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  Jun 11 Agnes de Lods
badwords
I wandered in where winds grew tame,
My boots half-mud, my throat all flame.
A village small, but sky so wide—
And there she was, with hands in rye.

She did not ask my name or song,
Just passed me tea, both steep and strong.
And though I came from lands unkept,
Her gaze was calm. The earth had slept.


She taught me how to grind the root,
To draw the balm from bark and fruit.
In her, the silence sang of rain—
A pulse beneath the orchard’s vein.

I tuned her father's fiddle bones,
Brought voice to what had once been stone.
She wept not once—just breathed and played,
And grew in light the dusk had made.


She grew the field. I grew the flame.
She called each beast, I carved each name.
Where she gave bread, I gave belief.
Where she gave balm, I offered grief.

And joy, and awe, and all between—
The dreams of places never seen.
She fed the belly. I fed the fire.
One kept the hearth. One climbed it higher.


“Stay,” she said, “and plant with me.
Let song take root beneath this tree.”

“Come,” I said, “and walk the wind.
Let fields be tales we never penned.”


But roots, like roads, cannot be one.
And dusk will bow to either sun.
She kissed my hand. I kissed her brow.
We loved in full. That was enough.


I go where roads forget their ends.
She stays where earth renews and mends.
Yet in the hush between two strings,
Her name is what my silence sings.

And in her fields, if wind is kind,
My stories echo through the rind.
Some loves don’t need a common ground—
They bloom where motion turns around.
Agnes de Lods Jun 11
fighting together—
cold white melts under warm sun
the truth bathes the lie
They call the ship 'Burden,'
An indestructible vessel,
Rival to the monsters of the sea.
It's exactly what the people needed,
For you see,
In the depths lurked a beast.
Eighty tentacles, four trade ships tall and wide,
A hundred-thirty teeth when it's smile lied.
They called it, "Kraken."
It was nothing of the likes you've seen,
Emperor of the dark sea.

The Burden could hold fifteen hundred men,
Arming harpoons, cannons, muskets, wit.
The king ordered them to turn the seas red with gore,
Call forth the Kraken,
Strike it dead.
Then to the king,
They would drag back it's head.

So come high-noon,
The ship was in place,
Above the deepest of sea caves.
Letting forth crates of bait,
Staining the waters of the sea,
Until the sailors heard a rumble,
Shake the Burden's iron shell.

Up from the waters came long river's hell,
Tentacles like spires towering well beyond the sails.
But the crew held steady,
"Tighten the ropes, arm our cannons,"
Cried the captain,
"Then fire!"
The seas filled with blood,
The sky filled with gunpowder, fractured shells,
A shriek rang out from the deeps.
The cry of death,
From the Kraken itself.
Tentacles sinking away,
"The head!" Cried the captian,
So Lutenent Lucus dived after the creature.

Tied by a rope,
Pike in hand,
The creature's head,
He began to drag.
Though, glancing over his shoulder,
Through the murk he could see,
The form of a woman swimming away.
Some curse broken, he decided,
A soul freed from grim reality.

Peace.
I love a good sea fairing story!
Agnes de Lods Jun 10
So many places
that I wanted to see.
I traced new paths on the maps,
softly, with my hands.

Certain journeys were never taken.
I will keep them in my memory.

I looked for the lost keys,
and I saved the never-bought tickets
in small boxes of my heart.

I smile at the happier people
through colored glasses,
held to my eyes.

This is my eternity closed into moments.

Walking alone by the Tiber’s side,
I entered the antiquarian bookstore,
finding synchronic sentences,
small insights,
and I came back with relief.

To my home—to myself.
Without excuses,
without doubts,
without fears.

Writing my song of the world
that flows through me.
The old reality transformed
into a new technological skin.

Now, when I open my window,
I breathe the scent of jasmine.
The rain after the storm is so calming.

I see my solitude chosen,
my friend,
my tender companion.

Being with her,
I am present
with all my senses.

Now,
the one who remains.
The only one.
  Jun 10 Agnes de Lods
irinia
I was contemplating the interlude of breathing
the tease of the jasmine perfume
a wind without insight was resting in the hammock
a solitude round like the moon
the song of birds was inviting a blue exuberance  when
I had this dream... I dreamt streets flooded by blood
they seemed so real, like the amnesia of mercy
the intensity of red an amplifier for pain
violence this enclave of the soul hidden in plain sight
we watch wars on tv in the stillness of sofas
newborn tears claim the redemption of dawn
but we turn our back to the questions of time
no body line of thought but raw nerves,
blind tongues: as if our body is a world full of nothing
sometimes I have nowhere to hide from this feeling:
my blood is his/her/their blood
  Jun 10 Agnes de Lods
Nylee
Generous and kind acts,
What is charity to you?
Give away my thing,
Now is it right to call it mine?

Service to other, who are we
servicing really?
What is the true nature
helping is being kind simply.

Toppled by feeling good,
Is it for others or self?
Elated within
Reminiscing with pride.

Do you wish to give away all of yours
To your kin or strangers?
trinkets of mine, now owned by so many
The resource from earth, passes on.

With our last breath, who are we
donating skin and eyes, the body will pass on
Who am I, a soul?
This life ends, but possession remains
What becomes of me, where do I go?
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