Action Poetry

Being A Writer Internet Culture Litkicks Poetry

We can all use some poetry right now. Whether we're writing it or reading it, we can all use some.

Action Poetry is open to anyone ... either post an original poem (using the comment form below) or respond in verse to somebody else.

This article is part of the series Action Poetry. The next post in the series is Action Poetry: February 2013. The previous post in the series is Please Write A Poem Today.
70 Responses to "Action Poetry"

..ways to consider..

in a distorted panic, the stumble to the window.
visions of the promised resurrection to come.
glassy eyes from years of being a dreamer.
dreams as a way of life, creating inspiration.
walking shaky ground with careful thought.

seems like the world keeps going sideways.
the mind is damaged by what it endures.
the body, we know, will be wrecked.
only the soul can escape untouched.

resisting logic and ignoring common thought.
reaching untypical and alternate conclusions.
indignant, restrained, resigned to fate.

all the frauds are illuminated in the end.
spotlights will shine and fingers will point.

ways to consider and steps to take.

by Ryan Rankin on

Wrote this many years ago about a girl I can't remember. Always liked it though.

Your outer beauty transcends time,
It transcends space
and darlin', when you walk into the room
the lights are brightened by your face
and they glisten off your hair...
they really do, nothin' compares

your eyes are like the sun
that lights up the horizon when Autumn comes
and it's like the rising tide
cause I know all the beauty
that they hold inside

by David on

Yaeh for yes that wind do blow both ways upon that there mighty clifff..

by Dave Hardin on

In A Silent City

Walk the streets of this silent city walk
all day all night and on into the next
until the sound of your footfalls ebb
by degrees, an eternity thin as
a bee’s wing between them, each one orphaned
to aimlessness stark as a sonar ping.
Find yourself before a modest house find
the courage to let yourself in to roam
empty stillborn rooms waxen in twilight
leaning lightly on a carved newel that will
never wear down beneath a warm steady
erosion of hands, their fingers destined
never to still the lips of whispering
lovers or sweep hair back from the foreheads
of feverish children or ever so
carefully lower yielding lids over
grateful eyes spared searing indelible
etching. Small fingers laced in eternal
salvation from thoughts of putting a gun
to God’s temple and pulling the trigger.
Pray you’ll find the door and leave this house pray
for all the good it will do, solemn walls
silent witness to what will never be.

by Audrey on

If all we see is subjective perception
can we ever know reality?
all we know is what we perceive
and fit it into our preconceptions

The body indeed cannot last
but if the soul remains untouched
has it lived very much?
The future is waning, all we have is the past

Frauds are illuminated in season
and aren't we all in the end?
Reason is a worthless mend
because anything can be reasoned.

by slog on

Try it once addicted for life
here's the needle the spoon the fork the scale the knife
it is great big hole in already dirty souls
definite time hole
it is the dirty sheets
of a one night wet dream
it is the sound on the bed you make when you scream
it is the meaning of yr dreams
a sweet tooth but a savory soul
dreaming Joshua's trumpets and rock n roll
it's moment of Placiating when yr realize you got "Nine fingers on yr left hand and a second nose"
little Nikki looking for a wedding ring
on a cheese slide ride
never to eat fish part stew
"Do you know that I am sleeping?"
an Irish poet sighs
my half Celtic soul wonder where it goes?
I'm guessing on a Amtrak west
up in the mountains of Montana
try on the blue light special
I think an ink blot is an ink blot
tolb kni na si tolb
my reservation emanates in a perfect round triangle
over 3 old city blocks
no one I know can read anything but an alarm clock
and I just smokes lots of pot
I can hear the voices
when I am in bed
disembodied full of dread
have I taken too many of the Z drugs again?

Excerpt from my first novel "The History of Now"

She grabbed his shirt, pulled him back to her. More kissing. She sprung onto the table and wrapped her legs around his waist, unbuttoned his fly. “Wait,” he said with his lips touching hers. “Shh,” she said back. His Levis fell to his shins and she rolled down his boxer briefs so they hung center of his brawny thighs. Stroking him now with firm, circular motion. He could feel her filmy g-string, humid, as he kneaded her. She’s perfect, he thought. He wrestled off her jeans, ripped those panties from her body. Theirs a hysterical confusion of flesh, whist meld of blood. Fortuitous sanctum of two, foundling souls. Kissing her deeply, he continued to labor between the extended legs, the sweat misting his hair, coming down his nape in lawless streaks. He cupped her mouth as she grunted, groaned. Kept the noise muffled, squeezed harder, whimpered, let himself go. “Perfect,” he whispered. Pants and underwear at his legs, bare, clammy ass on display in the indiscreet lights of the room, Jake stuck his cheek to hers, shut his eyes. He breathed like a tortured horse. “I love you,” he said.
“Think I love you, too, Jake.”

by Zuma on


what does one write about online
about being offline

the holiness of blank paper
and pens

and their silence
like a ringing in the ears


or the distinction itself

by slog on

yr a salty sour bitter taste
pock marks on the face
no shoes for your socks
gotten blisters on yr feet and on yr mouth
over-sized tits but stretch marks all about
a bad tooth upfront badly dyed hair pulled out
a triangle face broken up by thick eye glasses and a snotty pout
holes all in rags not remembering to bath every day
had to borrow three dollars when your period came
(I wonder I what happened to the socks)
we got a thing called Pine Ridge love...

all writing is done in the mind
the question of recording it
either by writing or typing or texting
having a place to write
or several
and opportunities and time
a true writer doesn't need daily inspiraiton
it is excrutiating work
it will crush you mind, body, and soul
at least a kernal of inspiration is needed
at the beginning
but this could be a brief glimpse
or a faint sound or a memorable taste
these seeds of inspiration set the course
an unattainable and maddening occupation of your time
book upon book, poem upon poem, song upon song


Interesting indeed
Just flow with the action
If interaction comes that's
a plus.....


Here we go
Poets in arms
Make some word
Take that 1st thought/best thought chance
Might just make your day
a little bit better

by Wojciech on

I Am A Passenger But Who Holds The Wheel?

a stranger has come
to share my tomb
i hold a lighter to the stars
and become enlarged with tears
i hold silence to my words
and drown in the chaos
of my own thoughts

what has been left unsaid
continues to haunt the mind

where go?
what do?
who you?
how to?

driven as much by denial
as assurance, i hold my
shoulder colder,
tho there is a fire inside me
my arms cannot reach you
tho my mind burns
with every tock of the clock
i can only provide you ice cubes

i have no idea what
i must do to endure,
i save my rejection slips
i burn my tongue on the tea

i stay up late at night
into the morning
waiting on nobody
at all

by tinkerbellasgru... on

horsebreath heehaws frekkin' up the smallscreen -
rags to rags junki tales of purple days,
sombre missives of sherious backalley angst,
joining in untold agonies, forced to scribble,
soul-sucked onto the page of dusty
forgotten already, passing fetish:
"went to this great site the other day -
geez they had some awesome pomes -
geez they had some awesome pomes -
geez. awesome... awesome i tells ya."
speaking of frauds look at me look at me:
i'm a distant subjectiverse screaming into
the voi...


then it came to me, just as
then it came to her -
we're in this silent city together,
irrespective of never having been
born - never having died together,
steaming wrist-flicking articulation of
panties, of panties and bulging members,
of bulging members of a people,
bulging with gusto, customary curvature,
bulging horsecock panting,
yellowed teeth behind the yellowed curtain,

pull the trigger, god-killer.
finish the job, give a poor slob a chance
of self-sufficient ennui -
be, in.
ter. est.
in. g.
for each other's
blank outrage, bulging
horsebreathing pulper,
god-killing junkie,
can't recall the girl butt
I Remember Her Poe...


frekk-it, nobody listens to these
jagged ramblings; lay the light down
low priority verse is raining like
sweet november
cats and clowns
ballerinas' first position was
all about copulatio...

by Duncan Brown on

Till bad but,,,,,

by hypcollector on


.read from the psalms. Old testament common ground. Written in past tense after heavy thought. Heavy thought man. Gun range went out of business. Houses strung together with plaster. Just got back from a cruise and walked around barefoot. Had our choice of those female pups. Took one and called her Bella. Cash under the table. I've considered my path. The steps we'll take. Get your toenails done. Pluck your brows. Got a birthday party coming up. Sleep well sweet Bella.

by Steve Plonk on

By Steve Plonk

Arms & legs churning
Back & forth, up & down,
Heartbeat ringing in the ears...
Striving & straining to
Come in first.

After the second lap it is
Heard faintly, the game is
Going again, it is almost
Unbearable, it continues
Like a torture.

A pool game is going on
Inside the head—the billiard
Balls are racked up &
The cue stick reverberates—
The spheres scatter.

On & on the game continues
Balls sink into the pockets
One after one after one—
Must not let the eight ball go
In prematurely.

Keeping legs from coming
To a halt—finished third lap—
Now, the game ponderously
Crawls on to the last three—
Eight, nine, & six.

Faster & faster—cue to
Nine to six, right corner pocket
Eight ball in side cavity—
Quickly across the finish line,

Circa Spring 1967, Revised Dec. 21, 2012.

Also posted on my "Amazing Dawn Poems, Part 2", in "Algonquin’s Table" Poetry Zone, Dec. 21, 2012.


New addiction
It could be worse
All consuming
Time to read again
Wiring mules
Cervantes on my mind
A touch of the Tang Dynasty
floating round my brain
Thoughts of snow in
it's white silence
A walk around this old town
Action always on my mind

..central nervous system.completely shut off for an hour.time to think about how we think.or why we think.and why we think because we think we are superior to other brain equipped animals on this world.only the soul elevates us.the hope for always.this is why we think of death.animals think of death only when its upon them.the lifelong dread and awareness is not there.for humanity, our minds are active in self awareness only.a selfless person has not been known.for the last two thousand, or so, years anyway.prior to that, bands of cannibals roamed the land.violence is nothing new.brutality is old.persecution is real.protect and serve.echoes repeat on the other side of the valley.progress and civilization advancing.move aside you fighters.stand down you gangsters.look ahead and see where the path leads.romeos of all colors selling the plan.for themselves, coast at the chattered about wisdom left behind.just a past..


Poetry night turned 21
here in Frederick MD. U.S.A.
all new poets amidst the freezing rain
Poetry is alive and well here
@ the foot of the Catoctin's

by Wojciech on

folding the hands / the hands
are wings
these are not words
but a vessel
where would you like to go?
i cannot take you there
not because i am incapable
but because you must take
yourself there

truth, beauty
hollow bones, hollow head

a mind of a water's well
thoughts of buckets and pitchers
emotions of thunder head clouds

the eyes are dark
and sad and lonely
tho i know they are real

folding the hands / the hands
are wings
unable to rest the head on a halo

i close my eyes and see
the light

by Shelley on

All mine are back at my place.

by slog on

white as snow
that's the way you go with a drum machine ticking
the big white dog
has got a tongue for licking
hair like the winter sky and winter blue the color of your eyes
that's the why we go
on a boat to some kind of Germany
wooden boats
wooden goats
wooden nose
wooden clothes
with drum machines ticking
I feel numb
could be the winter outside
have to turn the oven on
just to stay warm
and its cold up north
wearing winter coats
making winter jokes
1,2,3, vier
release yr fear
the coming down is soon
on the floor on the ground
all around
mother mother mother mother mother mother
gotten to preserve wotten basking shark
and a bag full of barf
click click click clicking like a basketball cart
a box full of Rittersports Hot Sauce Brautigan and other obsolete technology
by god
did she say
you had a big dog as I was walking by...

by slog on

You rely on me for shelter
you rely on me for truth
you lie to me for comfort
you lie to me for the truth
I got something
that you shouldn't use
I got something
that you couldn't refuse
I got something
You rely on me for shelter
you rely on me for comfort
you lie to me for the truth
I give you comfort
because you have nothing to lose
and everyone is broken
and everyone says the same thing
and no one is happy because you can't begin...

by hypcollector on to day rocket...

.bleary eyed and restless.
.let me be honest.
.this day to day rocket.
.our wilting tolerance.
.forever makers.
.icehouse owners.
.night of the soul.
.when no one is awake.
.words are corrupted.
.the raging men.
.the disgusted women.
.get to your feet.
.invite the devil too.
.he's likely to no show.
.we got skin in this place.
.check the archives.
.an automatic silencer.
.summon the will.
.request a happy tune.
.flaunt your silk face.
.walk with a sway.


Abigail dogs on the prowl
Walking by with a growl
Doggie dogfight
Chock full of fright
Cut it out carving knife
Lou waiting for his man
Downtown salsa and chips
Screwdriver wired
All of us waiting for the plan
There must be some kinda way
outta here

by fry on

quaking ashen rains
a sound like water on stones
rattlesnake threaten
as tight circling hawks hunt
the red slow dying kokanee

by hypcollector on

..pecan clusters..

.led down a hall to a room full of pecan clusters.glazed with sugar and steaming.the smell was incredible and stays with me always.morning dreams and fireproof unions.more good days than bad.heartbreaks and last second shots.move the body and expand the brain.this life, full of cliffs.jumping jacks flashing the containers litter the room.old ways of thinking.when liberty was for the courageous.only love matters in the end.the love of it all.pleasure and pain.old and new.of things not even new yet.this ain't no American dream.laws and regulations and socially acceptable long as the checks keep coming and the roads get all the people in the the streets after robbers.make maps of the city limits.plunged into poverty and the texicans built barbwired fences.


The Unclimbable
Like a beacon
out there on the
edge where the
razor flips

Ghost mountain
Shiva's home
Crashing thunderbolts
above your steep faces
Many images coming
from within

Alive, as pilgrims trod
your magical circumference
Beckoning from half a
world away

Mt. Kailash your vision
touching my core
I can feel you in these
foothills just past the
emerald city known as

by gadfly on

like the bear,
in some but not all ways,
I grub and I den, and

perhaps we have even stopped
once, at the same tree
to wonder

What's the rub? Or,

Where's the grub?

by hypcollector on

..shucked and jived through the escalator maze..
..the fooled and the envious all around..
..all this styling and profiling not for me..
..pretend glam rockers and hussies..

by Wojciech on

death is a slave of the imagination

sewn into the fabric of these
gadget to gadget lives
clowning, drowning the home in the celebrity of the clones
the mimes on primetime
like an alien with an
alias, morphing, seeping
power from the stoop to the steeple and beyond,
raving the radius of this radiance is such
not nonchalant
is trending

by Zuma on

one has to deal with things on their own terms. why not take it all in wholecloth. why not take it all the way. on one's own terms. why not go to france, back in time, to the moon, to 3am, to the end of the river, to ground. why not go, go, go. be a gone daddy-o, as offbeat as any. a 100% reality channel switch. out. one can. he did, and he did, and she did, and that other guy. an entire roster of heartful good people of quietude and solitude. unratified artists all. unamerican for all that, and nowadays would mean unearthly in a noncultured world as wordless as disney world.

one must deal with things on their own terms. one must. one must deal with one's self on one's own terms. what are your terms. these are mine.

i left my home in the valley and went up cold mountain. coming down, i went up the other side come the inevitable flood. as gone as any. as dead as if offline. skyrise, skyfall, and the sky bent down to cold mountain. han shan gone, no whisper left. cold mountain has it's own terms. count your blessings. the fish are still clean there and safe to eat, and as plentiful as the snow.

i went where the old weirdos were. i went where the mad felt right. i went where no children were, or should be. i went where the holy were as quiet as the wind and even more unadorned. i went to that impossible place where all was gentled by it's own very nature.

tiny statuettes in the ditch. tiny paintings in the branches. the road lined with ancient telegraphs. the sky dotted with zipatone. the rocks lined with mascara. the dirt sifted clean every day. out entirely. this was not america any longer. this was an older earth, a newer earth, a different earth. not earth at all. nothing that the word escape could even ever apply to. the ever undiscoverable itself.

come the earthly scenario, zenith far behind, a time and place for everything as always.

my name is the radiating grin of sheer triphammer heart.

by Wojciech on

go Zuma! go! go!

by gfk on

parrots perched
upon Battleship chips in
well-lit cages, fenced in and famous
within the scope of a household
setting refrains
in furious melodies, uttered repeatedly
between belting the Beverly Hill Billies theme
bet, "get me cognac," is what it means

by hypcollector on grabbers..

.name of a new year.the money grabbers keep grabbing.take it all you pathetic grub.wrap yourself in my money and save yourself.create a legacy of robin hood justification.little John is the thug.pull your tights up to your navel.put a feather in your're on the up.we need to move the spring fashions.budgets adjusted.not enough votes for that.each generation has its get the bill.and the tip.for protection and service.for fines and fees.pulling the strings.

by K8 on

The expedition

Deep in my expedition within the water
I thank them,
For all the guidance, healing and protection
They give.
I see myself in another place sowing seeds and sprinkling water from my bare hands
I feel the fertility that’s to flourish
And I give something back to the land.
The angels of fire are dancing into octagons their numbers multiplying from reality
Transforming into tigers and tee pees with camp fires.
The bubbles flow over my body
Gentle, slowly as if time had became irrelevant.
They take on new forms constantly moving and forever yearning,
To be at ease.
As I sit and watch what my energy can create to transform them
It comes to pass that I am the one creating this scene
A single twitch sends a new motion into flow.
It conjures in my mind that if I can be the creator of this space at that moment in time
Why should this stop only in that environment.
I should be able to do the same with everything around me in my life.
We all have this power.
It’s being able to see and accept this small perception
That allows me to make a change.
I’m already on this expedition, the water calls to me.


Slipping into the new year
Like it was a comfy bed
Time flying
Truth be written on walls
Fate a disclosure, inevitable
Diamonds glisten, but less
Before the rains came
After the lights dimmed
Playoffs a more creative way
to not watch
A nation of voyeurs & pundits
Full of opinions
Some good, most bad
Doggie dog world
Never could be a bartender
Only a tightrope walker
That's the life for me


Action Poetry
True action
Action satisfaction
1st thought/best thought bliss
Running down this page
Word thoughts on parade
Comforting to know it's
still here, as I sit here at
the Nola bar drinking
a beer

Smoking riddles of the mind
Written in ten years time
So wonderful to the eye,
yet when they’re in the air
they’re sanctified.
Relied on or cumbersome
rhymes in the past
the true words spoken
at last.
It lingers in your ear
long after the sound waves
travel on and upward.
Long after you’re sober,
and forward.
You don’t always have to look far
for the answers behind the stars.

by ms on

walking through the district running from distraction collecting smiles by the roadside of perception at about the time when last late evening joggers dart out into the opaque night I cross a huge deserted parking lot lying like a shallow sea before the resting discount grocery mirroring some old flutter-winged sensations and those half broken neon signs....humming flickering....

by Wojciech on

what to make of this lonliness and longing?
what to do with the cloud's tears?
where to go when no place is home
what to say when the tongue ties itself

reach into the heart
and be content
with what is found


Action word sketching
Long train ride
Day into night
Making all the stops
But for how long?
She sits...rattle-rattle....
Face buried in the window
Strange reflections in the darkness
Me in my ray charles shades
Blinded by the light
Click-clack....up the tracks
Boyd's....Point of Rocks....Monocacy
Jubal T. & Abraham standing tall
Almost got his stove pipe blown away
@ Fort Stevens
Ride that train
Reading Tristessa
Jack amazes me
Again and again
Next stop beautiful
Downtown Frederick

by ms on

bunk off

a lofty bunk – grab the trunk!
slit tongues split ears
the machines are working on

all stacked – jam packed
close packed densely tight action packed out
just a narrow gap – for one alone and black

huge rooms
I may visit once again – I will
explode in slow motion

there's energy
things got destroyed – lighten up
it's simple – no it's not !!!
to enjoy the loss

phone booths with
five million fine rifts – somebody spits
puerility upon my face

a big bowl of cloud scraps
room around my head
my roomy head

whiles and wilds
I love these days – any of their miles
I walk with bouncing steps

a thousand eyes
few somewhat shaping lines – it's true all true!

by Sylphe on

Final Slumber (edited version)

I lay in bed sleepless again
last night
I could hear
his laboured breathing;
his heart still working
in unison with his lungs,
as it had done
so for 79 years,
while the rest of his organs
shut down slowly
one after another
the odor
of a dying body
permeates my senses,
things I'd sooner forget
if I only knew how to,
his eyes frozen open
dry, red, and raw,
rolling back into their sockets
when the next dose of morphine
began to course through his veins.
The withering body of a man
as tall as the heavens,
as strong as a marble pillar,
as gentle as a lamb,
as loving as the father
that I will never forget.
For three days we cooed
and crooned and cried
at your bedside,
but we sent you off with love
and kisses
dear father,
an undying, unwavering,
unequivocal love,
as you have instilled
deep within each of us.
A love that will endure
beyond your grave
because you gave
it so unpretentiously,
with no finality
to test it
just eternity.
Rest now father
with your eyes closed
and know
that our love goes
with you deep
as you now slumber
that merited and righteous,
that ever-peaceful

In memory of my father who passed away Dec. 20, 2012
(9 days before my sister's passing on Dec.29, 2012, the same day as my father's funeral service)

by Steve Plonk on

“Epiphany Penny Haiku Series”
By Steve Plonk

Camel trains were coming in ships,
From the east, from the east,
Three wise kings brought
Special gifts from their feast,
From their feast…
Upon the sighting of a star,
Three wise kings came from a-far.

Three ships landed at Haifa, at Haifa,
Heading for Jerusalem & Bethlehem…
Warned against King Herod in a dream,
They reported not the star they’d seen,
In Bethlehem over a stable rude.
Kings came with gifts, but stopped for food.
To share upon that wondrous day & night,
When they stopped to share with the Divine,
A side of mutton, dates, legumes, & some wine…

Three Kings viewed the Divine Child,
Lying in a manger, in a stable,
Said to be the Son of the One True God,
Shepherds & angels praised, a nice preamble,
As Into the stable the three kings trod.
They exclaimed amazed, “Surely,
This is the Son of God.”

Mary & Joseph praised such gracious guests,
Who entered their humble stable cave,
Giving great gifts of a feast, & gold, frankincense, & myrrh.
Baby Christ was surprisingly smiling & demure…
As gentle beasts about them all stood,
In the cozy stable cave so rude...
In the skies was a rainbow shining star,
Bathing the stable in glory from a-far.
Also published in Studio’s Poetry Forum in my thread, “Some Penny Haiku, Part 4” On Epiphany, Jan. 6, 2013.

..tulum waters..

.clear as the tulum waters.
.wave after wave after wave.

.coming over from the island.
.been paddling since dawn.

.ready for the big bonfire tonight.
.heard the server girls were coming.

.after the late seating at la cruz playa.
.they got those margaritas that glow.

.late night beach walk in barefeet.
.as always the ocean winds blow wild.

.as ever the duos kissing and wandering.
.smelling of sweat and mexican lust.


Invisible to the general
populace once again
This gig that is rrrrrr's
O so many years
I woulda thought
Way back when
That the movement
Would be flying high
by now
But it isn't
Personal puter
Personal poetry
Personal thing
Why do I care
Why do I cry
Why do I carry
heavy loads
All the live long day
Into those wild nights that
be calling
Come on out and dance
Come on out and make
a little romance
Poetry alive
@ the Cafe Nola
Frederick, Md.
Last Wednesday
Every month
The word will be
Heard "ALIVE!"
Action up my friends

by Wojciech on

If I Was A Thief

if i was a thief, i'd steal
the music from your heart,
the lamp shade of your laughter
the inclusion of your spirit

this is not a risk--this is the
first brick of a bridge

if i was a thief, i'd steal
the pillows from under your eyes
the boundaries of your breath
the snakes from the grass of your thoughts

would you like to go mad?
would you like to go joy?

i ride the thin line between the two
so i can peer into the edge
and enjoy the view

if i was a thief, i'd steal
the blanket of your breakdown,
the beauty of your bringing,
the focus of your hope

if i was a thief, i'd steal
you from death

this is not a list--this is the
blood that binds the spirit

if i was a thief, i'd steal
your heart from hatred,
haven, whatever will have 'em--i'd steal
your hands from heaven

by hypcollector on

..tranquil mobs..

.please please please wipe that smile off your face.don't you know people out there are suffering.all sick and depressed.ashamed and disgusted.worn by the years.jaded by the scenes.broken down and busted up.pride and stupidity collide.get some shelter from the through puddles and slide on the novak.had my fill and wrote my words.sang my songs and smoked my smoke.not for now.these glowface and tranquil mobs.just let it out.accept the truth.mick told you about no no.driving in my car when that man came on the radio.I can't get no no.

"Christopher (From the West)"

Speak to me my friend from Kentucky!

Be with me for awhile my model New Yorker,

Because you are "generationally" much bolder!

Kentucky is were I came to know

Christopher from the West---he told me!

On video/cam I saw him so virtually there!

This child from the South of the border

With message in hand instantly speaks

About the world in space---a virtual-like place!

Favorite website to play with words,

And to let bygones be bygones, and...

To learn how to be best of friends---soon!

Christopher from the West do you hear

The sounds of a friend to be See you---

And IM you (Online!)---on m-space?

by Zuma on

An Extravagance Of Art

Dancing On Gravel
the warehouse is dressed in an expensive shade of gray throughout. diffused minimal light leaks in through the painted panes up high. a scrolling marquee of words, barely discernible, lies just below. the soft orchestra reels out from the leftward darkness, plucking from the opening silence some bare motes of notes and builds upon them as the bay door rises.

one by one, trucks slowly roll in through the big door, crunching the gravel beneath their tires. they line up beside one another and halt and open their doors in unison. dancers disembark slow and graceful as clouds.

the music is smooth as smoke. seamless with the haze. quiet. soft with dim light. gravel crunching beneath their feet, the dancers array themselves slowly into patterns of diamonds, melting into order, and they dance.

it ends ninety minutes later as it began, only darker with the sun completely set. the performance over, the dancers embark and depart much as they arrived, leaving behind them only the patterns in the gravel from the dance.

Photographing The Grain
the next day, or some other nearly as soon, a photographer haunts the warehouse, careful with her footsteps. shooting the patterns in the gravel from the catwalk high above. shooting them on the ground from afar. shooting them up close. shooting many shots, many rolls. she takes lunch in between. she considers her shots carefully, patiently. she meditates on the dim light as the day passes. dust motes hang in the air like microscopic christmas ornaments. she finally departs as evening finally arrives, her volvo trailing dust down the rubble-strewn street.

He Wasn't Just Another Poet Of The Apocalypse But Hers
what fish dare one catch in such times. what nettles, what berries, what rabbits. for all that, he had food prepared that evening. candles were lit.
    he wrote only by pen, and only upon her negatives.
    it was another kind of a literature.
    it was another kind of a dance.

she developed her film in the evening. he sat before their wall, remembering, waiting. pen in pocket.
    looking at her day's work, he saw patterns in the patterns. he saw the footprints, the choreography, the passage of the performnce, the perverse aesthetic of desperate art. the sheer hope of it all. he saw her own desperate hopes in the photography, the angles and lighting, the particular images caught, the very number of shots taken. he took his pen out and wrote upon the negatives, with great calm and confidence, as if the world depended on it. he wrote with no fear, no fury.

by ms on

I want to do this and this and then i do that
my world is on fire and i just pour
more fuel
my eyes could not be big enough to gather
to gather the stuff i could call:
with wide open mouth i try to ingest it
you! And you, and you, and this and that i want to
All is love and i want
to grab this love
but i am apart
i am

take me where no money is
take me out of sight
let me starve
let me crave again, against the hollow eyes
of blight ….yea,

feed me to the monster-god
i'm getting there
i'm late

by hypcollector on

What joy a holiday brings. Some sort of honor bestowed. Martin Luther king Jr. Named after his father who was named for Martin Luther. Luther, who stood up, peacefully but boldly, to a church gone wrong. They threw him out of that church. And he persevered. Martin Luther the king Jr was tired of getting thrown out and kicked around. He really organized his community. The original, and best, community organizer. His stage was the alter. His voice was his sermons. 'I have a dream!'. And massive prayer. Martin's old German bones were proud. Proud to call him brother. The hucksters and shakedown artists come later, mocking the sacraments and lying to themselves. A Lily was born in the Eldorado valley. This was before the towers fell. She'll confront a foe one day. She'll demand change. A wild pack of glowface dames will follow her and become heard. Once heard, the music will continue forever, melodies and stories. Just remember, my darling', can't nobody control your dreams.

by Wojciech on

great one hypcollector! i especially dig the end line.

by Jason Robinson on

“Mississippi Madness”

Greyhound swaying, rolling
dark cloudy rainy chill
3 am express bus Birmingham to Jackson
waves of nausea chuck and puke
hammering hangover drunk sick again
origin Georgia Augusta
ben long, laboring hours ago
Bound for skid row Los Angeles
through Atlanta Dallas El Paso
and points beyond
jacked up on black coffee (blues)
strange fat white guy
wearing a crucifix for an earring
a snoring black guy
stepping on his toes
it seems like…
I’ve done this before
it wasn’t fun the last time
and it’s even worse now
trapped in a midnight of madness
a journey juxtaposed
between melancholia and mania
it’s very humid
on this particular bus
a sixty passenger Petri dish
sweating and nodding
and now it’s six am
and we are pulling into
the capital city of
our nation’s poorest state
I see the chain motel light
illuminated through the cold mist
across from the terminal
on the backside of downtown
the last stop before the psych ward
the passing freight train
rumbles through my brain
an insane bastion of chaos
soon to be quelled psychotropically
in a surreal garden oasis
Of my mind’s own creation

by Jason Robinson on

“Turning Point”

spending time
deep in a pine thicket
at a picnic table
by the fire station
reading beat poetry
breathing clean, cool air
I am not writing
a love letter
I am here to heal
I am bogged down
with terminal well-being
thoughts and meditations
point to home
this is all very real
the machines of time
are going on without me
and I need to get back
go forth and rise
and rejoice with
the respite provided
be charged with strength
and be well

by slog on

itsz da ganga
itsa trip hop
brett ellis easton
automatic reflex
can't be depraved as dat
3rd person?
Family Practice Doktor
god knows
I want a Maserati
1st person
that's the trip hop gem
of dirty unmade beds
electronic apartments
Computer Love
Synthetic Drugs
I'll be combing my hair back
I'll be using analog playback
I'll be singing about that

Pining scorned born adored
Laugh fast
make a verbal trap
but I can tell that yr eyes are so goddamn beady
the why you suck cock
and want money
this is ain't Zion
this is my flesh eating prion
don't bathe
don't wear socks
I hope you catch aids
and your feet fall off

by Wojciech on

Jason, well done! I particularly like the line: "trapped in a midnight of madness"

slog, go man! I enjoyed the line "Pining scorned born adored" and in general the first stanza, tho you kinda lost me with your conclusion.

keep it up you guys, y'all got the juice now!!


It'd be real nice if there was a headline for Action Poetry. If someone new comes to the blog they'd be clueless.......

Stinging cold daze
Caution walking black plastic
Hawk snatches pigeon

by Jason Robinson on

Marching in Reverse

What kind of person
Abandons his house
Minimal possessions in tow
Going away to lala land
Via a rolling hell
To a place without promise
The horizon bleak
And well knowing this
The confused soul
Soldiers on to the
Edge of the cliff
He reaches the precipice
Peers over and ponders
He retreats into
A shadowy realm of solitude
Marching into the abyss
Aware of nothingness
Caught in the destructive void
Always minding the gap
Salvation is elusive
But not impossible
A long way off
The soul marches backward
A self-imposed renewal
Luminous stars guide
Him to a small town in Georgia
Where demons and aspirations
Are exorcised
The weary traveler readies
For a wintry Carolina
And for what ahead
Lies anew

by MC on

" Dinner at Ryans "

Truth has many layers,
sometimes one is not enough.

Art and stars are the only place I can reach you
so I paint abstract sextants, guided by poetry,
in an attempt to force my words from the page
and into the ether...

Hoping beyond hope,
this time you'll
hear me.

by hypcollector on

...Roman Numbers...

Happiest are those who do the most for others. Booker T had it right. Didn't worry bout getting respect. Although he earned it in the end. Deserving nothing. Certainly no made up American dream. The kind that must be bought. Or begged for. Dream about stolen songs and wise women. This court is in session. Dropped by the wine bar and sat by the fire. Winter still chilling the night. Like those Roman numbers. The minute hand movements. Smooth and constant. Never been older than right now. A statement that is always true.


Action sketches
Painting the canvas.......word
Wired yet liquid night
Connections working selves out....they always do
Heater hums
Washer, it's out of commission cause it froze
Yogurt to neutralize
Fellini on my mind
Portraits of civil war generals
amidst abstract structures
Floating in infinity
Sink or swim
The hum persists

by hypcollector on

...another trillion or ten...

..hardy har har har.. ..had a good long laugh.. ..this roundtable of talkers.. ..hope finally realized.. ..keep running the cards.. ..the starvers and homeless.. ..another trillion or ten.. ..good rates and a printer.. bills need to get paid.. ..that's a big pie to eat.. ..thick and full of ripe fruit.. ..still picking fights and stealing..

by Sheila Faber on

I love it! Just waiting for someone to start strumming along?

by Bronwen Jones on

The Watchers

Not agony at all,
undressing the dire fatedness
of things settling out
of joint with long-harboured fantasies:

more a sullen drumbeat,
kept-up, buoyant;
the orchestral magnetic field
which draws even those neutered inert particles.

Over the heads of elm
the wind pets its partial knuckles;
midges spectral, golden,
are moment’s nymph then dissipated sparks.

Love is working her broken
morning in all things
(though with aberrant intensities).
The Grigori, or Watchers, are homing to roost.

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