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  Sep 11 Carlo C Gomez
Bekah Halle
Someone recently, generously, commented on my poetry:

“Your poems swing from playful snapshots of orange lipstick and coffee grounds to deeper, soul-level stuff like angels, dry bones, and widening circles. That mix is what makes your work feel alive.”

Yes, I write about all things living,
All things happening in my life,
All things I am pondering
All things that are rife —

But, there is one thing about which I don't write…

L O V E

I am not a love poet like the sublime @onlylovepoetry

Love is what my heart longs for the most — yet it's the one thing I can't fix.

I cannot write about the thing I know the least about,
But, I will croon out the longing and the fight!

I want to write a love poem, but perhaps I need to know love first to even qualify…
Thank you @WilliamAGibson
The Poetry of Waiting

Not the break,
but the breath before the break.
Not the silence,
but the listening it invites.

A caesura is not absence,
it is presence held still.
A hush with its hands open.
A comma that prays.

It lives in the gasp
between heartbeat and echo,
in the moment the dancer
hovers mid-turn,
in the glance that says
more than the line ever could.

It is the ache
that punctuation cannot name.
The pause
where grief gathers its syllables.
The space
where longing loops back to begin again.

We write it
with white space,
with hesitation,
with the courage
to not fill every line.

We live it
in hospital waiting rooms,
in the hush before “I love you,”
in the breath between diagnosis and reply.

Caesura –
the sacred seam
where poetry listens
to the body.
A caesura is a metrical pause or break in a verse where one phrase ends and another begins. It can occur in the middle of a line of poetry and is often marked by punctuation such as a comma or a dash. The term originates from the Latin word meaning "cutting" and serves to create rhythm and meaning in literary works.
  Sep 11 Carlo C Gomez
Aditya Roy
As I sit here, I wait for her
I make new promises
I am confident
She is my solace

The bird with feathers of red autumn
Her tune, marked by joy, is sweet
I hear her blithe symphony
In the park benches, in the hymn of leaves

While beauty is found
In this faded old memory
In the end
Change arrives like an old friend

Once wintry chill arrives
The park turns still
And she is not there
A breeze stirs the sleeping flowers
wind blows round our houses,
here.
wide walls hold  back, draughts
fan the fire. clean welcome air.

wind blows the sea into town, blows
the bodies. it is a very sad

affair.

small town, wind blows round.

the birds sang earlier this morning.
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