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 Mar 5
Nishu Mathur
Some days are good
Or I think they really are
I soak up the sun
And reach for the stars
Some days are bad
I suppose they really are
The sun seems too hot
And the stars — too far.
 Feb 5
Seán Mac Falls
.
Before the wings and spring of words,

Were cradle-held in a cloud of sleep,

Soft footfalls to hear ourselves turning

And ever new dreams were lofty keys,


We could not see the frost branching

And winter never was, nor winds cold,

In our temple eyes, the sun crowning

Imbued visions, fine as woven gold,


Draped in silks so rare, spun spinning,

To hear the birds sing in ears blossom,

For the very first time, true beginnings

And the flower's colour never forgotten,


All is mourning now— song, sings singer,

To morn, to wake, dream, dreams dreamer.
.
 Dec 2021
Elaenor Aisling
His eyes were headlights at midnight
The unexpected dawning of a new world
Snatched away as suddenly as it came
Leaving in its wake,
The blinding stare of blue-black patches
Staining the asphalt like spilled paint.
Oh, my dear,
You flew, too fast, too high,
the reckless wantonness of youth
grasping through your wings,
The way her hands once ran through your hair,
what do you have left
But the drag of gravity,
The silver blade of the scream
Just before
The fall.
 Nov 2021
Ceyhun Mahi
Across the meadows of this autumn-air,
I see a ditch, a mirror of the sky,
The sun's setting, ending it with a flare
Of purple shades, an inspiring dye.
The breath of twilight is reviving me,
After striking my neck with a soft blow.
In everlasting beauty I feel free,
Losing myself in this natural glow.
Let there be friends – friends possessing a heart
Capable of perceiving all this lightness,
Who are together when you are apart,
While getting cleansed by all this sacred brightness.
    The people of the heart will recognize
    Upon Truth's land where truth and beauty lies.
 Sep 2021
Tryst
A darkness crept into my waking crypt,
Its tendrils coiled to grip my tortured throat,
Till retching, retching, gurgled on a rote,
Prostrate, held in its clutches, tightly gripped —
No eye perceived this devil as it slipped
From day to blackened day inside to gloat;
An instrument was I to sound its note,
A plaything used, discarded, broken, stripped —
The world became a window; The outdoors
Turned alien; The beast remained inside,
Content to keep the prison of my mind —
From time to time I dared unto the stores,
        But ever on returning I would find
        The nightmare waiting where we both reside.
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