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I dig and dig,
Hobby one’s life, the specialty of few.
I keep digging till it becomes big.
It becomes hard what to do.
But I’ll rummage my way,
It is what I always knew.
Until that day,
For I have a clue.
Soul Jun 26
As the skies up high
bloom with dark sea blue,
when the moon forgets
its duty tonight;
Up you fly for
a ballet with the stars;
Glowing every
single black ray
with a golden spark;
When all asleep,
cozy, warm in their beds,
but why?
Why do you
light up the skies,
without keeping
the only left light
to yourself?
Be selfless. Don't just be in your comfort zone...Think out of the box...
Shaun Copple May 28
Typewriters click and clack,
Like thoughts in conflict–
Undecided actions at war.

Spooling paper around
And around, repeating
The journey to completion.

Inky words wet with residue,
Smudged–impossible now
To comprehend the path.

Liquid correction fluid–
Application and verification,
Can fix any inaccuracy.

Alternative worldview,
Eyes do not ever lie,
This is a digital realm.
Who does what these days, anyway?
Joss Lennox May 6
Grounded on the rocks--
Growing through the pavement,
Seeds begin to sprout.
musings in modern haiku form about resilience and hope while pursuing your goals and pushing through obstacles in life.
Luci spente.

È rimasto solo un faro a
illuminare il centro della scena.
L'atrio è vuoto, a parte me
e qualcuno lì negli ultimi posti.
Il palco è freddo, incompleto.

E vorrei scaldarlo di nuovo,
senza voler seguire un copione,
senza aver paura di balbettare,
senza la paura che le luci si spengano,
di nuovo.

Manca però l'attore a cui più tenevo,
quello che ha dato una nuova vita
a questo teatro di infantili drammi,
per dare spazio a singolari commedie,
oltre ad arricchire i miei racconti,
e soprattutto apprezzarli.

E vorrei che tornasse quella luce
che saturava ogni sorriso,
che faceva brillare il silenzio,
che fermava per un istante il tempo,
almeno per concederci l'occasione
di un degno ultimo atto,
con la speranza che sia lontano,

lontano,

o, almeno, felice.
To my dear dear actress
Megan Apr 7
Passion drives poetry
Aligning my imagery

With truths deep inside of me
I’ve longed to break free

From suffering and hate
From chucking dinner plates

I reflect sipping nectar
Seeing how I got better

Feeling all I’ve conquered
All I have sobered

Now I glow, illuminate
Engrained in this trait

Growing never knowing
Destinations all fake
Caio Gomes Jan 23
Life,
built and driven by dreams,
compelled by needs,
conquered through opportunity,
sustained by dedication,
longed for by desire.

Desire, which drives dreams,
with the folly of burying them
in the present routine
and in superior external decisions.

This partner desire, divided,
by indecision and power,
by wanting and duty:
yields and withers.

Surrendering to destiny and fate,
woven into the horizon,
blind to the present,
credited to the past,
premises of the future,
entangled in possibilities
irreverent to the central,
present, and adjacent conditions:
of life, like metamorphosis,
mutable, unavoidable, and relentless.

Faced with assumptions and
eventualities,
is what’s meant to be, to be?
Perhaps, in the undulations of the search
for the fleeting existence.
"I only know that I know nothing," yet trying to reflect a little about life.
Jack Groundhog Oct 2024
A tattooed man, burly and grey,
twists his hemp-fiber rope.
He thinks only of this cable’s lay,
not of wistfulness or unfulfilled hope.

His skin is bronzed and deeply creased
echoing the waves of the sea.
The grey wisps of his forearms’ thin fleece
recall thousands of mornings misty.

His thick fingers grasp like old iron anchors
as his mind glides through his tasks.
He pays no heed to the long-faded cankers
on his worn body from times long past.

Silently he furls the white canvas sails
and stows the great ropes below.
He calmly swabs with a mop and a pail
all the sea salt on the deck white as snow.

The now naked oak masts still rise to blue skies
as seagulls circle and sing their own lay.
But the sailor man hears not their cries —
He turns the capstan: Anchor aweigh.

The oaken ship now glides at slow pace,
adrift on the wide open waters.
A smile takes shape under grey beard’s lace:
He seeks the hand of Poseidon’s daughter.

He’s the last of the crew on this ship of the line.
He sails to be one with the sea.
He waits in calm as the smell of the brine
signals his new bride has welcomed his plea.

Ages hence a wreck will be found
with just one skeleton aboard.
But upon one bony finger, a round
gold band shines out like a vast hoard.
The word “lay” has multiple meanings: A song, a hiding place or lair, the tightness of a rope, an occupation, and more. The poem uses the layers of these different meanings to tell a ballad of a sailor at the end of his days. It also obliquely references maritime legends such as Jason and the Golden Fleece.
Jack Groundhog Oct 2024
The sentinel stood
on the stone parapet
under heavy storm clouds
that stained the stone wet
and as the sleet fell
he turned his collar high
and, stoic, did his rounds
with the faintest little sigh —
His simple task was this:
keep watch over the town
no matter wind or weather —
the corporal earned quiet renown
Inspired by seeing Edinburgh Castle under stormy skies
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