elle 1d
through the slit of her mouth
where dandelions smiled
begging to be
uprooted, undone
in a cosmic sigh across this endless leaf, the Wind she
turned her back to us
what felt like a yawn across a fatal gorge
and down below, the tremble of her core
lifting up our dreams in outstretched fists
of flower dust, from a time before
close our eyes in unison
breathe out
the tune   of our birth,
which our mothers' hummed in their sleep, our being
only imagined
in their unfathomed dreams
From failure
New birth;
Out of ashes
We rise
Fists raised
Hope held
I was young when you attacked.
Young and hopeful, taken aback.
You told me I would die like you, and do things I'm not meant to do.
Then, I couldn't comprehend, why you'd meet your untimely end.
Inside me it began to stir, strange things I suddenly remembered.
Another me? From a different time? Or maybe later down the line?
I was calm, and I was fierce.
Goodbyes were often insincere.
I left my wife  and child behind.
Because of this, they would die.
I was torn, but I was free.
They had not known what happened to me.
I was less than they deserved.
A conjecture, but still, ahead of the curve.
So I went on to see you again, I wonder what this visit contends?
I enter without warning, but here you are, prepared for me!
Your friend who stood behind the door, I dealt to him the killing blow.
I then began to feel regret, but wait! I haven't finished yet!
I wrap my hands around your neck, there and then I felt content.
A soul can't leave your lifeless shell, omega on your way to ****.
If I could watch you die again, I'll do it from my ink and pen.
She would rather a two-night stand with some ***** creature
Androgynous, hopeless, fruitless, born with a ****
Wrapped in skin, she closes up and accepts the night's seed
A starry sky knocks her up, an ****** feature

Innocence makes it's escape from the jaws of the sun
Beauty, grace, fertility, unto her a child cries out
It's father to be, crying stars to fill the pond
The sun opens it mouth, it is done

That familiar night falls yet again, covering him in ink
No longer bearing children, he floats off into the night
The children have ventured out, lonely and afraid
The sun bites once more, black to blue, white to pink
I wrote this after doing some research on a plant for a Biology course I was taking. The life cycle of a water lily is a beautiful one. And though I believe that poems about this plant have already been written and adored by many, I did want to put My own spin on it. So I hope You enjoy. *** bless

In My arms laid, that sweet, shining child.
Holding so tightly, her gaze to her mother's glowing, humbled face.
The blues and grays and blacks of dusk, lie dormant this sweet morning.
When two came together to become one. That crisp dawn, so humble and so mild.
Not sure exactly when I wrote this one. But it's a favorite of mine. I can't explain how joyful it makes Me feel inside when I recite it aloud. But all the best poetry does that to You in My opinion. I hope You enjoy it. *** bless

Mom told me about the abortion,
Well, it's good that you're home again, little angel.

                          A lonely brother
Water breaks. Babe emerges head first into crowd of angry onlookers, who are upset to be reminded (in this tailored town of latte cafes and jewelry shops, of Neiman Marcus, ballet schools and boutiques, a pristine habitat of gazelles in print leggings and matrons carefully coiffed) that their lives began wet-headed, ***** and helpless, expelled from ****** orifices of screaming women.  Forced to view this reminder from sidewalks, Subarus and minivans, they register complaints.

Perhaps in the future there will be no wet babies nor screaming mothers. Fetuses will be grown in carefully calibrated aquariums. The female experience muted and rendered obsolete. A brave new world in which "woman" is no more than a pose adopted.

Only a dying world rejects the blood and screams of life. Over Kubrick's horizon perhaps a new baby will be born, rising from an unexpected place, as the decayed earth is swallowed by an exploding sun
This piece of art was controversial because people thought it was too intrusive, according to what I've been told
I followed the trades to the center of Mecca,
Maybe looking for my soul.

All I found in the people around,
Were pieces of what made the whole.

I searched in the sun for the purest light,
But my eyes could never see.

The hollowness inside my every thought
Was a hunger I couldn't feed.

There was a rubble in the sands of time,
It all turned upside down.

Suddenly I was under the water,
And hearing not a sound.

Everything was nothing then the moment came,
When everything was alight.

An opening of eyes, there was clarity,
I was passing through the light.

I can still remember serenity,
When I was safe inside the arms.

All I knew was comfort and love in the moment,
There were no alarms.

I didn't know that I was fragile,
Or an aging ghost of an old man yet to come.

I only knew in the moment that I never knew a moment,
Or where the next was from.

It would last forever, in this familiar place
Where I might have been before.

Because I recognise the light,
But not the purest light that was vacant at its core.
Written Jan 14th, 2019

Now this might offend some people, but this isn't my intention. How is it that someone could post one or two whiney lines about some break up and it winds up all over the front page, however, when effort is put into a piece of work, to create something of a poetic nature it goes by hardly noticed?
I mean, writing a one line diary entry to cry about getting dumped is not poetic. Put some effort into your art, a little structure or something. Some creative turn of phrase. Anything that is metophoric, or oximoronic might work, also. Otherwise, it might be an honest feeling that's going to get some sympathy likes, but there is nothing creative in simply declairing a broken heart. Even if it is very brief, without structure, saying something like "I'm not good enough," is not poetic or musical. Without more content, I wouldn't call it prose. At best it might be a brief, singular undetailed narative. Then hashtag some trendy words that usually have little to do with the entry. It's just doesn't make this site seem fit for decent writers.
So try this: poets, take your singular line and dual lined entries and see if you can construct an actual poem with some rhythm. An online thesaurus might help some of you when you want to rhyme, or when you don't because poetry doesn't have to rhyme.
Very, very seldom does one phrase make a poetic statement. How many times can people praise, "my boyfriend dumped me" one liners before they get eye-rolly and cynical? Let's ask Mr. Owl to lick the tootsie roll.
Counting down the days
Til the new poem arrives
It's nearly ready for the page
But back there behind the eyes
Things are still changing
Shapes are being formed
Some rhymes rearranging
Some ideas being scorned

Is it a single or multiple birth?
I've tried counting the beats
The slow heart beats, alert
To clues in its embryonic sleep
But Poetry is notorious
When hiding its nature
And Poets impetuous
In the application of nurture

Nothing for it but to wait
Work on things more concrete?
Nothing for it but to state
I will love it, upbeat or offbeat
I will live with its moods
Put up with its tantrums
We may like to choose
But we Poets take what comes


Of course every poem is precious
Though this one sadly is not a prodigy
It is trying hard to impress but
Sadly it won't make the Anthology
The proverbial creator I maintain a neutrality
A post natal poet I remain unbowed
Though It does have uniqueness and originality
So I suppose I can be parentally proud
Suppose there is a reason,
After all,
For why I grumble at dawn
Yet fall short to day-ify
The night

My mom never forgot
The time I was born:
12:48 pm.
I was born into daylight...
On the outside walls, of course.

I don't usually think about
My birthtime too often;
If I happen to catch this minute by sight,
I know then I am well alive!
My mom has told me the story of how the doctor almost recorded my birthtime as 12:49 pm but my mom knows it to be 12:48 pm.  Glad to be a noontide birth!
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