L T Winter
L T Winter
1 day ago      11 seconds ago

'Why is the raven
Like a writing desk?'

I asked winter--
Crying icicles
Into palpitations.

Of wings croaking
Words and phrases
That evolve us,

Enigmatically
--Sometimes
As we sleep
With seizures

And lifeless seeds.

Cristina
Cristina
50 minutes ago      10 minutes ago

Come back to me
Find me if you can
I am not lost, I wrote on an envelope
Because there was no paper and no screen to touch.

Come back to me
Find me if you can
I am here, I wrote on the sand
Before the high tide come.

Come back to me
Find me if you can
I’m over the age of young and feel that soon I’ll be gone.

Come back to me
Find me if you can
I whispered to a leaf
Hoping that the birds will hear.

Come back to me - stick in mind since I've heard them.
Karen Nicole
Karen Nicole
1 day ago      20 minutes ago

darling don't cry
wipe those tears
in your eye
those words they told you
are all nothing but lies

don't let them see
your fragile state
go out
and explore this beautiful world

there's a lot of things to do
aside from locking yourself
inside that dark room
and wasting your time crying
please just smile
it's more pleasing to see

Paul Butters
Paul Butters
1 hour ago      40 minutes ago

If God exists
He or She knows All
Is Everywhere
And Everywhen
And lives beyond
Space and Time.
For so it is to be a God.

She is far too great
To concern herself
With this grain of sand
Lost in the vastness of our Multiverse.

Our words can’t hurt Her,
Maybe make Her smile at most,
Even as we take Her name in vain.
Our petty squabbles
Are but fights
Amongst the ants.

She Loves all Life,
Though some be sacrificed at times
For the Greater Good.

I ask you all
To open your mind
And see us through Her eyes.
She cannot want us
To martyr ourselves
Or kill those who are different
In race or creed.

She will not give us Heaven
If we sacrifice our lives
To kill Her creatures
That she made
With such magnificent grace.

Above all else She is a Loving God,
Cherishing ALL that Lives.
Forget the ancient histories
Of warring and strife.
NOW is where we are,
And now is the Time
For Love.

Paul Butters

Think I'll start my own religion.
#love   #war   #peace   #life   #god   #religion   #universe   #martyrdom  

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
  The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
  With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
  Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
  His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
  He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
  You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
  With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
  When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
  Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
  And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
  Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
  And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
  He hears his daughter’s voice,
Singing in the village choir,
  And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
  Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
  How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
  A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
  Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
  Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
  Has earned a night’s repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
  For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
  Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
  Each burning deed and thought.

Yacov Mitchenko
Yacov Mitchenko
1 hour ago      56 minutes ago

He stood on the platform beside his wife
smiling sadly as the flag was raised,
knowing full well the ones who praised,
the ones who'd let the balloons go
in celebration of embodied hope
would find at the end of four years
the country still trembling near the rope,
the economy still on a sickbed,
knowing well enough his promises
sprinkled with dreams of cherry-red
would not coax on the expected sun,
but - at best - allow for the little good
that could be done...
And he figured his hair then would be all white,
that many would mock him, taking delight
in mockery, whether deceptiveness
held broken promises, or some success
held him above water: one rock
he saw was that some regardless
would spot something about him to mock.
He vowed to temper the lies
though he figured a thousand lies would arise
because truth - for all the homage it's paid -
very often finds itself betrayed.
The public may say it wants the truth -
but truth doesn't compare
with desperation that lends hope air.
He remained aware, was willing to bear
the country's derision and scorn,
and he thought what he'd be aiming for
was a beauty that would be born
with a moon mesmerizing a distant day,
perhaps two or three presidents away...

Unrestrained Escapades
Unrestrained Escapades
2 hours ago      58 minutes ago

so many kinds of writers;
some with stars in their eyes and
souls on their sleeves;
some, with stony stares
and a voice that thrives in silence.

a result of observations :)
 
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