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Drifting back to the ocean
like it never even happened
unraveled dreams washed clean
crystalline renaissance bestowed    
by wind mountain spring waters
rising from the heart
of mother earth

A remnant light glows deeply
of one love's untamed wonders
an unfastened feather glides abandoned
rushing waters floating
alighting pilgrim blissfully sails on
stranded without wings
a fallen wild feather free as bird
wanting a place to be let free

Sun in the summer air
wind in buoyant feathered hair
softly dancing upon
wild river restless ripples
to feel the love of holding on
adrift asunder whence it touched on
destiny's far-reaching
journey yonder
holding onto flowing rivers
rolling towards the sea

The incoming tidal waters blossom
surge to greet wind river's gentle saunter
converging slackening passage
salt on feral feathered fragments
arousing currents babbling swirl
imbibed by the impassioned sea

Wild rivers' born intentions
a different kind of drifting passage
to kiss the distant horizon
where the sown sunlight settles
submerged in shoreless ocean waters
    to be free all at sea at last

someone you used to know  2017
Eleni Jul 2017
'Are you pleasing those Lions?'

She thinks to herself under Nelson's Column.

'I am no hero of the Nile, nor of Trafalgar. I am an empty vessel.'

City of Angels, yet full of devils. Will she find the exit from Oblivion, in those molten, vermillion revels?

'And will you climb that stairway to heaven? Is it true that what glitters is gold?'

That golden dust, which lies on her beside table, sedative for her sorrows.

'Oh he was a foul coxcomb. England expects every heart will follow its duty!'

She is followed, by those feral eyes;
Those on the underground, those in the streets

And those who she will wish
her eyes will never meet.
This short poem was partially inspired by one of my favourite songs from The Doors called 'Hyacinth House' whereby Jim Morrison expresses loneliness and the nature of being judged by others based on careers, personalities and relationships. I combined this with the strong presence of the lions in Trafalgar Square in London, which have a intimidating appearance and represent the strength of the British Empire. These eyes of judgement seem to pierce through the speaker in this poem who is being criticised by the personified statues for being unworthy of recognition.
water streams from between your eyes
puddles fill the cracked streets
my rage is pure like angel fire
a love which nothing can defile
she wets the world with her dampness
thunder cries out for warmth
her shivering shoulders bare witness
to the sun and what was lost
the windy day kept me inside
holding onto this fright
feelings pressed against my chest
i tremble with delight
youthful arrows
morning sparrows
stargazing at night
just because you can do it
doesn’t mean that its right
streets of cobblestones are being shown
the pavement is our throne
home against the cement
dilapidated boxcars
and temples of respect
remove your shoes before you enter
yurts and cabins made of clay
barely resurrect
sustainable ways are coming back
give thanks and respect
to ancestors who deserve our praise
for they never did neglect
their duties to the earthly mother
her love they sought to honor
children of the wilderness at home beneath her cover
canopies of trees
line feline forests with her love
Lewis Hyden  Jan 4
Lewis Hyden Jan 4
Gone eleven. Twelve, maybe.

I sip quietly on my straw,
Crinkling the plastic wrapper in
My coat pocket.
The late winter's night nips and bites
At my arms, and I bundle up
Against the cold.
More than an hour from home, and soon
The street-lamps would flicker off, and
Cloak me in night.

As I pass along the street, down
To the roadside, I take along
An alleyway.
Shadows wrapping their frigid arms
Around my shoulders, comforting
My troubled steps;
But then, as I turned the corner,
I was met with a wall of shade
And stopped quickly.

Among the shadows, something turns,
And we lock eyes in the darkness.
Ten long seconds.
Or, it felt to me, ten long years.
I was locked in the gaze of a
Stalking creature.
Not a cat. Couldn't be a fox.
Strangely human, and yet still like
A beast - feral.

Terror hits me like a bullet.
I spin around and make quick tracks,
Sprinting away
Back down to the roadside, clapping
My shoes against the pavement, tears
Welling, spilling
Down my face by the time I was
Finally home. Lights on. Door locked.
Respite - silence.

I saw him - the Feral Man - in
My dreams. Couldn't run away there.
Cold and gentle,
He ate chunks of me under the
Pale street-lights. Squirming under the
Oppressive sheets,
I writhed free of my own nightmare,
Woke up crying, screaming - streaming.
Hot blood run cold.

The night I realised we are all
Still feral, more so than our pests,
Objects of lust.
I turned to wash the tears from my
Face, and caught a glimpse of the cold
Window: outside.
Two cold, lifeless eyes, burning bright.
Looking right at me. Feral eyes.
The smell of tears.

Still awake.
Gone five. Six, maybe.
Tarmac boils under
The freezing moon.
Serena M  Jun 2018
Serena M Jun 2018
She is frost-bitten newborn kitten
Left out in the cold
Mother rescued, but euthanized
‘Cause she was just “a little too old”
These violent mishappenings occur

Will she be found, drowned, sold?
Will we let her die out if the cold?
She is the swift foxes prey
Dear God, please let us pray

Lost kitten, be warm tonight
Lost kitten, sense the danger
and know when to take flight

She has become feral and the man does not understand her
Will she ever know how it feels to purr?

Counting down, 9 lives
8, 7, 6
A narrow escape on the highway
A miracle occurs in the cold light of day

Coaxed tenderly by a gentle soul
Now she lives in the warm barn and sleeps with the foal
Her name is Cleo

I believe in gentle souls
They help me sleep at night
I cannot save this world alone
I am too weak to fight

I am Cleo
But God, please tell me
When I look into the headlights
Will it save me
or will it end me?

And will there ever be a warm place waiting for me?

“Cradle me in your arms
I won’t bite you if I know I am safe from harm.”

Someday, I will adopt Cleo’s one-eyed brother
I’ll stroke him softly as he purrs to sleep,
I will be his mother
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