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While plucking petals from the calendar
The asphalt still smells the same
The moon still shines sideways
And the green of trees is stale

While plucking petals from the calendar
The smoke still smells the same
Shadows still dance in alleyways
And the artificial light is faint

While plucking petals from the calendar
Liars still paint their tongues like peacocks
Colorful words still remain feather light
And a dead light is still bright at night

While plucking petals from the calendar
The days keep getting more and more slender
Hours are condensed into a jumbled cluster
And the ashes of past still smoulder
Xyns Jan 11
My time is spent
watching all color drip
and drain..
Leaving only gray..

..lifeless is my everyday..
Zywa Jan 3
The arc of the sun: counted
with marks and stones
showing the shadow

of the days, the difference
in the journey of its light
and the rhythm of the rain

From standstill to standstill
you can measure time
in half years

and see it at intervals
of a few weeks, but
without stones and marks

you will not notice
that you cross a boundary of time
such as sailing between the Diomedes

the counting doesn't match
reality any longer
Calendars are fiction

years too, they have no boundary
no days before and after
that are different

every day is new
and unique as a number
in a series without end

that's how life goes
the life all of us live
as if there is no end
For Mark Huilmand

Collection “Summer birds”
Shofi Ahmed Nov 2018
Destined to go away.
But an early exit  
is not welcome either.

It has to be on time.
But it can't be found
beforehand either  
in the solar or lunar calendar!
However it's definitely
on it is crystal clear.
aneeshans Nov 2018
Then it was raining
frequent and changing
shapes and layered into tranquil.  
We are closed inside
Like two butterflies
In a jar of cocoons
Above 1110 feet of arching silence,
along the long roads,
Look for the distant meadows

a warm kiss in the neck shortened
a long paragraph of longer book
into a word
The air is filled with
an old book’s smell
a long dead memory
a toys broken head
a piece of cloth that you left
an old calendar with a marked date

We will arise from this cocoon
Trespass into those woods
flew away from here.
Somewhere beyond June
Like a pilgrimage unknown
There’s daylight and ardour
she is a winged angels perched on a tulip
A Season of Woe,
A Season of Merriment
Daniel Ruiz Oct 2018
Pages from a calendar
fall onto the ground slowly
like autumn leafs,

Everyday marked,
marked with significant
and insignificant stuff,

Birthdays,
Days without school,
Days,
Days,
Just a whole bunch of time wasted,

But pages will keep falling,
days will keep getting marked,

And i know,
i know i don't want to die today
Because There's more pages to rip,
and more birthdays to remember,
and more just more.

And i love that the day's in my calendar
are flying by,

Because it means,
I was stronger,
and decided
not to die.
Lily May 2018
Monday was the day of preparations
That were never made, the day of panicking,
Scrambling for a handhold when
The rocks are falling around your head.

Tuesday was the deep breath,
The calming mantra in your mind
That controls the panic from the previous day,
Steeling yourself for another week.

Wednesday was the day of realizations,
That all the things you planned to do
Are going swiftly going down the drain,
Evaporating into the recesses of your mind.

Thursday was the day of hanging on,
Struggling against a severe landslide
Of cares and worries, desperate to make it
To the top of the cliff.

Friday was the day of relief and triumph,
The relaxing of your brain muscles that
Signals the mountain peak, the end of the struggle,
The final step towards complete contentment.

The week was finally over, the war finally won,
And you realize that you must muster
Enough strength to do this again and again,
That the week is not for the weak.
Ivan Brooks Sr Mar 2018
In a year, three hundred and sixty-five days
Who came up with all of these things?
Now nobody asks but doing what it says
Following all the weird rituals it brings.

Christmas day falls on the twenty-fifth of December
How do we certainly know that this is accurate?
Nobody cares how this made its way to the calendar
Maybe we doubt, maybe not, all we care is to celebrate.


IB-Poetry©️
3/2/2018
Am I alone on this?
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