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  Jul 10 Traveler
Geof Spavins
I. Echoes
This threshold was never mine to choose; three years ago, a chair beside me stood empty, its hollow stare naming every night without words. Grief became my compass, yet its needle spun in circles, pointing only inward to the ache I could not name.

II. Frontier
Loss unfolded as a boundless battleground, where each remembered smile redrew the frontier. Memory is not a shrine but a ritual of becoming. Sorrow arrived in a crooked wheelbarrow, unloading rain-stained promises at dawn’s first light.

III. Transmigration
Then came his voice, soft question echoing my footsteps, revealing that love is trust reborn in another’s breath. “Not betrayal,” he told me, “but history retold with a new flame kindled from dying ashes, fire remembering itself.”

IV. Altars
Hand in hand, we ventured into nettled paths, learning humility at every *****. Morning rituals became our altars: rising coffee steam, laughter like incense, and the map of our smiles drawn in pencil, lines faint but full of hope. And I remembered doors I’ve opened only to find mirrors.

V. Thresholds
I ask only for sturdy shoes and a witness to every step, forward or back. Under a sky that still asks what blue might mean, a sky vast enough to hold my yesterdays and our tomorrows. And someone who understands that love, like grief, arrives on tiptoe, an imprint pressed in damp clay, proof that even after loss, we find our way.
  Jul 10 Traveler
Rain
Come,
and find me
underneath the willow tree.

For you, I have waited an eternity.

The stillness of the river,
sings for you still.
it ripples,
a bittersweet hum of your name.

Don’t you remember?

How we lay amidst tulips and lilies,
the amber of your eyes melting into green
olive skin, caressing rosy cheeks.

An autumn leaf,
forever stuck in my spring.

Don’t you remember?

How we hid in the tall grass,
surrounded by multicolored hues,
of red, white, and blue.

The grass hugged us close,
the air carried your coy whispers,
you confessed me your love,
but you left come November.

It was a hot midday of June,
when we shared our first kiss.
The sunlight scorched our skin,
as our lips met in sweet sin.

Don’t you remember?

The day you said goodbye,
I was by the edge of the creek,
and you on the other side.

The river carried away my tears,
as I watched your eyes barely blink.

You spoke of your pain,
of the tall grass that felt like vines,
trapping you to the soil of where we used to lay.

You told me of your disdain,
of the flowers I grew,
of how all you could see,
was your blood on their nails.

You told me all of this,
without even saying my name.

Do you remember it still?

My name that is.
Or did it die on your lips,
when you whispered goodbye?
  Jul 10 Traveler
LL
how long have I been
living a stranger to my
very own longing?

if I don't know what
I want, do I even know
who I really am?
2025/106
  Jul 10 Traveler
jeffrey conyers
Look at his Jewlery.
Look at his clothes.
Look at his cars.
A materialistic woman makes it easy to be known.

She is the type crying for the latest phone.
Instead of accepting what she has.

Look at his house.
Look at his shoes.
Look at his wealth.
A materialistic woman overlooks you in bad health.

But you decided she was worth your time.
Her only guilt lies in not seeking love.
Sometimes, you got to see the bigger picture.
  Jul 10 Traveler
Arii
The purpose of living has always been up for debate.
It’s always been humans making use of their lives
to ponder the reasons why we’re alive at all.
It’s always about knowing
the “why” and the “how,”
in the process failing to
see the “should” and the “will.”
It’s easy for us to agree that
the world is a canvas;
malleable and flexible,
blank and waiting—yet
we’re so desperate to find an answer to our reality
that we forget that
there’s more to existing than clawing at
infertile soil and dormant seeds, more than
painting our own rain and sunshine, more than sobbing
on our knees to marble and gold.
It’s ironic when you think about it,
there’s not much more to life
than going through the motions
and yet
there’s so much more to life
than just existing. They always say
that there’s a difference between living
and existing,
but when was the last time anyone actually stopped to realise it?
“We want to know what separates us, what do others respect about us? More importantly, what do we respect about ourselves?”
The quote this poem was somewhat inspired by
  Jul 10 Traveler
Kurt Philip Behm
Jezebel
the racehorse
with wolves
she was found
To run
in the daytime
by moonlight
she howled

Her stable
was cave like
her food
freshly killed
Smart jockeys
won’t ride her
no matter
how skilled

In May
was The Derby
with roses
askew
As trainers
and grooms
stood in fear
at high noon

She had
to be victor
or hell
would arrive
With Jezebel
eating
the winner
— alive

(Rhymes From The Nursery: July, 2025)
  Jul 10 Traveler
Todd Sommerville
Sometimes it feels,
the world spins just for me.

Sunrises and sets,
appearing magically.

Night skies flickering,
Milkyway drifting by,

It's enough to bring tears to my old eyes.
This majesty of being alone,
A bit of a miracle all on its own.

On this big blue marble eight billion call home.

Some no doubt are seeing exactly what I see,
and I wonder if they feel as special as me?

Do they stare into the sky and think to themselves,
it spins just for me?

My God I hope they do!!!
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