Poetry Reading

Bloom in Mothlight

theheartdrinker — Mon, 14 Apr 2025 20:54:22 GMT

I. The Drone (2009)

He dresses to go sit in the dark
for about half an hour,
listening to delicate guitars
and woozy violins,
perhaps even one of Madonna's better songs.

He perches himself completely on a rusted anchor,
against the tower that once saved his life,
and with quiet tragedy filling his eyes,
he watches his life shine, then ebb away
inside the shimmer of the liquid oily waters.
When the gleam is lost,
the moon begins to flare,
and like a dead moth calloused with dust,
he is trapped in the rubble of his heart.

He listens to several songs that fit
with the slant of the water's acid foils.
Flurrying pianos, slow shuffling organs,
drowsy drawls and crashing drums:
Endlessly, a drone.

And when the daylight breaks a pink
too premature for what he'd prefer as morning,
he remembers the one who waited for another,
while watching him come apart.
And strings flutter, harps thrum, tempo dives
like what he remembered as a heartbeat
but into a roar that was otherwise
one of those brave echoes in the dark.

He walks back home, feeling bullied by the songs.
And feeling endlessly stuck in the drone:

Even danced with a thousand passing tongues,
I have long felt like a trenchcoat in the sun.

II. The Tuning of Bones (2018)

He walks the same route—
older now,
but the wind still greets him
like an ex-lover,
curious
then gone.

The dock’s iron sigh
has rusted deeper.
Lights stutter on,
as if unsure
they want to reveal anything at all.

Years have done
what lovers never could:
held him
without undoing him.

He does not sit.
No longer tethered to the anchor
or the tower’s myth.
That elegy
has long been swallowed
by the river’s opaque breath.

Inside him,
the music still happens—
but softer now:
a minor key played on ribs
where desire once roared.
He no longer needs
the sting of strings
to remember he’s alive.

The moon offers no epiphany.
Just a pale eye,
watching.

He passes graffiti left by versions of himself—
each one louder, more desperate.
He does not scold them.
He lets them flake
into history’s pocket.

And when the morning blushes too soon,
he doesn't curse it.

He smiles,
knowing dawn is for those
who have stopped mistaking
ache
for art.

III. The Last Refrain (2025)

They stood beneath the blue flicker
of a streetlamp outside the bar,
where low synths and breathy falsetto
spilled from cracked windows
like memory unbuttoning itself.

His cologne, unfamiliar now,
still curled with the spice of then—
a citrusy ache
that travelled the spine
like an old touch rehearsed
in a thousand imagined nights.

Their bodies didn’t move to embrace,
but something magnetic lingered
in the space between wrist and coat-sleeve,
a proximity of almosts
and muscle memory.

They spoke—lightly—of jobs,
mothers, a recent surgery,
the half-marathon he ran,
but beneath their talk
a heat trembled in past tense.
The kind only those
who'd once mapped one another’s mouths
could name
without needing to say.

And his laugh—God, that laugh—
still crashed like cymbals
on the ribs of the speaker.

For a moment
the city fell away,
and all that remained
was two boys, again,
in the backroom of a club,
in the bass-heavy silence of knowing
you’ve never really stopped
being someone’s ghost.

They didn’t kiss.
That would’ve bent the spell.
Instead: a shoulder brush,
a long look,
a note unsung but felt.

And as he made the walk back—
this time not to a tower,
not to anchor or oily shimmer—
but to a quiet flat with secondhand art
and his name on the lease,
he passed a puddle lit with moonlight
and caught himself there:
not quite tragic,
not quite whole,
just a man
creased gently at the edges—
like a coat that’s finally found its season.

Carrion Light

theheartdrinker — Mon, 14 Apr 2025 10:45:30 GMT

Carrion Light

You proffer like mildew
through the mind’s cracked seams,
an infestation dressed
in corduroy civility.

The soul withers
in your company—
not from violence,
but from the drought
of anything true.

Your voice—
a clatter of utensils
in an empty drawer;
every word a counterfeit
pressed with sweaty hands.

I watched empathy
drip from your eyes
like oil from a dead lamp—
thick, without heat,
and far too late.

You are no storm,
no knife,
no flame—
just the smog
that poisons slowly,
the stillness that
rots the grain.

And still—
you call it conversation.

ardent_flame07 — Mon, 18 Apr 2022 03:25:31 GMT

Spring is full of beauty, and I can't wait
Blossoms budding, I love the blooms you create
Looking forward to tomorrow and what you may then share
Wondering what flower, or mossy delight might pop up there

A Letter to No One

jannaboo — Sun, 08 Sep 2019 14:27:27 GMT

I am writing a letter to No One.
Because No One will help me.
No One will listen.
When No One reads this letter, No One will know.
No One will understand.
No One will help.

Floating, a bag

alexanderscttb — Wed, 31 Jul 2019 17:37:07 GMT

refuse, scrapped
McD's bag litering
the counter,
where in China one
leaves
a spent meal to be
disposed
of by working class
people;
refusal to be
anymore exploited,
herein,
has left me
unemployed again;
for speaking out
against the
crunch that
grinds human-
cattle into
penny-patties,
I'm left to
drink
corrosive coffee
one this crummy
counter;
left unable to
counter the
power of
unchecked
abuses of
our labor;
lower
than the average
ghost, illegally
haunting; status
controls the
sphere
of my influence;
as
disposable as
what I must
do.

Untethered

dreamingdarkly — Mon, 08 Jul 2019 23:41:59 GMT

Breathing low
in the land of the dead.
Keeping my head down and my mouth shut instead.
I get lost and feel that bottom drop out,
and there is no one to run to--
I am going without.

No longer bound (I guess,
I mean, unless you count
all these new moon dreams
or the way it seems like you're still listening)
and no longer in doubt:

we all come untethered
before the end is through.

But there is nothing
that I would not do
to have you back.

(Even just to hear you shout.)

Pooka

dreamingdarkly — Thu, 06 Jun 2019 01:35:34 GMT

Little sister,
when you were born,
I did not buy you pink.
I pushed you on the swings and you never wanted to go higher.
We came to light in the wild end of winter,
soft-skinned and choking
beneath a House of Water.
Our mother was sick
and so they moved me to the hall,
they laid you in my arms;
too small beneath my two wide eyes--
I found you had a quickened heart and ocean-air blood
(just like mine).

My little space cadet,
grounded now for your own storm.
Drowning in the open air.
If I could give you all I found to cure me of it,
I would.

I swear.

♥

buccal

hernameisliz — Tue, 30 Apr 2019 23:12:17 GMT

How much can a woman cry?

when she is breaking

when she is scared

when she cant remember why

when she cant stop reliving the why

in a sudden burst of faith

a kiss that lingers and softly penetrates;

in the memory of a moment

in the thank you of your please

there is no limit

to all the ways

a woman

can cry.---zurc

Battle

tripper7 — Sat, 27 Apr 2019 05:10:20 GMT

Tired of the tasks
The everyday hassles
Ready set go
Find your room in the castle

How far can you roam
Outside the castle walls
Before you want to return
Back to the fires and the balls

Everyday is on repeat
A never ending cycle
Sustain and recover
Write the book, not the cover

The chapters in between
Are not the most important
It's the paragraphs that matter
And knowing when they end

Psalm

ansat — Fri, 12 Apr 2019 05:29:58 GMT

How long, O God, how long : shall I be desolate?

Those around me, they smile : I am hollow within.
They smile to each other : only I am alone.

I have sheol within me : inwardly I am dead.
Like a pregnant mother : loneliness grows in me.
Why should I be alone : a stranger to all men?

How, God, have I harmed you : that you should take my friends?
How have I angered you : that no one shares my nights?

O be my salvation : only you can save me.
You, O Lord, can remember me : you can fill me.

Save me in the sight of the others, O my God!
Give me consolation : in this world and the next.

Regret

crazygitar — Tue, 09 Apr 2019 10:34:58 GMT

I am a leech, a parasite,
Taking others' positivity
And eroding it away,
Keeping it for myself.

My lowest points never last
Because someone else,
Someone who cares for me,
Gives me what I need.

Being alone is never enough,
There's always someone,
New and unaware,
Innocent to my ways.

Take my hand, let me show you,
I'll begin on you today.
By tomorrow you will think,
'What did I ever see in him?'

Then we'll both have the same point of view.

World's A Loose Cannon

hughard — Thu, 03 Jan 2019 07:24:39 GMT

Hello fellow members that like poems, I have made this poem that is on my profile with a poll. Please check it out. Thank you in advance.

***

nanohalo — Thu, 23 Aug 2018 08:22:22 GMT

I's killing loneliness
Now loneliness is killing me
This sadful curse
'S become my weird gift

You're not the reason
For it, nor the remedy.
How bitter! bitter is
This mutial amnesty...

Seer

nanohalo — Sat, 11 Aug 2018 11:07:04 GMT

stars collapse and dont repine
abide
to the universe order
Triumph the seer!
Triumph my lover!
Exult! Exult beholder!

strings shed quanta of time
design
the gross world border
Triumph the seer!
Triumph my lover!
Exult! Exult beholder!

though the entropy's uprised
inside
cosmic poise's unaltered
Triumph the seer!
Triumph my lover!
Exult! Exult beholder!

living hymns pervasive light
entwine
their praises in one chorus
Triumph the seer!
Triumph my lover!
Exult! Exult beholder!

untitled poem by Kevin Trent Boswell

ext_3742499 — Fri, 23 Feb 2018 23:55:03 GMT

a pinch of madness

the insane notions of a poet, sorcerer,

a singer of peculiar songs,

the rhythmic, vain ideations of one

who conjured strange creatures

from the cauldron of creation

over and beyond this threshold,

you partake of the leisures of sound and sultry syllable

lessons and lectures and laughters

and the lesions of wounded minds,

weary with the weight of life

and giddy with the youthful joys of the coil-sprung death instrument

called cosmos and its temporal, jittery stasis

tune in to the mad frequency of the hatter's harp

feel the feathery quill between your fingers,

scratching the soft illusions of underworld cathedrals

onto the digital parchment of binary scrolls

and into the thousand, orb-like eyes of the argus

place your hand into a nebulous, darkened grab bag

of glasslike candies and venomous serpents

here, you will know not the quilted comforts of certainty

but only the gambler's thrill, that of wanton abandon

mercurial mirth whispered in your ear

tip me for a tune and I will write you a rhyme

receive the song by bartering for the verse with a dime

the witch ways abound in this universe of sound

words walk here... like men...

men who speak lessons,

instructions in the summoning of demons,

demons who cut doorways in the daylight,

doors through which only angels may pass,

these angels enter into the earth and make oddly-perfumed flowers,

flowers that bloom children under the cold rocks of winter,

children who spend their time slaughtering gods for sport,

beautiful, terrible gods that bleed dying stars,

stars that used their last, tortured breaths…

to spit the dust and the light

that is you

Kevin Trent Boswell and little miss Pepper

For more:

Facebook (Conjure Work)

LOVE LETTER TO LONDON (Spoken Word Poetry) / England Travel Video

telefilo — Sat, 10 Feb 2018 20:17:37 GMT

LOVE LETTER TO LONDON (Spoken Word Poetry) / England Travel Video (x)
➡️ https://youtu.be/4KXMIA4DjS4

Straw Hats

ext_3742499 — Sat, 16 Dec 2017 23:00:23 GMT

Straw Hats
by
Kevin Trent Boswell

happy, clueless pilgrims

venturing to the Amish land

awestruck by the death of leaves,

the strength of autumn’s hand

noses pressed excitedly

to panes of auto glass

cameras cocked and loaded

shooting horse drawn buggies, as they pass…

rudely slapping their unwilling victims

on to sheets of Kodak flypaper

at the expense of a simple, private people

they'll have volumes of self-involvement to savor

migness — Sun, 01 Oct 2017 07:16:29 GMT

This was one I wrote a long time ago.
migness6/16/09 02:35 pm
Of Evil

So evil came a knocking
Knocking on my door
Said it owned the universe
Said it wanted more
But when I looked evil
Looked it straight within the eye
It knew not what I spoke of
Left me to wonder why
and wonder is what i did
I sat right down to ponder
would evil go with good
if good had such an offer?
and evil started laughing
right there right in my face
said i lacked intelligence
and questioned my whole race
so then i said to evil
why would you hate me so
if i can leave you to evil
then you can surely let me go
but evil wasn't listening
and played an evil song
and so i waved goodbye
and did not sing along
but evil took it personal
and said that i lacked rhythm
I thought that evil had enough
and went on with simple living
but evil kept on knocking
and every where I went
I could see that look on faces
the one that evil sent
so I again said to evil
what is it that you want
and evil kept on laughing
I get anything I want
so back I went to living
my life that is so small
I said "go on" to evil
don't know that type of song
So evil's song got louder
and played on the radio
said that it would find me
anywhere i'd go
I thought this was quite silly
I'm not going anywhere
why would I go looking
for a thing that's everywhere
yes evil is quite spoiled
it wants more universe
and though it does sound greedy
In my life i did immerse
so evil went on playing
and came up with a new verse
said that it was quite scary
and very well rehersed
again i looked at evil
stopped and tried to listen
but evil made no sense to me
who names evil tristen?
I think that evil can come and go
any time it wants
it said it owned the universe
and fills it up with taunts
so i ask why would your invitation
seem so nice to me?
we have nothing in common
that i could ever see
but evil said "i'm everywhere"
even in your kitchen
I said well if God wants you there
I guess I have to listen
and on it played it's evil tune
while my simple life went on
I still don't know why evil knocked
to play a silly song
or even gave me a try
to own the universe
to sing a song
or dance a jig
for evil to converse
see when i think of evil
and the way that evil sells
I know that any vested time
would cause no paralells
I would't fill the package
that evil keeps in stock
I couldn't talk of undoing
one of God's small flock
I couldn't put my heart in it
I could not make one buy
I know I couldn't make a sale
It isn't worth a try
to make evil so marketable
evil would have to let me go
As evil likes to look profitable
and see huge magins grow
though evil makes you fear regret
for a simple one like me
it has a gist i just don't get
and i see that naturally
I like to see the good in man
I like to see it spread
evil wouldn't want my thoughts
dancing around it's head
so why evil would care to stay
with simple folk like me
i simply could not fathom
and I file it mystery
see evil see's you coming
and it knows just what you think
it will use your thoughts against you
and leave you drowning in a sink
this to me is silly
but i do not question why
so why would evil question me
if i look it in the eye
I have no gripe with evil
I know it's everywhere
but if it saw me coming
it should know that i don't care
why should i care for evil
it does not care for me
and if the feeling is mutual
then at least we both agree.

midnight vows

dreamybruises — Sat, 16 Sep 2017 00:22:00 GMT

we keep our energy to ourselves,
mixing our colors,
becoming plum-hearted.
becoming addicts.

honey-lit in the alley, making promises;
you keep
insisting on a kind of strike-slip
between my skin
and the roughest part of that cement.

you crawl inside my head
and look out through
my mahogany dream:
it's still a visceral scene

of you and me

(baby...)

Afternoon

valeria_15 — Sun, 16 Jul 2017 03:33:26 GMT

We take advantage of the day,
as time takes flight on a pair of wings,
you can see the clock's long hand arching,

and as the sun slowly falls
the sounds of traffic drops down to a purr,
we're slowly coming off the high
from the day,
our work, is more like play

The Afternoon, like the scent of dying embers of
the late morning. We made sandwiches,
slices of cheese,
and wait for the wine that comes much later.

There are grapes hanging,
and they taste bittersweet
but the aftertaste as dark honey

There was not much work this day,
as we walked along the grass
hold our loved ones close,
kisses and hand holding

This may be my favourite time,
because it's the in between,
from the blackness and brightness

And that aftermath of rain,
has stopped this July Afternoon
i'm between the hope of
time stopping and looking
forward to the night.

morning

valeria_15 — Fri, 14 Jul 2017 12:17:17 GMT

in the morning, the sounds of light rain,
against the window pane, rhythmic like light music.
your skin against mine feels nice,
warm and inviting,
i snake my arms around your comforting presence.
There's nothing like it,
everyday, i wake to find you next to me,
and the world is good to me.

along the lightly dusted stairs, there's pockets of sun coming from the open roof window,
trailing along each step, sprinkling pretty stars in the light of day.

i like the smell of coffee in the morning,
and these sounds, of water boiling and the rustle of branches outside,
while the windows are open,
my barefeet, along the carpet and rugless floor,
there's nothing like it in the world.

Drinking down the colours outside, and seeing the beauty of the world.
How lightly we live, between heaven and hell,
the skies and the ground and in between

where we live, the in between,
and there is nothing like it in the world.
the Peace you feel, deep inside your soul.
When the morning greets you with love.

Keep fighting

futuredr134 — Fri, 30 Jun 2017 13:31:30 GMT

If the world tells you to stop, to unfollow your dreams,
Let it fuel your fire, pour on that gasoline;

More often than not, the enemy is internal, draining all of your energy,
No matter how much you out in, the result is the same, pure entropy;

Search high and low, you will find your strength,
Continue along your path, no matter the length.

Today I'm Getting Out of Trouble

elizabethmain — Mon, 22 May 2017 03:12:39 GMT

Today I’m getting out of trouble.
I’m sorry for bleeding for you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
Please be on the way, please do not hesitate to us, please do not be afraid of anything, please do not hesitate to call us for anything we have done.
Please do not bleed it please it will get out of my mind.
Please do not be afraid. Please do not be afraid of me.
I’m sorry I got out
I’ve gotten out
For now I’m getting out of trouble.
Please do not hesitate to ask me, please do not hesitate let me know I’m sorry for anything
I’m sorry for bleeding out.
Please do it. It will get out of hand and it will be awaited in a moment and it will be awaited in dreams.
It’s been awaited for a long and wonderful tide.
I am ashamed.

To learn more about iterative recursive poetry, click here.

A Friend In Need...

crazygitar — Wed, 15 Mar 2017 23:34:05 GMT

I am not upset, but I'm asked all the same
and in doing so I become what it was I was not.
I feel the frustration build and bubble under
my insecurities and dashed hopes of dreams,
I see all of my worries and fears coalesce
into the amalgamated horror of everything
I wished would just leave me be, that it would
let me, just for once, be, quite simply, 'me'.

You don't inquire out of spite, or to incite
the unbridled emotion I carry within me, no,
you just wanted to understand what it was
that made me act the way that I acted.
You want to have a semblance of understanding
for why I get like I do, why I seem so tense;
you just want to be the helping hand in the dark.

I don't want the helping hand.
I don't want to need help.
What I want is to be 'normal',
is to be able to get through the day
without setting off alarm bells,
without stirring the hornet nest
of worry and concern that you
hold within, surrounded by all the
good intentions and positive thoughts
that any one person could muster.

I appreciate the sentiment.
I hate the end result.

If there's one thing I have learned,
in my admittedly short stint of breathing air,
it's that there is no black and white, only grey.
That grey seems to be hounding me,
reminding me that it's not as simple,
not as straightforward, as they say it is.

So this is one thing I want to be simple,
one thing that I want to be straightforward.

Please, just understand,
I don't understand.
I don't see that I'm rude,
that I'm coming across as angry.
I don't sense the tone of voice,
I can't hear it back until it's too late,
the words are already out there
and you've decided what it was I meant,
even if I simply did not mean that.

To be plain, I don't think that I think like you,
and I don't think it's something I can learn to do.

afterdark

moonlitsugar — Sun, 20 Nov 2016 19:11:02 GMT

and days too
I sit up thinking of the stars inside you
of all your molecules
swimming darkly
through those collared plains and rainy nights awake
your cold and careful heart pressing PLAY
places I would pay too much
to even get another glimpse of--

my God
you deigned to speak my name
as if you knew no other words to say

and if I thought that you could hear me
I would beg you one last time
to stay.