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Erian Rose May 14
I was born a poet
before I realized
I was sneaking behind
plastered brick walls
at recess bells
transforming the world
into words
spilling ink pens dry
I was born a poet
I embraced beauty,
enfolded magic,
encased the man on the moon,
tracing bare sentences
amidst pure wonder
until their final moments
till they cried
the truths of neverland
upon the immense star clusters
I am a poet
At this point, I don’t want anything from him but his mind. He’s an open book of actualities. He does what he speaks and his actions are always louder than his words. He knows how to love me without changing me for his own good. He does not leave me hanging when I need him the most. He pops up at the right time every time and always seems to know what to say or do. He motivates me. He makes my life better by just being in it. He can be next to me and I still wish he was even closer. I could marry him today and not regret the moment. I loved him after three months of knowing him because I could finally see the wedding bells, the babies, and our happiness growing and flourishing. I can still see that now. I wouldn’t change my past, because God built me up for a good man like him. We’ve both been through Hell and back. Broken. Abused. Used. Sneaky. Yet here we are - smiling like our pasts didn’t mess us over. That’s why I love him because he saw through my facade of strength and goofiness and saw himself. I couldn’t see God or feel Him until I had help from him. But now, this sweet breeze of joy and love is coming in at waves and I’m crying daily. I’m crying because I’m finally free of my pity party and hopelessness. All I needed was help. And God sent that through him,” I smile. “I’m both grateful and blessed to know that I can be loved and can give out love."
Poetic T Apr 8
bells shaking free dew
hymns praise an awakening

symbol of rebirth
Megan Hammer Feb 22
I’ve had too much wine in the mountains
The clouds are getting in my eyes
With your chin in your hand, looking at me so
That’s why I get up, take the last sip at our supper
Before the bells begin to toll

Pick me up, carry me to the bed
Some cabin shouldn’t mean so much to me
But I’m in my head about how long it’s been
So long that I start to think about it now
Moving back and forth, lost in thought

I've had too much wine in the mountains
The frantic ramble begins
And now, I'm a mess on the floor

Because there’s a church outside our door
The bells toll and it’s all I can hear
All I see when I look out the window
And I told the priest we’d come back tomorrow
I know what I said, but -

I change my mind about Gibraltar
If we leave tomorrow, could we make it?
I didn’t mean it, I don’t want to wait
I was wrong and that ******* bell and
We’ve got to leave, how many miles is it?

Grabbing the keys -
******* it, how many miles?

But you take me into your arms like a child
Moving back and forth, lost in thought
Smooth my shake and clear the clouds
"This won't go on like this anymore"
“I'll get it squared away”

Some other day in time
I find myself full of wine in the mountains
Wondering what would have happened if I heard the bells sooner.
Somewhere outside Tarragona Spain, July 2017
Amaris Dec 2019
Christmas used to be
So much planning, for me
Piles of presents under the tree
Singing carols by the piano with glee
Excitement months too early
Now, as I come home for the day
Too tired to even consider to play
Happy just listening for the bells of the sleigh
We’ll light the fire, and beside it we’ll lay
Together tonight, despite hearts far away
“Sleigh bells ring, are you listening?”
Lauren M Nov 2019
Bells chime.
The world is a pale imposter of itself,
gray in the moonlight,
but not indifferent.
Coy perhaps, complicit.
In league with me, perhaps.

The paper birch trees shuffle aside,
in line like ghostly sentinels,
and the briars curl back in black swarthy masses
to clear a path,
mumbling a song in their old forgotten language,
each leaning toward me, toward my house,
pointing the way.
A faint glimmer, light ahead,
yes, the warm glow of firelight
beneath the moss and stone of the highland hills.

Distant laughter, the *****! of glasses and
bell chimes.
The susurrations of the nighttime grasses
whisper in time with the tunes of my fiddlers;
they know the songs of my blood, my bones.

Come to my house in the hills – yes, you must come!
We will dance as the swallows do,
as the daisies do when the winds blow,
and watch the walls and faces
blur into one another as we spin round and round,
swapping faces, swapping bodies.
The other guests wear garments of wanderlust and daring,
and their dance is one of flame and dust.

Dance within my house,
between walls of polished ivory
and a ceiling studded with pearls and diamonds
and the teeth of extinct animals.

We are free here:
free to forget,
free to deny.
Free, at last, to revel in the revelry
and be as unwise as it pleases us to be.
Here is a place where wisdom
is useless and none
will accuse you of sensible conduct.

And after,
when the sunlight tosses me back into the ocean
and hauls you out
dream of me.
Steve Jul 2019
Sea shells whisper
Church bells chime
Wind cuts crisper
These stanzas rhyme

Down by the pier
Foghorns drone
Worms in your ear
Nits on your comb

Across the bridge
Looking old
A passing midge
As crowds unfold

The river’s edge
Sailors dream
He drives a wedge
Ahead we steam

Appealing sounds
Foreign shores
On legal grounds
Revolving doors

Mixing races
Breaking eggs
Greetin’ faces
That lady’s legs

Summer sunshine
Meaning’s lost
Secret goldmine
The bitter cost

Turn off the light
Close the blinds
Embrace the knight
It takes all kinds.
rgz Jul 2019
Maybe I should be blunt
as a blood-stained club

but I've never been so strong,
I doubt I could lift it up

let alone swing it
at least,
not hard enough

Maybe I should write a note
a sonnet, or a song

show you the view from my boat,
have the sea sing along

still, I doubt the sea would,
she sees I'm no prince,
my words aren't wet enough

Maybe I should painstakingly, purposefully and adamantly drown
each torpid, tactless, lurid verse, each vile, venomous, lustful line

in a soup of sumptuous, superfluous superlatives
designed to move you as intervention from divine

bleed an inky parade of adoration
from vein, to pen, to page.
I could never shed enough.
The promise of maybe is one I hold dear
John May 2019
If life, at last, would set me free,
I wish to hear again the ring of bells.
For they're the ones who remind me,
Of our forgotten vows and wishes to tell.
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