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 Jun 2015 Cynthia
Pablo Neruda
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.
 Jun 2015 Cynthia
SøułSurvivør
we scintillating
drift swirling
in our own
individual
paths

we make our ways
not by the
Southern Cross
for this is comprised
of stars

but by this little
blue marble
we call

EARTH*


soulsurvivor
(C) 6/7/2015
We revolve around this
little ball
shedding little lights

Little do we know that
we are, in fact,

SUNS

dedicated to
poetessa diabolica

/\
<   >
\/
 May 2015 Cynthia
K Balachandran
Consumed by a primitive hunger, they made passionate love,
in a lovely wooded stretch, away from their verdant village,
the girl, in the throes of a newly known pleasure,
felt something round, just below earth,
touching her moving hip; it turned out to be a dinosaur egg!
a witness beyond time for the ardency of Tamil lovers
Just imagine 65 million year old dinosaur eggs, obstructing the spirited love making of two young lovers, of present day ,who sneaked out of their Tamil village to a secluded wooded area, which  was selected  earlier by, dinosaur mothers to safely hatch their eggs!No wild imagination, this. Indian geologists found(October 2009) spherical eggs of dinosaurs in clusters of eight, in a village in Ariyallur ,Tamil Nadu, India.
Yes, Tamil lovers are immortalized by nearly 2000 year old, collection"Sanghom poetry", which bears ample testimony to their arder.(google " Tamil Sanghom literature" and 'dinosaur eggs found  in Tamil Nadu")
 May 2015 Cynthia
SE Reimer
touching
 May 2015 Cynthia
SE Reimer
~

the true art of loving is
to never stop touching!

touching, holding,
caressing, stroking...
such is the nature of
love's connection;
a twine intertwined
through touch,
the stringing,
the *******,
the fingers that clasp,
that reach out to grasp;
oh marvelous,
tenderest touch!

why is it that
any of us stop?
would we,
could we,
if we really knew?
that touch was a gift
one of the few
that gifts immortality,
gives liberality;
indeed,
would we
ever,
or
never
stop touching?

and God could only
know why
we would ever ask
to be left alone,
cold as a stone,
the untouchable we;
how could we deny
that one, that only
who for our heart longs
truest mate of our soul.

babies need it,
toddlers do it,
children want it,
teens use it,
young ones wish it,
lovers gift it,
mid-lifers pine and
seniors return to it...
there is never
a stage or
a cycle of life
where we should
or ever could
cease to be needing it
ever stop touching
or being touched.

for touch is
love's connection,
the umbilical chord,
a neuron cable,
the neutron bundle,
oh blanket of hope...
it feeds us,
a life line,
an air line
that needs us;
a love line to
the divine
that renews us,
and will
inevitably,
ultimately,
eventually,
totally
hold us,
as we walk
the path through,
eternity past,
present and
what is to come!

for touch...
indivisible from love,
and love never dies;
love never ceases!

yes,
the true art of touching is
to never stop loving!


~

*post script.

we watched so many who loved
stop touching through the years
and then wonder what happened
as embers once hot grew cold.
touch is a gift,
to be shared
and not hoarded!
 May 2015 Cynthia
Skaidrum
.
She was a,
Slow dying flower,
In the frost killing hour,
The moon we'd devour,
                                      The sweet turning sour….


She’d wilt when he came,
                                      The shadows weren’t the same,
                                       And who’d be the blame
  Of the frost killing hour.

What are these,
cold pebbles of
an infected love?
                                         The slow dying flower,
                                                in the frost killing hour,

                                                        th­e sweet turning sour,

& untouchable.
.
Jack frost sings
to wolf girl as she sleeps.
Little does he know she has insomnia,
                                      little does he know she's
not sleeping.

© Copywrited.
 May 2015 Cynthia
Nicole Corea
Mother,
I know you carry the seed of a fragile heart
Many men twisted your beautiful soul into demonic beast.
Unable to love ,unable to nurture.
Possessed to inflict pain on others.
Hungry to **** smiles.
To imprint the world with your glass heart.
You carry the seed of a fragile heart
There's so much faults between us,
So when our land begins to shake
We implode to explode.
Tumbling down every walls we built.
You carry the seed of a fragile heart
Two Fierce eyes, growling lips
Majestic Lion Preying On A Lone Wolf
Vile words
vile injuries
Ding ding
Blood spattered among our cheeks.
Ferocious souls panting.
Who are we Mother ?
What are we? Mother
Do you know Mom ?
You carry the seed of a fragile heart
I hate you so much , but I reconcile your broken veins.
I hate you so much , but I want to satisfy your fiery soul .
I want to carry your fragile heart to paradise.
Where I can love you as a daughter, not an enemy.
Mother,
I want you proud of me.
I want you to own me,
not disown me from your throne.
But how can I make you proud,
When my heart , the one you raised
Is impaired on forgiving you ?
**I carry the seed of a broken heart
 May 2015 Cynthia
Abidemi Alawiye
I have a dream, no not that of Martin Luther king,
but that which is beautifully flawed, making you perfect.

I am no writer so bear with me as I try to put into words
That which my heart cries out. I pray that I will one day find you
And not because I was searching but because it is written.
I pray that our friendship will not be a toxic one
Where one gives and the other takes it all.

Oh dear future friend,
I pray that you won’t spend so much time self-
Proclaiming your worth that you forget mine,
When in matter of fact we are all worth life to the one
Whose opinion only matters.

I pray that you will love me enough to not have to
Play the victim always, nor I for that matter.
I pray you won’t have to raise your voice,
Just so your opinion matters for no one knows it all.
I pray you won’t abuse my nature so much that even
The lashes I’ve taken have no hold on your words.
I pray I won’t go to bed hurt because you failed to care

Oh dear future friend,
I pray you will show me my wrongdoings without condemning me,
Or proving again how much more righteous you are than I am.
I pray you won’t count the grains of rice I lend from you
To one day reclaim them all.

Oh dear future friend, I have a dream.
A dream where I will wake up everyday wanting
to try and be a better friend to you
Than I was the day before.
I pray that you will not only remember that you have a friend in me
Only when storms surround you, but that you will remember me too
While you dance in the summer rains lit with rainbows.
Dear future friend, I pray that we will write our own meaning
Of friendship, one that has no laws or subtle terms
And conditions applied.

But mostly oh dear friend
I pray that we will become friends
Not ‘because of’ but because
Just because

Dear future friend
I think I’m already in love with the thought of meeting you……..
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