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 Dec 2017
Uma natarajan
Dark appears all black
And is ever dark
Bury all the secrets in its chest
Conceals best
Light hardly knows night's secrets
And appears perfect
Both quarrel often
And there is a syphen
Light helps dark by giving light
Night makes light to relax and sleep tight
 Dec 2017
Colm
I am not a great man
By any means
But I am
One of the many
Known as Me
A simple complexity
Far from deity
A human
Being
Me
Observation - My publish poems option keep erroring for some reason - So I'm working out of my drafts - Tell Elliot please. (:
 Dec 2017
Colm
I’ll be on the mountain top* with the stars around my ears. My God to lift my life filled bones, higher than every tree and stone atop the slowly turning earth.  The embodiment of bird and sky, with word filled wings to bend the wind and to cut the currents of this life.  Like the westerlies, the blueish skies and the seas my father painted in my eyes.  

And you will be in the valley below* with the same... foolish... guy.

Pity this,

But not you Miss Fish.

Pity me for the try.
For the truth he shows, I praise his name. And beg his grace for my arrogance.

Also this - My publish poems option is erroring - So I'm working out of my drafts - Tell Elliot please. (:
 Dec 2017
S Olson
Overcome by this inverted lightning, i storm
into an abbreviated tomorrow, where i flood
into the dreamscape of today, eyes raining

down and inward. i sleep forth into the world
of waking, overcome by the temperament
of this mummified mouth. clawing the dragon
now hungry for my golden intimate currency

our love hides at the ends of my fingertips.
Fire nibbles the soles of my feet through
to my own heart, crumbling me clouded

where i go blind. i am sorry, marooned
on this island, where the corals reach down
from the sky. where stalactites rip the sails
of all incoming boats, the dragon survives

in an ephemeral artery, or in some capillary
where his teeth reign over whatever empire

smothering into, he becomes my face

to she that saves me. i have learned to love,
in that love has shown me it is beyond me;

where
the dragon follows my fingertips to your hair,
you walk beside me. where i am given i,
but awakened, beneath a golden sky

the dragon suckles everywhere

that i am saved. by the weapon of giving,

we carry an honest love
between our outspread palms

richer in treasure is
the continental freedom of having
washed ashore together.
 Dec 2017
Aditya Roy
When I look at the stars with you lying next to you
On the grass the aliens feel so far away
But when you and I turn around at the same time
And look into each other's eyes
We realize that aliens at least exist

They are on this planet itself
A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away
 Dec 2017
Colm
For every tree unborn
For every stone unturned
For every page in every book
In every bindery which will burn
Quietly in the fires of industry  

There is death
And there is time
There is life
And there is change

And there's also the light between the leaves which fades
Until it is out of sight
And consumed by this
The lack of brightness within night

For just as acorn stems to tree
So also you will see your growth
As tall as ever it was meant to be

So you need not worry about such things
Because the ink is dry
The life is lived
And the only constancy is change
He is change if you think about it.
 Nov 2017
Stíofáinín
A.
Give enough to keep the faith
Love only enough so you remember to hate, the dreamless sleep when your hand found mine
Two broken bodies burning through time;
In a shapless flail of virtue
A breath of innocents still lingers in the air
vacancy,
Simplicity
Nothingness inhabits this empty chest
The place where your heart used to rest
 Nov 2017
Cleo
He called me his harmonica.
A name I used to giggle and blush when uttered from his honey-colored lips.
I thought that meant I was his music.
He called me his harmonica.
And we seemed like a good pair in the beginning.
We completed one another.
He breathed his life into me and I performed ballads for him.
He called me his harmonica.
He had other instruments.
He had other instruments,
and he found that I no longer played the right notes.
He had learned all my songs and could play them by heart.
But to know something does not always mean to love.
He called me his harmonica.
I sat on the shelf collecting dust and my silver finish turned to rust.
I was a relic and he was interested in newer things.
He called me his harmonica.
I could not move if I wanted to.
I was inanimate without his air and I wish I learned to breath without him.
But his air was his alone and he left me suffocating
while he played the most beautiful music that I could never make.
He called me his harmonica.
Sometimes he’d pick me up and play me beside the campfire,
my music diluted with smoke and the remnants of an old forgotten song.
His friends would laugh and he would laugh and then he dropped me in the dirt.
I did not get the joke.
He called me his harmonica.
But he never picked me up.
I depended on him and he left me in the woods behind a trail of tire tracks.
He called me his harmonica.
Others picked me up, but I lost count of how many.
I played my songs and they had their laugh and they dropped me
back into my pillow of ashes.
I remind them of their past and they like me until they remember
the past can be painful and I am only a reminder of some unbearable memory
that cannot be uncovered.
They call me a harmonica.
I used to be a harmony.
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