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 Oct 2016
Nishu Mathur
Sweet sounds of waves softly lap
On flecks of sun dipped copper sands
With gentleness the water swirls
In a kiss of frothy love on land

Splash of oars on a cobalt sea
While songs of sailors wane and fade
Aboard the ships of destiny
A cruise on an ocean's serenade

The sea gull swoops, oh hear the cries
Flap of wings fluttering the dock
Ferries roll on routes of spice
Midst the clap of waves on rocks

Crests of water heave and ebb
Touched by scales of coral scents
Whispers born in the wind
Sing of pirates, silk legends

In murmurs 'twixt rippling waves
Dreams float 'neath a setting sun
Whisked like boats in a river's flow
That sail across to meet oceans

Love notes of romance in the waters
Rhythm at feet, soaking wet
Dancing waves stir the heart
In a melody from the ocean's breath

In cadence pleasant when tis dark
On a night when moon and stars are laid
When the sky shines with silver light  
The breeze plays music of mermaids  

Though now no storm, 'tis serene
Soon the winds will ravage, rave
On this quilt of aquamarine
In a cacophony of thunderous rage

But for now, 'tis the conch, the shell
That sings those songs of the sea
I close my eyes and drift away
Swept by its magic and mysteries
 Oct 2016
traces of being
Wandering silently
though the wilderness woods,
far and away from the potholes
of well beaten pathways
The soft breeze slowly moves
the shadows cast in the moonlit night,
past the thorny bramble vines of time.
Wildlife paths illuminated by starlight
adorn the alluring wooded trail
Secluded pathways foraged by natural instinct,
ancestral prudence and intuition's guide

Each shadow drawn willingly
into a deeper enlightening journey
As if synchronicity united hearts
learning to speak minds
The depths of undaunting transparency
rendezvous with awakening breath
Looking back .., softly questioning
life withdrawn in discontent;
exhaling an unashamed freedom without regret
Lost in perpetual motion, found in heart
Separate souls illuminated by the moon
stood alone yearning for the touch
of healing light

Ardor of hope shines an inward light
as moonlight restlessly slumbers,
passion blushes in radiant colour
The night has a thousand coquettish eyes
shining on practical mysticism
The laughing owls of midnight
Echo allusions of crystal clear reverie
Stirred by swirling tempest breeze
showering down from high endeavors
where treetops  pierce the constellations
Wisps of the twilight sky unfurl stardust dewdrops
drunk by earth’s thirsting sod
Nocturnal Cricket’s rhythmus acoustical wings
very quietly chirping a bashful courting song

Laughter rings out,
blissfully released,
like the joy of a shameless child
Nature sways with a gentle motion
Her leafy arms groan and moan the silent toil
as she holds up the weight of the celestial unfoldment
Moonlight moves across the dappled shadows
budding love born beneath her branches.

Two shadows embrace as one
emerging rapturously
from the tantalizing wilderness oasis
Reborn as naked as the free
mesmerized by the enchanting forest's spell...
stepping in a bit deeper for an adult swim
under the enchanting allure of a full,
blossoming, hunter moon...
 Oct 2016
Sean Hunt
Me
I think this body that I see
Is me
But I know
That my big toe
Is not ‘Me’
And I know
My right knee
Is not the ‘Me’
That I see
And I know
My nose
Is not the ‘Me’
That I see
All the little bits of ‘Me’
Are not ‘Me’

How can this be?


                Sean Hunt        Sept 2016
 Oct 2016
SE Reimer
~

when joy seems lost, when peace is gone;
to earth falls flat pleas skyward cast;
when those thought once to be a friend,
have all gone on, seems none are left;
when ears that heard, yet now are deaf,
when dreams lay torn, and hope bereft.

do not despair, nor call for end,
beyond these mists i am your friend;
your voice, a cry on wing and clear,
not all have left, know i am near;
i am hope disguised as gentle hands,
that reach to sooth the soul in angst.

i am love cloaked as eyes that seek,
the wounded heart that silent weeps;
i am your brother, i your kin,
though not by blood, nor race, nor skin,
yet beats within this breast as yours,
a heart breathed life at heaven's door.

your breath, my own, my will i share,
till yours can breathe, your burdens bear;
my oath, my pledge, your comfort be,
my blood transfused, beats still in thee;
i lend my hope to be your warmth,
i offer arms to hold you close.

you need not face another day,
a lifeless soul who walks away,
a faceless one who’s lost their voice,
but ’til your own has been restored,
to you the lyrics, lines belong,
'til you remember, i’ll sing your song.

~

*post script.

approximately 96 hopeless souls reach the end each day, and pull the trigger on whatever their choice of escape they had planned it to be (that’s one every fifteen minutes).  the number is even larger if we include those who attempt and fail.  if there are only six degrees of separation, imagine how many in your circle this means are contemplating, and are in and out of some level of consideration of making this day their last.  remember, a song is amazingly powerful.  it does not take a fireman to talk someone down off a ledge or a policeman to coax someone into laying down the gun, it only takes someone who is willing to listen, long before the gun and the ledge; someone willing to smile and be hope and notes for a soul who has lost their song... to remind them of the song they have forgotten; their song... hope’s song!
Wild native branches - A jungle-green canopy sheltering this ever-flowing stream that runs rapidly,
most steadily, to and fro my heart.

Ancient autumn leaves weaved into an intricate, detailed, complex, rustic carpet, concealing paths and footprints leading in and out of my mind.

Forty two springs worth of magnificent arrays of wildflowers decorate each serene scene bordering this stream - each cluster a chapter of my life.

These scattered wild arrangements, with their heavenly scent, delight my senses - they are most pleasing to my mind's eye.

There's gold dust, nuggets, and precious gemstones, hidden in the gravel, they're also buried in the bedrock of this stream, and in the river that it feeds.
This stream is a constant source, feeding my hungry heart and mind.

The river that is fed by this stream
  is my soul - this ever-flowing stream is a corridor which runs to and fro my heart; it carries the oxygen in my blood, through my veins.

Whilst manoeuvering around the stepping-stones that are laid-out sporadically, most beautifully, but imperfectly, across this stream,
THEY, double cross me;
A highway, used to get to where THEY are going, time and time again.

~By Lady R.F ©2016
 Oct 2016
Denel Kessler
from the eye wall
thoughts of imminent rain
banked clouds assemble
black and ominous
with saturated breath
will not be denied
their time to rage
against the numbness
of each little death

barometers fall
coastal fortification
futile sandbagging
forlorn gestures
against the flood
a tropical depression
jet-streaming blue
wild moon tide
to desolate shore

precipitation
gray accomplice
faithful torrent
stratified walls erode
sodden wood, bone
unbalanced homes
collapse gracelessly
no match for gravity
or the merciless sea
To give my musings wings,
To set my poetry free,
Is more than enough for me.

To give a little honest piece of me
to thee, is the only way that I can truly be, the me, that I was born to be.

Through the written word,
I give my soul a voice,
I have to, I really have no choice,

My inner-light shines constantly,
daily, nightly, and uncontrollably.

My visions, in alphabetical form,
reside deep inside my mind,
this is where they are born,

They yearn for their release,
my soul is now free
to continue to breed
with my mind - together,
poems they conceive.
Found hidden,
or in plain-sight,
in my poetry,
is what I truly believe!

Soul expression is a must,
If I were held back
I would deteriorate - my soul
would simply combust;
in this, you can trust!

By Lady R.F ©@016
 Oct 2016
betterdays
i stand in the shallows
of my memory
casting a spiderweb line
back into
the earlier years,
the murky depth
of the old brain pond
looking for that
elusive memory
of when......when.......when


life was simple,
somehow, more complete
with days of sunshine
and butterfly grace
that flew on by,

when grass smelt greener
skies were blue and
there was always much to do

the future was out there, past the horizon
a thing that was too far away to ponder on

they were the days,
the beautiful days
I know I  dream of.

to recapture my youth.....

but all I can now do,
is cast about in memories
and hope to find myself
an elusive rainbow trout....
The turning leaves and I are moved by
invisible , relentless forces
Setting the tone of our day without our
choice
The compassionate musician of reason unable
to locate and perform the notes necessary to complete
my morning song , my needed diddy of love , my
awareness of right from wrong* ..
Copyright October 25 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
 Oct 2016
Olivia Kent
Through the Truffle Umptty trees, cute truffleumps run free.
The smallest local children come along to see, if they can glimpse the truffleumps , go swinging through the truffle trees.
The Truffleumps eat donuts.
They love them so, you see.
The man in the bakery shop.
He makes quite a few.
Some are pink and others blue.
Sometimes, he does green ones.
Other times they're red.
He serves them up with ice cream that is really, really cold.
The baker gets his bassoon out, to tell the truffleumps.
Their donut tea is done.
He hangs them on the Truffleumpty trees.
He doesn't hang them high.
As everybody knows, that truffleumps can't fly.
It's great to capture fresh donuts, as soon as they've been hung.
They're always tasty tea time treats.
Before they go to bed
Everyday at five o clock.
The Trufflelumps get down from their trees.
Waiting for the donuts, which soon will be their tea
They carry wicker baskets, to take their tea away.
Their trufflemummies watch them, as they go collect their tea.
As all good mummies know, it's not safe climbing trees, even if they're bouncing through the branches of their favourite wood.
Happily hunting donuts in the Truffle Umptty trees is really very good.
(c)LIVVI
 Oct 2016
Deborah Downes
Down the day
and down my mood
Time passed away
but not to good
I walked
and wandered
No where to go
I sought
and searched
No one to know
When for
No reason
a child smiled at me
Her face alight
with some hidden glee
That’s all it took
to cease my moping
Sweet smile,
Precious look,
Restored my hoping!
 Oct 2016
Nishu Mathur
I woke up to a sky of grey
a hiding sun, a rainy day
clouds of hail - stormy what nots
rotund, dang and heavy drops

I said to them, be my poem.

Then the clouds of storm cleared
the golden orb appeared
a rainbow spilled color on the grass
the blossoms sang sweetly - unasked

I said to them, be my poem

To the poor man on the street
and the rag picker with bare feet
the cobbler and the fruit seller
the palmist and the fortune teller

I said to them, be my poem

To a new born and then flesh on a pyre
the wind that whisks ashes of fire
to the fragrance of spring and the frost of cold
the stench of garbage and the scent of rose

I said to them, be my poem

I turned to love, anger and defeat
laughed with humour and cried with grief
traced the many fleeting expressions on a face
fluid movements and those without grace

I said to them, stay and be my poem

Then I paused, I looked within -inside
into my heart and in my mind
so I could meet myself and know
see and hear, feel and grow

So that one day, I too may become a poem
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