Object Writing, Prose & Poetry Forum

May 25, 2018, 07:05:46 PM
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This week's words;

Sunday - Instructions

Monday- Motorcycle

Tuesday- Wildflower

Wednesday- Asparagus

Thursday- Stopwatch

Friday - Confetti


Word of the Day
Pages: 1 2 [3] 4 5 ... 10
 on: May 18, 2018, 08:37:32 PM 
Started by Moonshine - Last post by Moonshine
Parachute silk
its made of
supposedly like
falling out of the clouds
the smoothest descent
softest landing on your ass
lingerie  in space  
at first im sceptical
easing in
easy now
the swing  ging  thing
side to side
to and fro left to right
melts the feelings i felt before
and oh  yes there it is
the sweet spot .
weightless  in space
 do not disturb
 and then then ends the thers mefmf ewfcaxxxxxxxxxxx,;Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.................

 on: May 18, 2018, 01:38:34 PM 
Started by Higgs88 - Last post by Higgs88
I squirm in the rigid pew, bony spine painfully pushing against the laminated pine. Low lights, sun streaks in to form shadows on the alter that dance and distract me from the man with the microphone. soft flaky pages of the Holy Bible, old English smell of pulp and old things an oddly shaped vase of flowers droops from the front stage a dog barks from somewhere down the Sunday street soft piano notes draw me back in, words like rising planes crescendo in perfect dynamics afterwards I'll sit and eat lasagna and drink watery lemonade and glazing cinnamon rolls, talk to people I barely know. Sweat will form on my temple as I try to create small talk in awkward bursts. I look at the alter again, it's wood-carved decadence looking down in chiseled splendor. Man-made art. I gulp hard about the socializing. God help me.   

 on: May 18, 2018, 04:47:34 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
The dolphinís fin only guided him
The least little bit
As all you know, itís the dolphinís tail
That really moves him about.

That tail like a whaleís flukes
Churns in the water
Sends him leaping to the sky
In a rush of water.

The dolphins walk on dolphin tails
Moving in formation
Thatís a trick that you should see
If they still know how to train them.

Dolphins speak in a chittering voice
And theyíve got things to say
But the dolphin tail and dolphin spring
Say more than words most days.

At one end a tail, at the other bubbles
Bubbles blown for herding fish
Yes a dolphin fin is a lovely thing
But itís not all a dolphin is.

So streak through the water undulating
From the tail that great speed comes
The tail and the waves and a sense of fun
The dolphin, fast as they come.

 on: May 18, 2018, 04:37:35 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
Sofa settle slouch settle back
Sink in the seat, sigh slide away
Settle in the sofa, no need to move
Spine unzips its old wounds.

Settle in the sofa, Itís going to be a stay
Getting up just needs too much force
Sink in deeper, put up your dogs
Spread your shoulders, spread your chest, spread your arms.

Sofa occupations include petting cats
Or noodling a tune on a guitar
Some go for knitting but I canít manage that
A nap could be the job I do the best.

Give me a high back stool with a foot rest
For playing a serious tune
A sofaís not for singing with any kind of voice
Just for humming the outline of a song.

Sofa settle, sofa sink, sofa lean the head
Eyes are closed now in a time of quiet
The breath comes even, soft as if for sleep
Thatís the sofaís softness in your skin.

 on: May 17, 2018, 07:41:09 AM 
Started by GLMansell - Last post by GLMansell
A rotund mass of solid sediment making its not so special place upon the scars of the Earth. Holding itself with rigor and determination to out weather the landscape around it. Smooth, like putting on new socks after a warm shower during the coldest month of the year. Precious in adaptation, more so than any modern individual may realize. The stone creates our tools in which allows us the abilities to forsake the balance of nature in favor of technological prowess. The stone creates our fires with as simple as a spark, bursting into the life stoking flames necessary to eat, sleep, and survive. The stone is our fortification, rising high above the ground it was borne to blockade friend from foe in an ever chaotic world of humanity. Listening intently, one hears no sound from the stone itself. Yet if thrown from a distance, dropped from a height, barraged against an object, the stone wails in smothered pain until silent a moment later. It is as unique as people, from the grains of sand dotting the coastline to the mountainous ranges carving through the horizon. We, as humans, idolize the stone in many cases by placing the image of our gods onto them as totems. It is symbolic of hardiness, foundation, and undying fortitude against the frictions of existence.

 on: May 17, 2018, 05:46:56 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
The motion for the potion is counterclockwise
Stirring backward in time
Back to a day impressions were made
A retry, a redo, a replay.

That was the day that love at first sight
Should have struck if things could be fair
Could be fair for the one caught in the spell
And the potion should turn it all right.

Stir counterclockwise seven times
On the eighth, reverse for one stir
Simmering potion in the brass caldron
A potion to bring love to the heart.

Stir and stir and mutter away
For the moment already flown
Go back, go back to that first meeting
Spark two hearts and not only one.

The love in a potion drains love away
The effort makes the heart cold
Like selling your hair or pawning a watch
The gestures fall back to the ground.

There is no love potion that doesnít kill love
In the heart of the poisoner
If love needs a potion, it canít be love
And the glory fades to a tomb.

 on: May 17, 2018, 05:35:42 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
Gallon jug thrown through branches
Of a tree lain across the beach
Eroding cliffs litter the trees
The jug is another thing.

The jug and some bottles, tennis ball cores
Styrofoam and butane lighters
Jetsam of waves, of Potomac tides
The litter of the capitol.

We clean it up, each April, each year
The trash of the nationís river
Jug thrown through branches
Leafing still for spring.

There were barrels of plastic filled with mud
We dug out and emptied and cleaned
Heaved on the skiff like a jug past a tree
A trophy of a beach cleaning.

Giant truck tires with iron rims
Crab traps, more than a few
Half a table of plastic composite
Handrails of aluminum.

 on: May 17, 2018, 05:24:08 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
Fried eggs like eyeballs
Staring from the pan
Black cast iron
Eyes of a night being.

Fried eggs sizzle
The bacon grease
Becoming breakfast
With all due speed.

Fried eggs, yes, fried eggs
But what if they were more
Scrambled or even
An omelet.

Extra effort
Like grinding coffee beans
An effort of eggs
But something more.

Something more
About the morning
Extra effort Ďcause it is fine
Itís known to be a sunny day.

Something more
The dayís beginning
Ready for a start
The egg a more elaborate way.

Frying in the pan
The sizzle, the scent of
Fried eggs.

This too is a morning
Of start, of new things
In the habit of the
Black friar.

 on: May 17, 2018, 05:11:49 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
Tuning a choir, each of four parts
The chord held long on the tongue
Dozens of choirs preparing the songs
For the cathedral installation.

The churches send priests, wardens and choirs
A banner for the procession
Diocese of Washington, the countyís cathedral
A new bishop, a celebration.

The choirs are hidden under the organ
That fills the space past the altar
Two hundred voices tune to these pipes
Mixed robes all hidden together.

 on: May 17, 2018, 04:12:22 AM 
Started by katia1602 - Last post by katia1602
The world never seemed bigger
The air is full of cold
I can hear leaves whispering clearly
That I should be more bold

My body is starting to shiver
Feeling the warmth in the shop
I don't even have the perfect vision
My eyes are blurred by my dying hope

I look up to see the passing stranger
Where did it all go wrong?
He only sees in me danger
The one who doesn't belong

Would really appreciate your guys comments and thoughts on this short poem! Thank you!

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