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Kevin J Taylor Sep 2015
Shoulders rolling, rising
as icebergs from their glacier calf to sea—
as men, we fend the rimless wilds

With force, flung, withheld,
intelligence, ancestral songs of origin,
of prophesy, returning avatars

white seabirds
I guess you’re on your own with this poem. I can tell you where it begins. The scene is set in ancient times, and as near as I remember— a northern, coastal region following the spring equinox. A few of us had embarked upon a quest to find The One.
The One: Everyone knows what "The One" means for themselves, whether they love or hate or are indifferent. Of course, "The One" was not what we called such a Being but it serves to communicate. The name does not matter for the purpose of this poem. Most of Earth have heard it anyway, in one incarnation or another.
Calf: The offspring of various large mammals, such as cows (cattle), elephants and whales. Also, a piece of an iceberg or a glacier that breaks away or the action of this happening.
Fend: (figurative) To defend or attack with skill, make one’s way.
Avatar: The manifestation of a deity or released soul in ****** form.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry from common things.)
she is
gone forever
now, and yet i
find no sadness in
that, even if i try to,
for all she was was a
vapour a thought an idea
a concept a longing and maybe
just a projection of all i hoped for
her to be, for do any of us ever really,
really know much of each other, really, or
are we all just like those half-forgotten diagrams, the
parts peeking outside of the water not even barely beginning
to give any clue to the endless layers of complexity and messiness?

                                                     ­   ღ ღ ღ

                                                              ­                                                 yet...
                                                     ­                                                    you can
                                                             ­                                           trust me,
                                                             ­                                     wow, could
                                                                 ­                           she ever dance

                                                          ­                                     if i ever knew
                                                            ­                                anything about
                                                           ­                             her then, now, or,

                                                        ღ ღ ღ

ever even
once upon
a time, hers,
mine, whoever's,
none of that matters,
just that she almost floated
away into pirouettes over the
shining ice below, just like a vapour
a thought an idea a concept a longing
and even a projection, that's how she would
dance with me, or for me, or for herself all alone,
that is how she dances still somewhere, wherever,
for whomever, maybe just herself... yeah, none of that matters,
just that memory of her dancing, making me smile my truest smile.
memory of monique dancing on a beach under the stats a long time ago
Kitt Jan 2018
Blue sky, smooth sailing
Balancing neon lights of my mind's eye
(as glassy waves lap against my feet)
And the innocent sands of a white-gold beach fantasy,
Soft, warm, and as sure as the day.

Graying sky, persevering
Forging ahead through tempestuous waves
(growing faster in speed and height than a father's son)
I cling to the sample of that white sand,
Bottled up in a tiny plastic pip.

Blackened sky, capsizing
Plummeting into jet-black sea
(stained in the lights of my fallen Titan)
The pip shattering, without my notice
Icebergs visible on the horizon of her heart
My sand lost into the radiant black seas
Never to be seen again.
Shiny  Sep 2018
Shiny Sep 2018
I've got nobody to lean on.
People are on all the sides.
I am starting to feel like
I'm stranded on an island.
My world is breaking apart.
I am not in control of my ship.
I'm hauled towards icebergs.
This is not the life I'd wanted.
I've got a big smile on my face
Swallowing the raging storm in.
I hide these details of my silly life
Making it look perfect for all eyes.
I need to make a quick escape
Before I'm stranded here forever.
frankie  Oct 2018
frankie Oct 2018
i miss the way fingertips felt against my cold skin
the soft touch that only a lover can provide
the kind of touch that can melt icebergs and start wildfires
i miss the sweet sound of whispered words that could start a revolution and the goosebumps that came with each mumbled "i love you"
i miss the feeling of drifting off in a pair of arms that transformed an embrace into a home and made a safety net around me as if protection could only exist within this space between fingertips and other ligaments
i miss the feeling that you provided
i miss the feeling of being wanted
i miss loving something, someone
i feel as if i have lost all sense of direction
srijith kn Mar 2018
Save these pristine words
that spin from the mind
of this clairvoyant writer.
Cherish the candour
of his truthfulness
that is blazing inside.
His copious devotion
now falling here as
blue rays, a myriad
of his endless imagination.
This is only the beginning
of his roaring and firey
sea waves, that hides
many icebergs, to
sink and bury these
Titanic writers
once again, forever....
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