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Mark Toney Oct 2019
The rooster's crow warns me that dawn has come
My sleepy eyes resist my need to rise
I blindly reach for her but she is gone
Then hear a sound that much to my surprise
Reveals she hasn't left but still is near
The sound then ever closer she appears!
One last embrace and kiss before she leaves
Declare undying love to last the years
Such declaration mitigates our fears
As varied shades of love each one perceives
10/19/2019 - Poetry form:  Aubade - An aubade is a morning love song (as opposed to a serenade, which is in the evening), or a song or poem about lovers separating at dawn. It has also been defined as "a song or instrumental composition concerning, accompanying, or evoking daybreak". (Wikipedia) - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2019
Kayla Hardy Feb 2019
Dying Sun

Warmth on my eyelids welcomes a new day
and you, create a reflection against my skin
pink carnations sit on the window sill
soaking up the sun, but desperately begging for water
I kiss you gently and grab the vase
my fingertips brush against you while the birds wish us good morning
I remember how much you loved the pink carnations when we got them
your soft, delicate hands so gently pouring water into the glass
the crinkles by your eyes because you were so happy
and because it was always too sunny by that window
you didn’t care though, sun made you smile
so even when the birds stop singing
or the carnations begin to die around you
I know that the sun will make you smile.
This poem is from a prompt: Write an aubade that is also an elegy
Deep Oct 2018
Caress me, melt in me
let me see the love in your eyes,
Brimming, ululating passion
radiating in delight.
These lips craving for the touch of mine
Like the falling star
waiting to touch the ground,
But in vain, all our hopes are
Vanishing before our eyes
with the rising sun.

Once again we have to part;
Once again we have to die,
Till night comes
And breathe in us life
again.

Alas! Why this sun, why the morning?
Why this rein fall on innocent lovers?
Who want nothing but to lay in each others arm
today, tomorrow, day after, after that day.
Go and love first!
then only then you’ll fathom
how sharp your rays are that slice
one soul in
two, every dawn.
Still, your rays are not
Half as strong as our love, stays fervid
with every partition.

You, my love, the smile of my life,
Immure these tears inside eyes
Cheeks are mine not them to kiss.
Come in my arms, clasp me so tight,
Canoodle, smooch, implant equal kisses
a clock runs in a day; my sole sustenance.

If I don’t return with the return of twilight
Then let loose tears, with them; me too.
And grant this sun victory over us
But not our love,
We’ll kindle our love
by making dreams our home.
genre tried is aubade or alba
Knit Personality Aug 2018
An evensong was sung last night
     In parting by July;—
Was sung through fading sound and light
     A charming lullaby.

As August, crowning, lifts his fire
     Unto the eyes that wake,
I think of her, and die with desire
     From heartburn and heartache.  

#
m Apr 2017
the distance between us felt further the moment i was in your arms. your words were as empty as the wine bottles on your mantle, your kisses were needles filled with lidocaine.
laying in your bed felt like laying in a coffin. i wasn't really there. you weren't really there, either. the streetlights illuminated these lies we told ourselves in a soft, yellow wash.
i remembered as your breathing slowed that you didn't know my last name. the exposed brick walls taunted me with the whispers of pasts until dawn. the sun rose patiently. you didn't say a word when you walked me to the door.
i've realized love does not exist within the confines of your bedroom. it might not even exist within the confines of your heart.
you told me you were afraid you could never love anyone again. i took that as a challenge like a bird to a glass door. smash, blood, regret.
i've been writing a lot of poems lately enjoy the *******
m Mar 2017
the cracks in the shades
make stripes along my sheets
eternity and death
laying beside me

it's time for them to leave
but their promises
will never vacate
the indentation on my mattress

their breathing, their whispers of truth
that progression is happening
that the world is spinning
that I am dying

spending hours assuming
that their touch will render me
into anything but a funeral
pacing in a skull

when they leave, I
am sure they will never
return. for this figment of my
imagination, has ended me
we learned about aubades in poetry class today, so i decided to write one that was depressing as hell enjoy
Vhey Casison Mar 2017
Your hair is lava that springs from the earth
Your smile is the moon that glows ‘pon the hearth
And every vapor of your body reminds me of the sea
Teeming with life, electrifying!

O, how you walk with dalliance, perfect like a sunflower
                                                          that blooms every May
While your lips are cherries—of course ‘twould be sweet!
But if there’s one thing I most admire
Like music from a lire
It is your eyes
Which makes me want to cry.
Samuel Fox Apr 2016
Trill of beak into birch. Dawn spooks
the graveyard into silence. A heart
hardens at God’s withered finger reaching
but not reached for. I trim the hedges
and the whir of ****-eater disturbs
a nest of yellow jackets into tornado,
dust devil, of translucent wings and sting.
I walk among the dead three times a week.
I am learning their language. They relearn
the mundanity of white noise above
and quietly forget, quietly forgive.
This hill is the crest on a wave of coffins,
each one a boat through the world below.
Submerged in a bloodshot morning
I listen to a woodpecker in its throes
of building a home out of the depths of bark.
In the chill, the soft fog rolling, it pecks
and it knocks. The doors to these lives
long closed, I hush. I do not believe God
will visit these grounds to reclaim his clay:
I plant flowers in it between the plots,
each name engraved of marble a blank stare.
The flash of red flushes from budding branches
and I return to work. No one answers.
I relearn the dead’s language, their silence,
relearn every day how to repair stillness.
For a friend of mine who works in a graveyard.
M G Hsieh Apr 2016
What it is,
tethered to your arms?
*** has gone.

******* hurled itself
out the door and into the highway,
lured by the hitch hiker's course.

Your ****** shaft bears
no resemblance to a sheathed dagger
that once slayed

indiscriminant of ***** lips and vulvous tongues.
Hands that hailed eyes
shut to meaning, mouthed

delirious to more than ailments of corporal pleasures.
Flesh to flesh,
breath to skin,

sweat of your brow
dripped into the last sheets
soiled and saturated.

But what is it,
tethered to your arms still?
Transfigured

to what lingers beyond
a look and a touch,
strings the web to another bridled day.
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