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 Feb 2019 Ceida Uilyc
MicMag
el gato perezoso
descansa allí
tomando las cervezas
que yo no bebí

abajo se ve
un rio furioso
voy a bañarme
Seguidilla form (from Spain, así que decidí escribirlo en español)
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seguidilla_(poetry)

Inspired by my wandering thoughts at a riverside bar/restaurant named The Lazy Cat
 Feb 2019 Ceida Uilyc
MicMag
Midst the mountains, sitting so high
Gazing down at a turquoise sea
Nature recites love songs to me
As I release contented sighs
Crickets chirp, sparrows sing, my spirits rise
This is a world to be relished and prized
Midst the mountains

Imagine Earth in perfect harmony
Forgetting war, strife, victim's tortured cries
Escaping all life's pain and lies
Resting here where my heart is free
Midst the mountains
Trying out more poetic forms. This one is a Rondine.
https://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/rondine-poetic-form

...
Well on closer review, I didn't actually follow the form correctly. But I still like this one so I'll just leave it as is.
 Feb 2019 Ceida Uilyc
MicMag
Cien poemas
     In less than a year
Muchas palabras
     Flowing line after line
Looking back now
     Digo con confianza
La poesía
     Is the best "waste of time"
This is my 100th published poem on HP.

It's been a fantastic ride sharing in this poetry community, reading brilliant works of art, sparking new ideas, and seeing the power in our words.

Poetry and other forms of art are sometimes derided as a "waste of time." I already disagreed with that sentiment but this past half year or so has shown me again the real value in both reading and writing poetry. So thank you, fellow poets, for making this a great artistic community truly worth our time!
Mil gracias and here's to hundreds more!
 Feb 2019 Ceida Uilyc
Jamie King
Abandoned murals across the boarder, the walls still painted by war. The scrap yard a pile of torn limbs, needles embedded in phalanges divorcing finger from nail the soil still grieves .

Infants don't see the sun.
Autumn leaves with fleeting lives.
a thousands hills with wooden crosses rooted in, What is beneath?

An old man sighs before the last breath departs
Chasing a wind of memories escaping dark pasts. Hands mirror fire remnants, scatter across the vast lands with red tears immersing the white grass .
I was thinking about cities we hear about everyday,  decimated and left for vultures. So I got me digital pen and paper and portrayed.
 Feb 2019 Ceida Uilyc
Philipp K J
Still not ready to believe
Your satellites have crossed
The boundaries of solar stadium
Far six

Still, not steady to relieve
Your delivery full tossed
Billions of fans on the medium
Tar fix.

Still muddy  to perceive
Your intellect is twisted
Bullions manning  on the podium
Fornix
 Feb 2019 Ceida Uilyc
Philipp K J
Clean of blots
and residue clots
Love overflows the moats.
Ripples weft dimple nets
Emit smiling drifts
Doling out thrills
This flowing rarity
Flows and flows
Rolling infinity
Falls on solid rocks
And flings out and flocks
On spontaneous little wings
flights of life butterflies.
 Feb 2019 Ceida Uilyc
Philipp K J
The western sky sweeps
Darkness to back yards
The dawning east keeps
Designing with hues
Mornings greeting cards.
Nice to see the crews
Active in writing
Fresh magic haikus
Deep in creating
Textures and sinews
With unique mixing
Of color and lures
Interspersed musings
On honeycomb verse
Soft snowflake rhymings
Draught on fragrant wings
Beams of rainbow waves
Fuse sweetness and light
Deeds of Devine Inc
Wrought in suntan ink
Duty with delight
In morning twilight
the basement
is dirt

walls and floor

the washer is a
a white tub and
a hand-cranked
ringer

the dryer is
a backyard
vinyl line and
a summer breeze

I am five
maybe six

and I like
the outside

playing toy
soldiers in
the dirt

throwing sticks
to attract bats

catching and
releasing fire
flies

and playing
hide and seek

until it is
so dark
I can’t
see

and they
can’t or
don’t want

to find me
come to terms.  what does it mean?  our words meet each other.  in the middle.  they consummate.  and change each other.  and maybe one day.  we finish.  each other.

we reach.   the momentary ******.  but the river is always.  changing.  as we are always.  changing.   we cannot step.  into the same river.  twice.  we cannot meet the same person. twice.  
we are never really the same.

each day.  we must.  come to terms.  with each other.
and so I go to work
creating my
masterpiece

bending bones
like wire
cutting skin
like paper
paint is
spraying
everywhere
mixing with
sweat and tears
changing colors
as it splatters
all over the canvas
and before long

it is
so many
nights
am I having
a dream
a dream
of white
calling me

I look up
from my work
my life

a masterpiece
fulfilled

and I see that
I have finally
created
“nothing”
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