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 1934° 
Nat Lipstadt
"These days
I'll sit on corner stones
And count the time in quarter tones to ten, my friend
Don't confront me with my failures
I had not forgotten them"
Jackson Browne

<>

these days,
you can come by tween
the mostly soft warming cracking of Dawn,
and the early born-ing of
the first peek of a full grown
but yet
sleepy sunrise,

you'll find me siting on a
asshard dock,
two seagulls staring at the
human interloper,
alone with the threads in my
hardened head,
beating time in casual rhyme,
because that's what poets do,
to warm up their
tongues & toes,
clear their eyes
and
sniffling nose,
their partly opened,
party closed,
throats, eyes and
give up, sacrifice
the longest list of little lies,
that makes (forces) us to get up  in the undimming earlies,
when it's just me, the gulls,
& the minnows poking around,

the fluke,
smarter but not wiser,
further out in deep water,
waiting to be caught

and
the cool blood barely flows,
until the rising orb warms
our fragility,
and we review the stories old,
that make us cold at night promising ourselves that
today you'll do that thing(s)
you've been putting off for years,

"Don't confront me with my failures"
Jackson pleads, but I concede,
thinking tell me them
one
mo' time,
make me unrighteous,
make me whole,
then take me,
holy displayed fully,

and the
first poem of the day,
will be my
confession total,
without reservation
and yet muse on
honor
something I thought I knew,
but needing a
closer examination
it might've been
dishonor
that was what
I was truly
knew
<>
Sunrise
July 5
'25
sitting on the dock
by the bay,
would I

lay down with a lie?
 1393° 
Moo
When the moon soars abloom,
The God rests the doom,
Like a hand that guides a spoon,
Moon that nests alone fresh and unborn,
Slithers its way,
The purest ache of yearning's sway,
As the cloud take heed and veil it away.
 1070° 
M Vogel

Sitting here in front of this screen
my Artist Peppino, across my thigh—
(the greater, for the time being,
giving way to the lesser)

One day, I will be able to breathe life
into your strings, my love…
the way I do words onto paper.

And on that fine, glorious day
I will no longer need these cheese-****,
stupid ******* online poetry sites
to bring forth the music of my soul.

Nor will I continually need to wade through
this never-ending barrage of classic hiders
and their bastardization-like misuse of poetry—
in order to hide behind the very words
that should be given the permission to make them become,
truly known.

There are those who thrive on this..
this currency of curated words,
seduction dressed as scripture,
all twisted into the soft ropes of poetry
to bind the vulnerable,
to rob the soul of its own infusion..

the self from the soul,
the soul from the self..

--until all that remains
is the quiet, starving shell
of a heart displaced,
an identity diluted,
left wandering inside
the sociopathic intent
to truly bastardize poetry’s
life-giving potentiality
into nothing more than self-indulgent gain--

always at the cost of the reader,
who, starving for something real,
somehow falls for their twisted game.


****.

eh..
There is no alone-ness within the magnificent resonations
of the perfectly plucked string
of the most perfect, of guitars.

Like this one, sitting right here
in my lap.


excuse me while I lose my lunch onto this bluescreen now.


"And the disciples came and said to Him, “Why do You speak to them in parables?” Jesus answered them, “To you it has been granted to know the mysteries of the kingdom of heaven, but to them it has not been granted.  
For whoever has, to him more shall be given, and he will have an abundance; but whoever does not have, even what he has shall be taken away from him.

Therefore I speak to them--
(they that twist the beautiful Potentiality of poetry into that of their own gain)
in parables;

Because while seeing they do not see, and while hearing they do not hear, nor do they understand. In their case the prophecy of Isaiah is being fulfilled, which says,

‘You will keep on hearing, but will not understand;
You will keep on seeing, but will not perceive;
For the heart of this people has become dull,
With their ears they scarcely hear,
And they have closed their eyes,

Otherwise they would see with their eyes,
Hear with their ears,
And understand with their heart and return,
And I would heal them.’"

"In other words, *******."
~Jebs
 654° 
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
As human beings, we experience illusion,
but our goal is to become infinite.
Enlightenment is the path to become one with God.
Life, as we live it, is a joke of sorts.
Love is, often unconsciously, our ultimate destination.
Each of us has a soul, and if it is saturated with love
when we die, we really do not die;  rather,
our souls meld with God. To call worldly things
is not meant to be a pejorative. It's just that the vast
majority of us live false lives. What most of us call Heaven
is actually when are our souls are filled with love.
If we are "marterialized," which is  to say, we hunger
for wealth, fame, or power--not to empower others,
but to oppress them--then we do die and our souls
return to Earth hopefully to realize what our real
goal is. Buddha and Christ, for example, came to know
this and lived their lives accordingly. When one realizes
her/his soul is swollen with love, she/he knows
intuitively, she/he will meld with the invisible,
never-ending, always present love of God, never
needing to be smothered with the stench or wars,
the paucity of kindness, the endless pain of iniquities.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS
 591° 
Lostling
Measure every word,
Every use of punctuation,
Every emoticon and emoji
Down to the smallest gram

Think twice. No--
Thirteen times,
Before opening your mouth.
And dont talk too much or you're self centred

Check every message, comment.
Nothing too harsh
Nothing insensitive
Nothing that might scare them away
Or tarnish their view of you

Write
Delete
And rewrite
Then quickly send before you chicken out
I love chatting and interacting with you guys but sometimes I overthink
 585° 
Moo
It lives in Him breathes in his vitals,
Personifies him and nets out of his veins lethargy,
It dampens what his heart has in offer,
It lays in him waste,
a bewitched rower to this boat,
Who has yet to learn to stay afloat,
His obfuscations lead him sober,
His blind eye dictates his horror,
A pearl beyond imagination he has yet to attain,
To proclaim his name with no distain.
 486° 
Dency
It went quiet
Not because it gave up
Bt because it was saving me.

It felt too much
So it chose silence
Over shuttering.

It held the storm
Behind closed doors
So I could keep breathing.

It's not numb
Just protecting
What's still healing
Let it go...
If it mattered to you at one time then it was important
But if it's holding you back it's a distraction.
 314° 
Namika Umata
Morning rain and mist
Red Cardinal sings among
Forsythia buds
 283° 
Kaitied
Blade
Skin
Slice

Warm
Flowing
Blood

Dark
Silent
Thud

Scream
Sirens
Rush

"It's
Too
Late"

Calm
Quiet
Rest
 253° 
Amy Childers
A silent promise,
Whispered low,
My love to you began to grow.
And yet stolen glances
Turned into lost chances,
Where did all that love go?
Do the pleading eyes
And desperate tries
Just fade away?
No.
But slowly the ember dies,
Aching for a glimpse
From your eyes,
Lost in a sea of forlorn despair.
And yet it never comes.
Soon,
That love grows dull,
And the sharp words
Bang in my skull,
Telling me you can
Never love me.
And in the mirror,
A stranger stares
Weak, pitiful,
A lifeless glare.
And yet,
Love foregoes the empty...
It's all that's there.
My silent promise to you is this:
Your ghost,
I will always bear.
 243° 
Chrys
People look to me to solve their problems
Fix their lives, make everything okay
But what if I myself am a puzzle
An unsolvable equation
Then who gets to fix me?
 227° 
Agnes de Lods
Ego
Oh, my dearest Egooooo!
When you can’t squeeze through the door,
so immense and entitled,
I tell myself,
“That’s enough!”
No more confetti and fireworks!
Haunting me over a lost chance.

The Magnificence of Doubt—
what if I were…
Soundless compliments
only to be pinched and ignored later.

From now on,
I celebrate my mediocre greatness
with a crown of fool’s gold on my head…
yet throne-less.

Some falls, invisible success,
and unfulfilled hopes,
which, surprisingly,
made me stronger.

Oh, the Irony of fate!
All these sleepless nights
for this Wisdom?!
 184° 
Brandon S
Music a melody of the meadows
And the one that is always there to give hellos
Why does it make me so sad
Have I gone mad?
Music to feel
Something that is real.
A healer...
Music for the times of struggle
 144° 
Kezexxe
Expressing emotions,
From unseen explosions,
And flinching at motions.
 134° 
Lance Remir
I still whisper
"Goodnight"
I still whisper
"Happy Birthday"
I still whisper
"I love you"
I still whisper
"I miss you"
Because a whisper
Is all I have left of us
 131° 
Clarencine Perrine
Learn to let go of people,
for sometimes it gives you peace...
Ase.
Am dull, dark and peaceful,
I am death.
What a noisy breath I bear,
Like a patient in coma, who only machines are keeping alive,
Rejoicing.
Maybe, a true genius looks for
Eternal peace in death,
Last, stop looking for me, while I am simply hiding... 💀👅🩸
 130° 
Ash
no one loves you
as I do
no one cares for you
  as I do
no one sees you
as I do
no one serves you
as I do
no one hold you close
as I do
What do you do when you truly love someone,but they don't notice you....
 114° 
Blake M Woods
They called it ruin, wreck, and waste – my life that was…
But I was walking into grace.  
The smoke they saw was burning lies,  
While I looked upward, I cleared my eyes

I walked through the smoke, the heat, and the ash – but not alone…
Christ met me where the flames had grown.  
He didn’t flinch, With outstretched hand He pulled me free,  
And rewrote all my history.  

So let them talk – I serve the King,  
Not bound by guilt or suffering.  
My life is His, made clean, made new,  
Flames of mercy burning through.
 110° 
Jan Reest
I have managed to walk
through the puddles
of diswant.
I have amassed—
great hatred of the known.
There is no mud on my heels.
I have been known.
 110° 
Zelli
Fear of failure eats me alive
Even if im not drowning
Feels like everyone is frowning
I don't know what they want
But I know I can't give it to them
I don't have what is takes
To bring them snowflakes
In the middle of june
 110° 
jeffrey conyers
You said
You said each day I'm loving you less.
You just don't know(don't know)
I'm trying to love you more.
More than you might know.

I go out of my way to prove it.
Shocked that you don't see it.
That I'm trying to love you more.

Flowers, I give to you.
A sweet poem I write to you.
Even try to spend more time with you.
But still, you question every single thing.

I just know.
I'm trying to love you more.
But you are making it hard to keep trying.
Am I not there when you're crying.

I just know
I just know
I'm trying to love you more.
 109° 
Dr Peter Lim
Life is hard, imperfect and fragile.
How we live makes us what we are--
no one can be perfectly happy
and that's a good thing--
if it were,  we would hardly grow
 99° 
Mike Adam
Volcanoes
Oceans
Moons and women only they

Know how to flow
 78° 
Max Neumann
15
Bounty from ‘99
Millennium-bound
Before the red statues

Born in a voice
From deep dark swamps where
The hand of the Unreachable reigns

Clock at 8:38 PM
Placeless
With the old child

Made of rage
Because a vase in a dream
Shattered by the screaming crone

Clubhouse 77
Love-estranged
In Ali’s trauma
15
 77° 
Sacrelicious
Compliments are just friendly reminders; that the mirror and our thought are both compulsive liars.
Sent from the depths of hell
to drag us back down with them.
We're smiling through our tears.
But for what.
At least we're okay, right?
I don't know who's real anymore.
I BLEED,
YOU BLEED,
WE ALL BLEED!!!
we bleed
the color of
red,
they say!!,
we are all equal
in, and
every kind of way,
We are All United,
Yes,
we are one,
we bleed the
color red,
all countries,  
all nations,
on this earth,
Under God's
Bright Sun!!
We All have values,
qualifications and needs,
So, let's stand,
negotiate, and
deliberate,
minus all
of the greed,
So, come on,
WE COULD DO THIS,
why beg, and
why plead???
the road is
rugged now, but
through our veins,
is RED BLOOD,
and
Remember:
WE ALL BLEED!!!!!


B.R.
Date: 7/6/2025
 74° 
Sean Maloney
Three Dr Peppers down
Yet not even close to a fraction of a Celsius
Three Dr Peppers down
But they only stir up dark thoughts of us
 72° 
Sia Harms
Sending out doves,
Hopes on a shelf,
Past momentos
Gathered in dust,
The state of myself,
Immobile in mess,
Watching windows
For every answer,
Sunken deep under
Paralyzed duress.
 71° 
Liana
And it hurts the most
When you try everything
And you still feel
Like someone is constantly twisting your chest
And banging on the inside of your mind
I've been trying everything. Dunking my head in ice water, eating, earthing, crafting, taking a freezing cold shower, walking, by none of it is helping. I still feel ******. This is proof I'm too broken to be fixed.
 70° 
Rose
The breeze was felt
When you held me
I followed your guide
That lead up to this
Wonderful place

Flowers are dead
The silence is unbearable
I moved near you
To see your face glowing
mysteriously

We are in the middle of this paradise
I trusted you and suddenly I’m at peace
You’re full of wisdom
Your face is still glowing
But so is mine
My 1st poem here yay!! <33
 66° 
Thirty Nine
My scars have stayed
Longer than most people have

But this time
It might be different

Because it seems that
You have started to heal them
I have 57 sh scars on my chest
 66° 
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
In June of 1989, 14 poets, all alumni of Columbia University, took a trip to Moscow. I was one of them. We flew from New York City to Moscow via Helsinki, Finland. We met with the editors of NOVY MIR (NEW WORLD), the most famous literary magazine in the Soviet Union, which broke up in 1991.We all gathered around a large oak table mixing Americans with Russians. We began reading only one poem each. When each Russian recited his poem. he stood up. I was impressed. Each Russian poet spoke perfect English. Eventually, it became my turn. I recited I WRITE WHEN THE RIVER'S DOWN. When I had finished reading, I went around the long oak table and handed each Russian poet a copy of my poem. I had made many copies of my poem in Topeka, KS, my hometown. Copy machines were illegal in the Soviet Union for fear that dissident, underground revolutionaries might wish to spread their fervent hopes of democratizing their nation to millions of their fellow citizens.

The next day, we 14 Americans were going to attend a meeting of the Soviet Writers Union. As I was getting out of our bus and stepping on the sidewalk, I heard a voice crying, "Mr Hawks, Mr Hawks! Please stop. I have something for you." As I looked to my left, I recognized a Russian gentleman from the day before. When he reached me, he said "I am Evgeny Chramov. You gave all of us a copy of your beautiful poem. I was so taken by it, I stayed up all night translating it into Russian. I had to type it again, so if I saw you today, I would be able to give you my translated copy." He put his briefcase on the sidewalk, opened it, and pulled out his Russian translation, and handed it to me. I was stunned. I said "Mr. Chramov, how thoughtful and generous of you to stay up all night translating my poem into Russian! Bless you, Mr Chramov." As we were walking together into the building, I stopped and spoke to my new friend. "Mr. Chramov, I have a favor to ask of you. Would you be willing to read your translation of my poem in this meeting?

"Of course! I'd be honored to do that," said Mr. Chramov. When it came time for him to read, Mr. Chramov, standing up,  read his translation of my poem. I was elated. The meeting soon came to a close. A woman who had chaired the meeting walked by me without stopping and said to me, again in perfect English, "You really are a poet, aren't you?"

Her comment, and Mr. Chramov, I have never forgotten.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS
 66° 
Kate
sadness comes in droplets.
from the sky, from your eyes, they fall.
over and over, time and time again.
wetting the ground, streaking your face
until a puddle grows into a sea.
 63° 
Nobody
my mask has gotten oh so heavy
but i don't want them to see
the person behind the facade
the real me

they barely see me, they see the mask
but it's cracking through
if i took off my mask
would you still love me like i love you?

i wish i could be me
but they would hurt me again
so i'll keep wearing this heavy mask
until i can finally break the chain
i always have to be the happy, funny talkative friend or it'll happen again
 62° 
Sasha Hendricks
Death....a common event amongst mankind and yet, tears still shead like leaves in the autumn, as the last breaths of a loved one's are deprived from us . Their souls, grasped by the boney hands of death.

He is not our enemy nor a friend, but he is a symbol of both sadness and freedom. Only to appear when a soul has left it's newly empty shell. He takes them in as his own steering them into the direction of their next life.
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