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Zywa Jun 6
Common Ipocrites

are very active people –


helping who helps them.
#172 – “Heer Bommel en de spalt” (#172 – “Sir Bumble and the Split”, 1983, Marten Toonder)

Collection "Bearer Toonder"
Zywa Jan 18
No one likes to be

stupid, or worse: be a fool –


let alone clumsy.
“Praktisch” (“Practical”, 1860, Petrus de Génestet)

Collection "Passage Passion"
Scarlett Sep 2020
I saw a predator in the bathroom mirror
or perhaps it was just confident prey
Scarlett Aug 2020
Dead glassy cow eyes
Mock me from within their bloated facade
They see right through me, and I, them.
Jay M Apr 2020
There are stories
Written short to the naked eye
But to the eye of the poet;
There are potential volumes
Of verses and lyrics
Occasional verses and ballads

Hidden all around
Some at first so beautiful
Petals of a bright red rose
The color, fragrance, and corolla appeal
Then seen are the thorns
Sharp as small daggers
Some never to ***** flesh
Others bound to draw blood

Healthy presentation
Good taste and style
Sweet little smile
Glimmering eyes
Melodic voice
Thoughtful and observant
So why the hesitation?

Were those eyes truly glimmering,
Or were they swarming flies,
Hovering over a rotting heart?

That melody
Could it have been giving a choice?
Be wary and don't take the bait
Or be lured by a siren?

Was that thoughtfulness of pure intent
Or will it be a future lament?
Were they so observant
Because they were captivated by you
Or to use blackmail and make you a servant?

- Jay M
April 29th, 2020
The purpose of this poem is to sketch how there is a story in everything, and there is much more than meets the eye. Some eyes may see more, but never the whole entirety of what lies before them. The speaker in this piece is a person who speaks from experience, thinking they knew someone but only having scratched the exterior. When writing this poem, I had to consider how the speaker would be able to express their experience without doing into details (to be open for others to relate to and connect with).

*This poem is being included in my Poetry Portfolio for my Creative Writing class, and I really hope it's good enough.

**When I read this to one of my sisters, she said, "It's Twilight! It's all Twilight!" Well, no, but if you think of it that way it somehow makes sense.. Hah, I didn't see that one coming.
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
Come As You Are
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come as you are, forget appearances!
Is your hair untamable, your part uneven, your bodice unfastened? Never mind.
Come as you are, forget appearances!

Skip with quicksilver steps across the grass.
If your feet glisten with dew, if your anklets slip, if your beaded necklace slides off? Never mind.
Skip with quicksilver steps across the grass.

Do you see the clouds enveloping the sky?
Flocks of cranes erupt from the riverbank, fitful gusts ruffle the fields, anxious cattle tremble in their stalls.
Do you see the clouds enveloping the sky?

You loiter in vain over your toilet lamp; it flickers and dies in the wind.
Who will care that your eyelids have not been painted with lamp-black, when your pupils are darker than thunderstorms?
You loiter in vain over your toilet lamp; it flickers and dies in the wind.

Come as you are, forget appearances!
If the wreath lies unwoven, who cares? If the bracelet is unfastened, let it fall. The sky grows dark; it is late.
Come as you are, forget appearances!

Keywords/Tags: Tagore, translation, Bengali, come, forget appearances, hair, bodice, feet, anklet, bracelet, beads, necklace, sky, clouds, cranes, cattle, toilet, lamp, wind, mascara, eyeshadow, mrburdu
Alyssa Gaul Oct 2019
I hug my mother most in the kitchen.
She reaches up to wrap her arms
around me, and I lay my head
on her shoulder. We breathe
together, relax into one another.
The oak wood under our feet creaks
with each shift of weight. The kitchen is

warm like her. Though that dead plant sits
in the window, we are full of life.
My mother’s fake green grapes and strands of
ivy weave above our heads;
our own personal jungle.
The red-brown cabinets and
bright yellow lights
shine down around us as we sway,
rubbing each others’ backs with a soft hum.

We fit together: mother, daughter.
Since childhood I have not been afraid
to run to her soft speckled skin and be held
by her, even when I was tall
enough to do the holding myself.
We have the same nose,
same smile,
same droop to our right eye.
Same tendency to accidents
like knife cuts
or oven burns
or trips over nothing.
Who am I
but a part of her?

My sister pads into the kitchen
on tiptoes— a habit she could never break
since a child. I see her quiet eyes
flicker downward,
see her scoot herself away from
my mother’s arms
see her close into herself
instead. She stares at the dead plant.

If her skin were a costume, she would
tear it off and never wear it again.
Instead of my mother’s nose,
she thinks she sees
my father’s stubble.
Not my mother’s dimpled smile
reflected back, but my
father’s Adam’s apple.
When we tell her she is
beautiful, she fiddles with her men-sized shoes.
We cannot convince her to
touch us when she is afraid to touch
herself.

We fit together: mother, daughter, daughter.
We sit at the island counter, playing
MarioKart on the kitchen TV,
talking about nothing really,
but to my sister it is
everything.
Our mother laughs like bells.
Who are we
but a part of her?
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