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SelinaSharday Apr 30
Eve's a lovable sensitive thang.
Opting to pass usual good morning as some sang.
Skipping morning bits.. rushing into the afternoon.
She welcomed the mid day
Knowing  with it a smile was on the way.
She allowed early evening to greet letting things bloom.
Working away late evening as sleepy eyes rang.
Conversations a quick cute head nodding overhang.
Good nights are like lullabies of verbal hugs.
Wasted evenings are snatching from beneath feet taken for granted rugs.
All to start another night in shimmering thoughtful plights.
Tugging away ribbons in flights.
Meaningful minds quietly dreamin.
As Other are secretly scheming.
Attentions paid to faded good morning hello's.
With hollow tones from yesterdays grading zero's.
Wash rinse and repeating..
Behaviors doomed to be failing.
Creativity craves new feelings.
Rare moments  seems to be fleeting.
Evenings are acceptable, noons welcoming,
as are the rushing of mornings.
selinasharday rosePoet s.a.m 2019-5-1
creatively expressing and carefully attending to evenings
Snowflakes scraped underneath fingernail tips
When the charcoal was pressed harder.
As often as the cheetah runs with the crocodiles by the nile
They do not look for each other.

As often as the bees sing
Only once could they muster poison and sting
With a clockwork, shelter and carpentry of honey.
The fruitness of a living body.

The sound that gets lost in the woods
Gets lost and carried
Flying through the whispers between the branches and twigs.
All the creatures are all but lost
Yet the striking fur
Hunters into firing hot shells across
and the falcon fell.

A shouting cull
The silence that meant that wildly blooms have been collected.
A bouquet was calling the passing hours
Wrapped in the scraped white spirit of the wooden towers.
© Teri Darlene Basallote Yeo
Emily Jane Feb 2017
Breathing in the hot drowsy wind
that then sits, stagnant, in the lungs
of the weary figure (mine own)
and exhaling long, the lazy summer air
as she waited (I sat for hours you know)
for the afternoon to decay
even though time itself seemed to be drugged
slumbering in the African heat.
r m b Oct 2015
I fell in love with the mornings
and waking up to breakfasts in bed
drinking coffee only you would know how to make

I fell in love with noon
and the lunches we had together
talking about the latest news over takeout

I fell in love with the afternoons
and the times we spent reading on the couch
eating every word interrupted by coffee stains

I fell in love with the nights
and our stupid little adventures
driving aimlessly and getting lost on the highway

I fell in love with the midnights
and talking to you about anything and everything
watching you stare at my mouth listening to every word

I fell in love with the moments
and everything in between the beginning and the end
wishing I could still spend them with you

I fell in love with the sound of your voice
and the feel of your existence
but I am not in love with you.
influenced by Aless D.
Dreams of Sepia Jul 2015
She chases the white rabbit
in the afternoons

plays blackjack
with the doves of youth

her innocence
is colored Pink

her queer dreams
are made of silk

she is the Queen
of sunny afternoons

her heart
is like stained glass

which the light appears

and fades

*blackjack - is a card game played in American casinos
William A Poppen Jun 2015
Some afternoons are sublime
beyond scripting
splendid blue colors the sky
and my lover's lips
taste like dripping honey

Some nights I hear the mantle
clock tick and music sounds
sweeter than it has since
those nights in New Orleans

Some mornings are like those artists paint
of sunshine shimmering on the water
my darling's presence seems
like a celebration without
the need of a parade

Some days are unique
love is easily earned
I can sit near my beloved
and watch love grow
Miu Rishu May 2015
The key turns and the door is slammed open.
It’s been a long time and I
Don’t romanticize the cobwebs anymore.
The view of my childhood days
Has now vanished.
But the room remains the same.
I think.
I am reminded but vaguely
Of cold, saturnine nights and
His love letters.
The ones that I preserved for long
Until mum threw them away.
I monitor my steps too carefully,
I even take off my shoes.
The imprint of my feet over the dusty mosaic floor,
Like that of Goddess Saraswati
I was told, once.
The air smells of grandpa’s stories,
Freshly baked, right out of the oven.
The day he died, it was my turn to narrate.
The door to the balcony is locked.
I, sticking my nose out through the railings,
As a lonely ice cream seller,
Wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.
The right side is no different from the left.
A curious void of vacancy,
My half-formed thoughts troubling me.
That year when books were my only friends
And I cut my hair,
To mourn my own death.
That mono-syllabic laugh at the back of my head,
A familiar sound.
The lips spreading wide and the eyes contracting,
Just a little bit.
The most beautiful smile I had ever seen.
I count my steps. Twenty-two to my room.
That unfinished bottle of grandma’s lemon pickle,
Most faithful companion to our afternoon dal and rice.
I pick it up and stare at the circle bereft of dust
Protected by the bottle’s lower rim.
I place it back, after a while.
Keeping in mind the limpid outlines.
trying to begin to explain the color of your eyes
to a group of blind people
in only 26 delicate letters
would be an extremely painful and difficult task

the color of Wednesday afternoon skies
in your old rusty car
telling secrets
palm on palm

or maybe the color of your favorite rain
the cool drizzle that sprinkles onto
your elegant face like a beautiful veil

the color I feel inside
now that you're gone
and you left without saying a word

— The End —