hangs there
like a pause, I inhale its smolder
until I am a cloud. We arrive
home priceless, laughing at the thought
of ever losing someone or getting lost.
We lazily toed the Pacific, speaking
in whispers of golden orange, knowing
the history that hadn’t happened yet,
the black ocean sounded like a desert from
where we stood at a distance from the stars
and waved, their medieval bulk shooting
light in dynamite specks, to their casual,
meaningless preciousness, feeling like we’re
rushing toward them backwards, close enough
to smell their bright peaceful sleep.

Willow Poem

Reblogged from brokencircadian

introspectivepoet:

It is a willow when summer is over,
a willow by the river
from which no leaf has fallen nor
bitten by the sun
turned orange or crimson.
The leaves cling and grow paler,
swing and grow paler
over the swirling waters of the river
as if loth to let go,
they are so cool, so drunk with
the swirl of the wind and of the river —
oblivious to winter,
the last to let go and fall
into the water and on the ground.

William Carlos Williams

(Source: poemhunter.com)

Reblogged from thetargetbird

thetargetbird:

All our wishes made us thirsty,
ready to risk the rain in an already
drenched summer and we’re distracted
by radicals: minutes incessantly reminding
us that we’re at the edge of where we can
still measure the increments of desire.

We welcome the morning informally,
thrilled to find ourselves: two halves
close to being reversed, leaving other
broken states in a house of ecstasy.

Reblogged from raisethecurve

raisethecurve:

i see you,
plain white sheets painted
in blackest ink: question marks
from your head down.

i see you, duochrome
tie-dyed curiosity and henna’d palms,
beginning the great expanse sure as sin
that answers, like armor, cannot breathe.

fish scales

Reblogged from contrarycate

contrarycate:

short the distance
between quill and key
between voice and ear

long the separation 
the gaps in communication
the self in isolation -

clamour in the net
gasping and flailing
all, all at sea.



Blues

Reblogged from definitely-evan

definitely-evan:

The cock crowed full house
And the fat cat kneaded dough
Plebeian masses held hands aloft
And let their tempters be roused

Exhaled, the roof lifted,
The underbelly rolled bass thunder
Hunting songs danced cotton spears
In proletarian ears

And the dancing began

Colour drifted, hickory smoke
Cherry blossoms over dark woods
Earth-tone dryads spun beneath
The moon

The cat-call falsetto churned its way,
Milling grain, as the ancestors,
Gravel over bones,
Ivory turned over ebony

Pinto bean shoes, spit-shined,
Grew south of thrift slacks
Only the whiskey cost enough
To cross the railroad tracks

Shining bits, punctuated by pops,
Lips spinning, exhorting the souls
Of the dryads, dance, dance,
Spilling its own,
Crying

Outpouring

Reblogged from raisethecurve

raisethecurve:

It broke me to give up on you — everywhere

I tried to run, I stepped on shattered glass.
So I stood still, watching you go on, and
a glistening green-tinted wall piled up

in your absence. My heart has healed.

Tomorrow, I will climb this wall.
I will rip myself open anew,

in spite of you. Tomorrow.

Reblogged from raisethecurve

esn13:

Intently, I stare out of the window, my gaze fixed
like set gelatin. I trespass on the outside

without leaving the bus. This strange intensity
is what I wish I was known for. Alas, I am not. 

I am
two knees pressed between strangers, 

two shoulders quite the same. Their heat
shapeless on my arms and legs. I keep my

neck turned and tap on my bag. The three
times we cross the Yamuna. 

River, oh river. With nests of large, 
green leaves and plastic bags

necklacing its edges. In my mind, I undress
and enter its mouth. 

When I leave, I am covered in the distinct
smell of salt. This strange intensity is what I wish

I was known for. 
Alas, I am not. 

It is morningtime. Intently, I stare out of the window. 
By afternoon, I forget; am forgotten.

"

somewhere
there is a women in China holding a black umbrella so she
won’t taste the salt of the rain when the sky begins to weep,

there is a 17 year old girl who smells like pomegranates and has summer air tight on her naked skin, wrapping around her scars
like veins in a bloody garden, who won’t make it past tomorrow,

there is a young man, who buys yellow flowers for the woman
in apartment 84B, who learned braille when he realized she
couldn’t read his poetry about her white neck and mint eyes

there are people watching films,
making love for the first time, opening mail with the
heading of ‘i miss you’, cooking noodles with
organic spices and red sauces, buying lemon detergent,
ignoring ‘do not smoke’ signs, painting murals
of his lips in abandoned warehouses, chewing
the words ‘i love you’ over and over again, swallowing
phone numbers and forgotten birthdays, eating
strawberry pies, drinking white wine off of each
others open mouths, ignoring the telephone,
reading this poem

some is thinking
i’m alone
somewhere
someone finally understands
they never really
were

"

Reblogged from itsmariana-darling

poems from my uncles graves (via floranymph)

(Source: irynka)

Reblogged from beneath-a-lonely-place