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Danni Gohemi Jan 2017
I own horses, hence I take photos and write short poems that go with them. The latest  poem I wrote was about the first day of bitter cold air and first snow flakes falling, sticking to my horse's mane:

Oh, no! The Arctic Blast is here
With gusts of wind and chilly air
And tiny flakes of sparkly white
Much to the horse's great delight
Did you know, horses can handle extremely cold weather better than their owners do? Brrr...
Lavina Akari Mar 2016
the static has tiptoed across me from my brain into my lungs,
electrifying each and every one of my breaths into
sharp icicles and lightning bolts.

white noise vibrating against my skin as the ice cold
waves
rock me back and forth
as if they are nursing a newborn baby.
the cold trickles down me and makes me shiver

my limbs are blue and my lips are blue and i am floating
floating
floating
somewhere safer.
Once in my Universe
All the things were
Missed

I was Created
By God's Will
Forth intact

Fulfiled with an innocent fleur
I Created Playful
Bountiful Place

All the joys and sorrows
Were Missed

There was The
Abundance

There was a light laughter
Of ignorance
Of hardly recognizible indifference
Of not knowing Poles are Axed
Of vague rememberance
Of  
Which is          Arctica
Which is          Antarctica
And how to go there                                  Magic W. . . .
Yet I had a technicue to reach a central core of Divinity
Yet I've heard about Shangrila and
Yeti
&
Yaks portruding with knited chimes
With wide reasonable heads watching
Extremly enchanting Dragons floating
Effortelessly alluring to the beholder's
Navigation
By The Cloud
By The Thunder
By Resonance
By Imagination
       Coming True
  The Child
Butterflies were landing on my arms
And I was a Mighty Director
Of my Dreamland  Dying
With every second
Not knowing
Imagined by
Impeccable Space
Poetess Dreaming
Tom McCubbin Apr 2015
Tall round beams standing
in salty water, connecting
fishermen and star-fish gazers
with a moon-shaped bay
on the eastern Pacific.

They stand on land and step into sea,
as rolling barrels from Arctic grounds
tickle their lower legs.
A centipede of wood, this
outward- jutting wharf.

The fishermen sink expectant hooks;
the surfers haul shiny glass
banana-shaped boards of foam;
the weekenders come posing
baby strollers for picture shooting.

Each passing wall of blue
energy slows at reach of
shallow sand, deciding
whether to keep rolling or
transform into a steep stack

of snapping water. On big days
the sea legs shake all the
fishermen. They lock away
their sacrificial bait in rusty boxes
and collapse their fibered rods.

On calm days I step out to a
wooden bench and hang my
face between the rails. Running
people pass below, between the
knotted hips and creosoted thighs.

August buries this preserve
in such drizzle. Gulls go bundling
inside their sleek robes
of white feather, leaning
windward on worn bent knees.
Traversing edges,
gliding o’er sledges
undulating ridges,
crossing broken bridges:
One could sense-
the Zephyr’s nudge;
glacier’s gelid grudge-
Frigid frail feet, fail to budge,
the mirage of hope, forever will trudge
traces of existence, begin to smudge.
A mini poem on 'Avalanches' – your arch nemesis in the Arctic.
Maggie Emmett Feb 2015
Advice from Freuchen , the explorer

When Arctic blizzards blow
in Northern Greenland
and your supplies are low
and dwindling
the best advice is build an igloo
and wait out the storm.

And when you hear the wolves
howling with hunger
and prowling on your igloo roof
it’s best to go outside
and sing - only occasionally
though you will fight to be heard
above the judder of the wind.

Inside the igloo will be problematic
the walls seem to close in
as claustrophobic days proceed
it’s not an illusion
but a fact
each breath freezes moisture in the walls
and breath by breath they thicken
spaces close around your body
breathing yourself in a coffin of ice.

There’s no instrument of death
devised by man to so terrify
as being locked in space and time
each breath reminding you
of that closeness to that final loss
of breath and an icy Arctic death.
© M.L.Emmett
elle Nov 2014
I POURED MY ACHING HEART INTO A POP SONG
WHERE YOU WERE MY MISSING PIECE AND I
WAS MERELY A FRAGMENT OF YOUR THOUGHTS,
A BITTER WHISPER YOU GAVE NO THOUGHT TO

I POURED MY ACHING HEART INTO A SHOT OF
***** AND LEMONADE / AND THOUGH IT
MADE NO SENSE TO ANYONE, IT SEEMED LIKE
THE PERFECT COMBINATION AT THE TIME

I POURED MY ACHING HEART INTO A GLASS
OF WATER / AND GAVE IT TO YOU, BECAUSE
YOU SAID YOU WERE DYING OF THIRST- BUT
I DID NOT KNOW BACK THEN, THAT YOU
WERE COLD AS ICE ANYWAY

I POURED MY ACHING HEART INTO THIS
POEM / IT SEEMS TO BE THE MONA LISA
OF THE EMPTY ROOMS / BUT WHAT GOOD
IS THE MONA LISA / WHEN DA VINCI WAS
NEVER THERE IN THE FIRST PLACE?
(e.g)
JWolfeB Oct 2014
The hardest part is believe more in yourself than the weight of failure on your tongue.
The lump of give up stuck in your throat.
Broken fingertips that want to surrender.
I pull myself up by my lungs. Rearrange my insides well enough to hide my weakness.
And believe. For one second. That I can do this.
The strength to continue fighting even though motivation is hard to discover.

— The End —