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 Apr 1
Coleen Mzarriz
“Flightless bird, American mouth..." She sang as she sways her curvy body in the middle of an empty room. I saw how she smiles at the thought of a man dancing along with her, I wish that was me.

The long hallways were as easy to stroll by—as I love feeling the paintings nailed on the wall, I once discerned the lovely voice I always want in my system. She was singing her favorite song again; "I was a quick wet boy diving too deep for coins..." I remember how it became my lullaby every time I could not fall asleep and I lay there, reminiscing every words, every note she is hitting, I remember how I can compare her to a painting. Where an art is a compliment by being in its unique state and at the same time, the bitterness of being complicated.

She was a painting, I could never outgrow of. She was a flightless bird, I am a side character who longs for her, who gazes at her swaying her curvy body back and forth—her lips tainted like grey clouds forming another rain. Her skin as rough as my palm sketching another art—her feet closer than the ground, neighboring with the coldness of the white marble tiles; I stood there longing for her. I stood there, raised my hand and waved through her direction.

Even when she could not see, she was my prized possession I will ne'er have.

She stopped and peaked at the door where I no longer stand and I breathed a sigh of relief—this time, it will never hurt to leave. I smiled, she will never know.

Her sweet dance in the empty room is what ruled in my head, she will never be gone out of my head.

...and now, I bleed for being lost without her. My flightless bird.
This is heavily inspired by the most legendary song there ever was, for me. 'Flightless bird, American mouth' by Iron & Wine
 Mar 21
Carlo C Gomez
One night
I was a werewolf,
but that got out of hand.
One night
you were a peach,
but I preferred fresh
over canned.

The blood scent was strong
and on your collar,
or was it spaghetti sauce?
We meandered in
the lost city of angels,
but those women
in the maternity ward
were better shape-shifters.

Couldn't see if the moon
was full against
the polluted skyline,
(but I bet it wasn't).

Then somewhere
down the tracks,
the howler (that's you),
half a dream away
on some deserted block,
and flat on your back
like a pancake,
with the nightmares
stacking up,
and dripping
with strawberry syrup.

Or was it blood?
(I bet it wasn't).
The war was won the men came home
   broke but ready to fill the cradles
   and cry on the shoulders that matter
   and smell of the remembered perfume.
   They spent the venom into wombs to
   bring corpses back from ugly death.
 Mar 14
Carlo C Gomez
The rosy-fingered dawn
  bleeds excitation
and atmospheric trails
  for seeking out tomorrow

Are these stars like rain?

  Emitting imagination,
  refracting suggestion?

Perhaps a new art form swimming
about as cloudbursts?

In undulating waves
  war and peace
are colliding out from
  the center of the sun

Could they be
messengers from heaven?

  A signal from God?

Perhaps at magnetic midnight,
four horsemen shall ride?
 Mar 10
Hannah Christina
Snowflakes hum inside my head,
bumping to and fro.
Stinging sky meets soggy ground and nothing seems to stick.

Each flake is different, so I'm told--
each unknowable and cold, they vanish when you try to grasp them--
fleeting, fragile wisps.

I've spun no story strong enough
to stake my ship upon.
My tears dry up before they're spilled for little lasts for long.

Blankets white I find here not--
that, nor green-clad earth--
only harried solitude inside these biting mists.

Perhaps my blust'ring mind is not
leading me to tread my sought-for courses; I fear I've forgot them
yearning for the drifts.

But elsewhere 'neath the firmament, there are other skies.
There are other thoughts in other hearts apart from mine.

From over where the snow falls
and beneath the bedrock's roots
flames unflinching flicker still through height and depth and width.
Some of my poems come together in a few quiet minutes or an afternoon-- this one's been in the works for over a month and I'm still mulling it over.  I first conceived it when I was driving to a college visit and it started flurrying.

I'd like to hear some criticism regarding the sound.  It's got a specific meter and lots of assonance and consonance, with a few perfect rhymes.  I really liked developing the sounds, but I think it might be a little too sing-song in certain parts, especially since all of the lines are iambic.  I intentionally broke patterns in a few places to make it a little bit disorienting and frustrating while still pleasant, and I'm not sure if I've got the effect quite right.  How would you describe the sounds?  Did you notice them working with with or the themes?  Is it happy, playful, frustrating, satisfying?  (Did anyone pick up on "windy" sounds with all the effs and esses? I was quite proud of that)

Many thanks :-D
 Mar 10
Hooria Iftikhar
There he is,
In the dark shadows of regret
Those surrounded his decayed mind
Causing himself to neglect.
There's nothing he can do now.
Time cannot run backwards
The silence of the night haunts him
His face is sheltered in his hands,
But he can't escape, can't hide
From my image.
It will live in his eyes
He'll cry, shout, mound
But the wounds of heart can't heal
I'll give him deeper wounds
Bleeding wounds in his heart,
In his mind,
I'll scratch his spirit with my nails
He'll continue to live
With the death,
Like a Bleeding Sculpture
I had a wish to mould!
An old poem I wrote years ago!
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