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No stress
ratgirl Feb 3
Crouching tiger, hidden dragon
Fill my empty bones with passion
I was never born a lion
But there is fighting in the shadows
With unpredictable strength
It follows

Behind the rock, my giant roots
To serve as sturdy ground through fire
I was never born an eagle
But there is pride beneath smaller wings
With unquestionable force
It sings
Carlo C Gomez Apr 11
The sky is an artistic graveyard.

Many a hero and many a fool have come to their fate in its wave-driven clutches.

The number of syllables required to storybook danger is as dense as ozone.

The orange layer—a warning sign, posted by the forebears of fun, who were categorically undone by the very forces they worshipped.

Birds no better than to fly at such temperamental altitudes.

But the dream will die if we don't try.

And so we hoist our ambition like a kite, hoping to stay aloft long enough to discover something more about ourselves.
Zywa Jan 15
Beginnings are small,

the big thing will come later --

I believed, I hoped.
"Bruno's Dream" (1969, Iris Murdoch)

Collection "Unspoken"
Just Grace Jan 6
Lay rest your flashing glaze of wishes
Down received for a moment
Breathy bow lifts to hold
and waver across few measures
Sienna and topaz
Sienna and topaz
Singe and simmer
Shine and glimmer against
All the thoughts born and dead

What makes you eager to rise
If it is not sensing gone away stories
or nursing the aches that lunge through anywhere else but here
While you replay and delay all creation
the blossoming goes unseen

She, the maiden is reigning
Une palais à remplir
Une palais à remplir
where she is her own queen
Her oceans made of no time channel open mouths
flooding its spill

She waded into The archer
Downed in his own vessel he mistook himself the pilot of

He, marooned in the surrender of damp and fertile places
where in Death he is still recovering
Soldiering and sullen
Soldiering and sullen
He is choking, and can not stop to see or savor the blossoms rising from his own till
Rama Krsna Jan 1
under the slanting rays
of the December sun,
silhouettes of this sin city
eke loneliness,
eating the timid
and spitting out carcasses.

its skies, ash gray
the refrigerated air moody
reminding wayfarers
that here is no place
to come seeking solace.

as apathy rains
sirens howl
and crime soars
the need to look over the shoulder
more pronounced than ever before.

the bottom line is
everyone’s looking to make money,
fast, furious and frenzied
in this,
my hometown- New York.
Rob-bigfoot Nov 2021
Rarely a winner, the sad lonely long-distance sinner,
A heart of broken rubble, repair not worth the trouble,
In conflict with life’s rabble, their ill-informed babble,
Lacking civilised patina, that saps my spiritual stamina.

I face a blank wall of ignorance, solace is a constant séance,
Lifeless I drift in hyperspace, a freefall from grace,
A bat-squeak whispers what a waste! wake up and chase!
Those youthful hopes and romance, you so readily denounce.

Soar away wordsmith! banish all doubts as myth,
Word by word and line by line, rise up and shine!
Love and valour will align, poetry will become your new divine,
Forge beauty as any talented goldsmith, oh sweet songsmith!

Some will mock and wonder, let courage be your rudder,
Through cruel shoals of torment, that masquerade as comment,
Rip away the tattered cloak of lament, hail poetry’s debutante!
Let soul and passion cast asunder, the years of sorrowed shudder.

Arise Sir Poet! your old world is there to conquer and outwit!

© Robert Porteus
Poetry can unlock so many feelings and passions that hitherto have been hidden away.
Zywa Oct 2021
I'm trying so hard,

though nobody seems to see --

my shoes shine and pinch.
Collection "NightWatch"
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