Tanay Sengupta Oct 2018
Shattered frames of ashes and dust
Remnants of our deeds,
Like the fruitful tree in August
Unaware of its seeds.
Claiming to be intellectuals
Ravaging on the weak,
Tied down by our own rituals
And the words we do not speak.

Divided by our views
Fake is what we feed,
Battered and bruised
We watch as we bleed.

Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2018.
All Rights Reserved.
Hello there, it feels good to write something after a long time. Hope you like it. Cheers!
Kara Petrovic Sep 2018
what could empty you?
          in the weight
of our divines
the un    thinking
deep within us
strokes of pure spirit
      our fleeting fall

labour — the early war;
                 original sin
in between the earth and sky
            is the shade
            of the galaxy
why limit sorrow?
why blank the source?
             we go on
and put life first

ignore the    remnant artifacts
                      merciless undoings
turned pools,
                      nudge    of time
ordinary notes of care
unleashed poisons
into skin

history’s suitor to time,
remember   remember
the blank silence echoing

days go on,
               sleep escaping
crying out
                   it was a home.

cursed nights into mornings,
         who can make of this?
what once was theirs,
          whatever is left?

emptied, murdered, obliterated
             an annihilation
of the ego
              the anguish,
                     the anguish

eyes still seeing last touch
ancient alone abandoned
what is a year
              a month
               a decade
but a moment?

—lost and burned
            futile devices,
fervour’s writing

mailed to the void

and the sea?
        the sea?

the saltwater dead, my love,
the saltwater dead

the last great epitaph
of our love:

           i am nobody
           i am nobody
           and you
           are gone

oh, August, a season deceased,
tell me again
the hieroglyph
of your name
Maxim Keyfman Sep 2018
weep weep weep the whole world
cry the whole cycle of darkness and light
and the whole azure of heaven and all the azure
and all the books that were on the bookshelf
on the shelf that burned then in august
when attacking death on our house

scatter the same voices last fatal
be carried away and carried all around
do not give air to all this here
do not give the sky and do not give more papers
do not dictate any more of these strange words
perhaps the land is worth and it will be necessary to stop

and right now and at this very moment
and it is at this hour this month in this year
all stopped what it means stopped even then
then when august was next to me when the books were
when the whole world was not even in the flames at all
when the bookcase was with me and the leaves did not sob

talia Sep 2018
i got comfortable
i was foolish
i let you slip
between my fingertips
i didn’t know
i didn’t know
i was so naïve
so enraptured by
my careless thoughts
and dreams
of a lifetime with you
that i forgot
a lifetime is shorter than a long time
is shorter than forever
is shorter than expected
i don’t know what i expected
but it wasn’t this
and oh, how i miss
the gentle sound of your voice
the sway of your body
the sparkle in your eyes
i’m sorry
talia Sep 2018
the sequins that danced so prettily around his waist
made up for the lack of stars in the light polluted sky
i feel like sometimes it’s better to be trapped in the dark
if it means that all the light in the world resides in his eyes
i never want to think of what could happen if that light went out
i don’t know if i’d be able to keep safe and sound
everything in life is tiring enough as it is
even with those reflective hues of gold
but beneath those bright irises
lies sad blues of stories untold
won’t you stick around a little while longer?
nitelite Sep 2018
drinking from grounded reflections
of a flightless sunset
who casts mirages set in stone,
daydreaming clouds alone
punctuate skies in perfection
as much as in sweet regret.

smeared upon the flat face of the sky,
forming withered smiles,
a cirrus in august breathes,
meandering through leaves
who whistle and sigh with our nigh
ending dreams juvenile

and scales of gray and gold evade
questions asked from below,
instead recalling masses
who cloak skies in ashes,
a stratus, nature’s renegade
and need, who drowns wholesome glows.

so idle passions retire
as the uncertainties
which animated our dreams
are doused in conscious streams
and with life ignite a fire
kindled within fantasies

spending hours reading the still clouds
wavering only when
our eyes are cast far away.
draped curtains steal last days.
so time drowns, a voice in a crowd
not unlike myself back then
as summer drew to an end, a strange rhythm lived within me until i immortalized it
Sharon Talbot Sep 2018
The very end of August
Brings a stillness in the night,
When the many trills of midsummer
Are silenced and the fireflies gone out!
Lying stilly and listening, I hear
A solemn drone, like an old contralto,
Trying to warble but instead
Radiating an insistent hum
That thrums athwart the arid air,
Long fingers scraping a humming tanpura.
Even the full moon is dry,
Gazing down, matter-of-fact,
Through the dust-like mist.
Summer has given up,
Letting leaves and vines dry up,
Tinged with red and shriveled bronze.
I could walk in the garden now,
And not worry about slugs on
The dried stalks of lilies.
The robust asters offer little
Temptation to garden  pests
And strapping thistles seem to stand guard.
Is the balance between my will
Over the garden and its desire
To overflow and bloom beyond me,
Now achieved yet unwanted?
Yes…I prefer the lushness that comes
After the rains, with an untamed riot
Of color and green, the celebration
That happens on its own, heedless
Of my wishes; yet I revel in it
Every time it wins
And will wait a year
For this to emerge again.
I originally titled this "Cricket's Song" but it didn't seem to match the mystery and majesty of their night songs. I hope the title doesn't seem too pretentious!
Äŧül Sep 2018
I shall be the August Landmesser.

Low I shall keep my arm en masse,
Of course I shall not hail the Führer,
Viewing my parents as the dictators,
Expect me they do to forget love of yours.

Yet I shall not comply with their orders,
Of course I shall always love only you,
Until I am successful, rest I shall not.
My HP Poem #1716
©Atul Kaushal
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