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Felix Sipido  Oct 2018
Eros
Felix Sipido Oct 2018
Eros,
Or the limerence I feel.
Is it a sin to adore you?
Eros,
Or the way you drive me crazy.
Is it a sin to worship you?

Through time and space,
Through love and pain,
Eros, you paved the way.
For I was lost in the maze of live,
Fleeing for the shadow of Fear.
Eros, you rescued me
And like a green Pan
Led me to your world.

A world of magic where love flourishes
And sorrows die.
A world where finally
I could be free
With you.
Eros.

Pothos.
People driven by lust want to have ******* with each other. But people driven by Eros want to have a much broader fusion. They want to share the same emotions, visit the same places, savour the same pleasures and replicate the same patterns in each other’s minds.
S Kim Nguyen Mar 2020
I have neglected you, dear one,
once so full and vivid, now
expatriate in the cheerless corner.
Look at you drooping, clinging
to the bloodless parts of you,
having long dwindled in
the thankless dark.
Here I come with a sharp pang,
lovely amputee.
How much happier you will be
to forget the bereft bits,
no longer of use in your unfolding.
Until memory pales,
will your phantom limbs
also rustle in the window’s breeze?
I have a lot of plants so I write a lot of plant poems.
Jillian Jesser  Oct 2018
Boo
Jillian Jesser Oct 2018
Boo
Sunday morning,
and the sun is peaking through the blinds
after a long sleepless night.

The monster that hung over my head all night
is sticking around for the light, it seems,
and it is scaring my Pothos'.

As they wilt,
I am changing the song that's playing,
It's too haunting, too obvious.

An old friend, this specter has become.
I laugh as he spills my coffee.
Brandon Conway  Jun 2018
Pothos
Brandon Conway Jun 2018
This heart ’twas plucked
                                 and tossed
A young boy stranded
                                 and lost
Laid in a fresh dug bed
Contemplating the blanket of dirt
Sacrificing this mortal coil
                                   to the worms
She found me there
  That coy mistress
                                    She whispered
Her voice the medicine to cleanse
Left as a reminder,
                       Stitched
Left to stories in thy head
A cycle that never ends
These gossamer sinews will not hold
To a finger that pokes
To a hand that grips
The flesh, how it rips
Left exposed
A dark nothingness
Lay thy hand on thine chest
Do you feel a beat?
It doesn’t exist
An empty field
Left for the crows
A seed was planted
How could it grow?
Water from thine eyes
And a hand to hold
In that field of brown
A little green
          Shows
Black Petal  Apr 2021
Pothos
Black Petal Apr 2021
Turning a new leaf
She stretches towards the sun
Displaying her truth
B  Mar 3
In my Room
B Mar 3
How lovely you look, so lit up.
I always keep my room
glowing like a subtle dream
sunset; orange, lavender, vibrant peach.
Now you're mine in the midnight hour
overcome by it, for a week.
Hoping you'll notice
the lonely pothos leaves
she's survived so much
we have both survived living with me.
I never liked this town
but you are so beloved
brought you here
now we're so above it.
Sipping on french champagne
(forgot to budget)
no worries, I'll be gone
this time next year
in some strange place with the curtain drawn
thinking of us here.
Jennifer Arndt Sep 2014
You are on my mind every moment of every day,
in the dead of night when Incubus rests on my chest,
in the waking hours when Pothos juggles my heart.
Who are you who haunts my soul shaking my very core
Dave Cortel Apr 27
imagine this
you awoke to the chirping of mayas,
to the crowing of your neighbor’s chickens,
to the sound of vehicles jolting by the holes

you felt the amber light of sun,
kissing your cheeks
while it exposed the spiders forming
cobwebs on the corners of your room

what a pleasant day, wasn’t it?
to see children by the street
playing patintero
while you watered the bougainvilleas
your mother loved better than you

then you remembered it was Saturday again
and a friend’s mother would come,
selling a basket of bananacues

you quickly grabbed a copy of Jessica Zafra
from your bookshelf with a collection
of novels that you bought
from pickpocketing your father

you marched your way
down to your living area
through the stairs filled
with potted pothos and jade plants
your mother treated like little kids

today must be beautiful. you thought.
so you checked your phone,
hoping for an invitation to a beach.
because why not?
with this sky reminiscent of turquoise,
your skin yearned for the sun

instead of an invitation,
a forwarded message
popped in your screen:
the fourth murderr of the month.

a man shot dead in broad daylight
along the diversion road
in a barrio next to yours.

the spot turned red
as the blood of the man streamed
like a draining river.
people circled the murdered
as if it was news to them.
reality was, it had become a norm

gunshot after gunshot.
you heard them like bad songs on a stereo
and how could you turn it off? stop it?
you had no idea

you see, waking up
in this beautiful island is a bliss.
you get to watch the cinematic view
of a horizon where the sky kisses the sea,
while you stand firm on the pristine shores,
listening to the gentle rustle of palm trees

yet it was only a facade

on this island, where shores shimmer
like jewelry and lush greenery
abounds in beauty,
lies a darker truth

while the murdered men sleep
in agony of injustice,
the culprits loiter in this island,
smoking, plotting the next fire
Ayesha Dec 2021
When leaf drips off the plants like dew
I know I have failed
Fog on poor gold settled thick
And knuckly branches grasp at my trousers
As they whisper by

Like a nightmare full of the dead

Sorry, I say
With that same wet-paper voice of mine
My footprints forgotten
On dust-dressed tiles
I cannot water you, dear Pothos
I need not
You have no limbs left to feed and
I know I have failed

Failed.

(And so mine a being
In an echoing of souls)

Failed?
Such pretty your tales
And freeing miseries


Sinking frantic
In a devour of spring
These the tentacles of my beautiful Aloe
These the stout roses
My,
My mirthful Jasmines
And grasses–– alive!

Failed?

Green at last!

You bathe in blues and
Craft tragedies from mud
Ruin your love
And despair a bed-slave pretty


Could I weep–– interrupt or scream
But I am wood and they are not

Failed?
Or would you rather?
For fall for you is an effortless flight
And funeral the only peace
Then mourn!


Could I shut the window and
Bar it against the raging city
But breaks— it breaks breaks breaks!

Mourn and mourn!
Till the daylight goes to sleep
And mourn with your wretched stars
For the night


You mock!
Oh, be voiceless, sessile
Thorns again!

And when in the morning
The moon is dead
And thinner our stems
We will say
With that same parched clinging of ours:
We are not dust yet
Are you?


––
18/12/2021

— The End —