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 Mar 2017
Traveler
I am the circle
From beginning to end
I am the hearth fire
Burning within
There is no taming
The Poetical Mind
I am the words
You're hoping to find


Forces of nature
Connect you to I
I am the shadow
You dare to define

I am the magic
You felt in your youth
I am the poem
You left on the moon

Come home to me
Fall on my breast
I am the words
That you haven't said

So please don't hesitate
Your opus awaits
I am the door
That opens to fate
...
Traveler Tim
 Mar 2017
bones
When this skin
was young and ironed,
well it fit,
like new things do;

that was then
but now I find
the cracks within
are showing through.
Fertile earth’s seductive sorcery
Like ephemeral effulgence’s effluent effusion
Can lead you to believe that it’s not a travesty
Like life’s visceral intuitive eternal is not lost in subtle evasive confusion

Life’s virile translucence reflects this glow
Like an aorist ensemble of interludes transposition
Can lead you to believe that you’re in the know
Like omnipresence presages omniscience’s ubiquity is existential exigency’s peroration’s exposition

Corporeally preternatural's metaphysical mystique
Like a mirador bartizan tableau panorama
Can inspire us to rise above its critique
Like spatiotemporal’s telemetry incarnate is creation’s vivid intrepid cyclorama

Spectral verve’s liaison’s consortium
Like eclectic synectic’s conclave’s fatidic
Can leave you lost in germane compendium
Like terminus thrall’s apriori inclination is transcendental accession’s endemic mnemonic

Monad’s transitional majestic splendor
Like residual harmonic vibration’s resilience
Can autonomously evoke and vicariously render
Like rubato’s actuator’s prospectus revealed is orchestration rendition’s intriguing brilliance

Eidetic preterit’s aesthetic amendments
Like protractive analyses’ dimensional delineations
Can lead to cogent salacious enticements
Like phantasmagoria’s fantasia fantastication’s magniloquence is sultry solace’s ostentatious ideation
I wrote this poem at the request of my best friends wife when he was dying of a brain tumor.  I like to think it helped.
 Mar 2017
beth fwoah dream
i dream of the sea,
whispering like a wild cloud,
stretching the blue air.
 Mar 2017
Eudora
It is absolutely breath-taking..

how each of his exquisite poems sing..
a distinctive melody,
*how his mind works like magic...

sculpting the most incredible forms no one could.
Brilliance just shines through his woven pieces...
no words could really define how awe-inspiring his work is.
His meticulous sublime words...
uniquely create ingenious and flawless stanzas,

making each and every one of his craft...
out of this universe.


That is truly..
*
how gifted he is.
 Mar 2017
Keith Wilson
I am a pen
Safe in a warm hand
I can write poetry short stories
Even novels
And I am always put away safely
Ready for the next time.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2017.
Inanimate object poem...... I like to write these
 Mar 2017
martin
***
Nothing you write
is yours alone
every word
borrowed
on loan
only from you
comes some wit
to decide the order
in which they are writ
 Mar 2017
Chris
cut up a pineapple
at 5 am
cause what else
do you do at that time
decided to save the top
and try to plant it
but i know it won't
survive
i plucked away
the lower leaves,
will plant and
take care of it,
but i know it
won't grow
it may sprout
some shallow roots
and give false hope
for a bit,
but will eventually die
like everything else
it would grow
beautifully in a
better climate

and one day
it will
I don't know how much I love you
My fall has no rain
Never had
19 years old girls,they don't understand
Maybe I was jealous of God
when I saw the sun,yellow
I had forgotten my stories
Grandpa 's stick dose not turned to butterfly
My death is not beautiful
It would not be beautiful
A cloudy house maybe
With singing clouds
I see your shining eyes
We had forgotten the songs
I give you my earrings
I will miss Nastaran
She's not remembering her mom's embrace
Her dress,white
-I just see this -
Maybe I was jealous of God
That she was so beautiful
I don't understand my feelings about you
Your words has put Jasmine to sleep
Their eyes turned black
-no Jasmine-


You may not believe
You are the first person reading my poems in a language I don't know.
Sometimes being thankful loses its meaning
I never knew how to rime...
I've always seen you as the poet I love with no permission .
I don't know how much I love you
Don't look at the sky...
Please don't look at the sky


من نمی دانم چه قدر شما را دوست دارم
پاییز من باران ندارد
...هیچوقت هم نداشت
دختران نوزده ساله نمی فهمند
شاید حسادت من به خدا بود
وقتی خورشید را زرد می دیدم
قصه هایم یادم نبود
عصای پدربزرگ پروانه نمی سازد
مرگ من زیبا نیست
زیبا نخواهد ماند
شاید خانه ای ابری باشد
ابرهایش آواز خواندند
من درخشش چشمان شما را می بینم
ترانه ها یادمان نبود
و من گوشواره هایم را
به شما می سپارم
دلم برای نسترن تنگ می شود
آغوش مادرش یادش نمی ماند
پیراهنش سفید است
- فقط همین را می بینم -
شاید از حسادت من به خدا بود
که او آنقدر زیباست
احساسم را به شما نمی فهمم
کلام شما
یاسمن ها را خوابانده است
چشمانشان سیاه شد
- یاسمن نبود -


شاید باور نکنید
شما اولین کسی هستید که شعرهای من را می خوانید
به زبانی که نمی فهمم
گاهی اوقات تشکر معنایش را از دست می دهد
...من هیچوقت بلد نبوده ام شعر بگویم
همیشه شاعری را که خیلی دوستش داشتم
بی هیچ اجازه ای در شما می دیدم
من نمی دانم چه قدر شما را دوست دارم
به آسمان نگاه نکن
...خواهش می کنم به آسمان نگاه نکن
I wrote this poem for Jawahar Gupta about a year ago,,, :-)
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