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Bright Violet Jul 2018
Have you ever felt anything more amazing?
The sun kissing your face
while your eyes rest
while you take a breath
lying down listening to the waves.
They come and go incessantly
but you like the sound of them
their rhythm takes you on a journey.
A journey you shall always cherish,
wisdom you got through pain and torment
And now it's time to let it go
You've earned your rest
Take a bow
Pull the curtains
Empty your mind and rejoice
You left your mark in this world
You touched people in your wake
And that's all you can ever hope for
Anthony Mayfield Jul 2018
Well maybe it’s a shame in the weekend
To toil aimlessly about dreams in bed
Counting sheep only lasts for so long
And maybe it’s a shame to waste the day

Someday we’ll be alive
More than we are right now
Someday we’ll start a fight
Let’s end our show with a bow

And we’ll close it out with a round of applause
They’ll look to us
Because we’ll be their stars
Right now we’re young and we’ll never grow old
But even if we do
We stand with the bold
The Millennials' Anthem
Maxim Keyfman Jul 2018

Benedict May 2018
Call it a yard, call it a shed,
That vessel grew up in bed,
With a covered head,
So that its frame did not get wet,
But better yet,
Many times,
Resins used were left to dry,
Into the cracks their poxys pry,
To amalgamate the creaking ply.

And only when the final *****,
Twists its way to something new,
To tie the lace of this floating shoe,
Still sitting under rusted roof;
When the metal files are swept away,
And the hazel mast accepts its stain,
By a whitened brush proclaimed,
Only then does she take her name.

For a day or two she’s left to linger,
Poised at the top of her sheltered slip,
A proud and shining ship,
Held in place by the gasping grip,
Of the steadfast holding line.

Her ivory sails lie week and flat,
And there is irony in that,
For a girl already waxed and named,
With canvas cut and metals tamed,
Perched there upon that ledge,
Has yet to take her newborn breath.

Through forward rings two ropes are thread,
To heave her from her resting bed,
Call it a yard, call it a shed,
Into the water below,
A world she does not yet know,
But there she is bound to go.

Soon her airtight helm will taste that salted swill,
Her rudders will shoulder the force of a thousand men,
And by her maker’s will,
She will not meet her end.

Goes the steadfast holding line,
As the forward rope force applies,
Without a wince or a whine,
Does our vessel bid goodbye,
To her sheltered bed,
Call it a yard, call it a shed,

And with one final gracious bow,
Into the wet of the sea she ploughs.
Salmabanu Hatim May 2018
He is a pen,
I am paper,
Great ideas we create.
He is the bow,
I am the arrow,
Cupid's love is our cup.
He is the current,
I am the switchboard,
Our love flows without a hitch.
He is the hand,
I am the glove,
Nothing can separate us.
He is the melody,
I am the lyric,
Together we make a beautiful song.
He is the strength,
I am the love,
We face life with courage.
He is the body,
I am the soul,
A harmonious whole,
Soul mates.
Abdullah Ayyash Apr 2018
Your soul has just passed by
Like a beautiful breeze
Telling everything to bow
When it passes through

What an amazing thought It was
What a wonderful moment I lived
Visit me again if you will
Help me break out of my shell
© Copyright
Abdullah Ayyash
April 24th, 2018
less than twenty four hours after dashing off a poem
   explaining why i wanted to die
found me experiencing physical duress vis a vis,
   a bowel movement wherein waste unable to expel

   from the **** of this guy
which bout with ****** obstruction
   found me doubled over
   with lower abdominal distress

   whereby comfort found me unable to lie
down nor sit upright (with back padded with pillows
   against the cellar brick wall),
   thus severe bloating a bonus well nigh

and managed to muster the means to bare
   frigid arctic vortex aire to purchase
   the Acme brand Metamucil,
   which akin to drano doth ply
thru the excretory tract
   supposedly loosening the stools,

   which optimism (product
   didst earn claim to fame) generated a sigh
if that expressed intent
   to cease livingsocial would try

humph enjoining
   this lvii year old married male
   to cede victory
   to the grim reaper, who would vie

as winner de jure
   to this common fellow invoking libretto
   ohm resistant understudy waste not want not
allowing, enabling and providing relief,
   without successful defecation

   despite the oppressive urge to bolster this uriah
heap of balled up and tuckered i.e. pooped out
   five foot and ten inches of lovely bones
   thence mouthing retraction
   of former thought to cease existing,

though a non-bull lever
   in any power broker qua mankind
   relief at long last
   provided posterior answered prayer
   yet, this scrivener scrutinizes
   his recurring pain in the *** jagged torture
   and asks
   a rhetorical one word question "WHY"?
Nylee Mar 2018
Still movements
the dangerous games
all it takes
is the eye gesture
fueling the deeper silences.

Their quiet fight
without the usual bites
drinking the mugs of coffee
face to face away
slipping into
the created tension.

Waiting for someone
to bow down
be the first one
to admit
it is not worth it.

and wait
continuing building
the wall of brick
which will break
when the first one will blink.
Ayesha Feb 2018
Somewhere, as we breathe, an archeress stretches her shoulders
giving way to her bow, crossing in accuracy, hitting no aim at all—
her arrow wanders with the wind amongst a desert of emeralds
then settles as a thorn in a flora until it’s taken out of its home—
and reacquainted with recurve again to find flight somewhere else.
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