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Maria Mitea Sep 29
When lost in giant thoughts
and mumbling lips don’t hear
how divine prayers fall
on puppets on the walls
In vain you pour your soul,
Is all in vain, my man!

When darkness bends the light
and you hide from y’own eyes
and you run from y’own voice
and force the cogit shut its door,
In vain you pour your soul,
Is all in vain, my man!

When lazy sky transforms
the clouds into boomerangs
and crippled stars pretend
to be white angels of your lies,
in vain you pour your soul,
Is all in vain, my man!

When houses are cold
and candles are not burning
and tears are pervert actors
that never listen to the silver bell,
In vain you pour your soul,
Is all in vain, my man!
I like the relation between the words
"Run" & "Reflect"
When You're in cave
You race to be perfect!
Coined words of philosophy!
Carlo C Gomez Jun 18
I want to ride the sky,
make believe
the stars are closing in on me,
and in so doing
become as them.

The glow from me,
a night light to some
off-world pier,
where children read
their storybooks untroubled.

An overhead visitor
to their lovely soul's dying wish,
the centrifugal force
keeping amusement park days
aligned with one another.

A tunnel at the end of the light,
cave of sweet
innocent dreams,
from which streams
of merry laughter emerge.
My throat is a bear cave
The claws of my tears
Have scratched through
Rock and limestone
Leaving the interior
Raw and red
Then comes
The boiling lava
Traveling down
The dark tunnel
Molten rock
Destroying everything
In its path.
I hate this feeling!
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

Entirely, as spring consumes the snow,
the thought of you consumes me: I am found
in rivulets, dissolved to what I know
of former winters’ passions. Underground,
perhaps one slender icicle remains
of what I was before, in some dark cave—
a stalactite, long calcified, now drains
to sodden pools whose milky liquid laves
the colder rock, thus washing something clean
that never saw the light, that never knew
the crust could break above, that light could stream:
so luminous,
                       so bright,
                                         so beautiful . . .
I lie revealed, and so I stand transformed,
and all because you smiled on me, and warmed.

Keywords/Tags: spring, melting, snow, winter, icicle, stalactite, underground, cave, transformation, love, warmth
The Gardener’s Roses
by Michael R. Burch

Mary Magdalene, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, “Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away.”

I too have come to the cave;
within: strange, half-glimpsed forms
and ghostly paradigms of things.
Here, nothing warms

this lightening moment of the dawn,
pale tendrils spreading east.
And I, of all who followed Him,
by far the least . . .

The women take no note of me;
I do not recognize
the men in white, the gardener,
these unfamiliar skies . . .

Faint scent of roses, then—a touch!
I turn, and I see: You.
My Lord, why do You tarry here:
Another waits, Whose love is true?

Although My Father waits, and bliss;
though angels call—ecstatic crew!—
I gathered roses for a Friend.
I waited here, for You.

NOTE: I do not believe in Jesus as a “sacrifice” to a primitive “god” who demands the blood of innocents in order to “forgive” sins of his own making through a ghoulish "atonement." But I will not completely discount the hope that love can transcend death, although, like Thomas, I will have to see it to believe it. Keywords/Tags: Jesus, Christ, cave, grave, tomb, gardener, roses, angels, resurrection, Mary, Magdalene, love, heaven
Jenish Mar 19
ravenously ruled the rocky cave for many hundred years
fearfully fled to the firmament when a little lamp brought
Mick Feb 8
Under the still and open stars of a cousin's farm
too far to touch, I've dreamt of whiskers on catfish
since we last had tea.
The Waitomo Caves are strung by glowworms I
was too afraid to be touched by.
What if it touched my arm
and had me turn around?
If one had stuck my lip?
If I'd feel my face in blue glow light
just for a while?

I'd rest my head upon your arm
to take a memory for Facebook.
Your college crush would see herself
as phosphoric string that brushed your hair.
At night we'd drink a flower-blossomed tea
and meet again, two cave fish in a dream.
Dreams I can't get over.
Peter Farsje Feb 7
Hidden from the world lies a place so divine,
dark and quiet, it heralds peace within.

A place know to
but a chosen few,
its walls laced with delicate ferns
dripping with crystaline dew.

Hear the drops and trickles falling
musically to the stream below.

Deep within its walls
dwell those shadowy few,
nymphs and faeries
and others too.

Niads and hyriads
and their spirit kind,
lie in serene repose.

Ye blessed visitors
who this place find,
Keep these secrets
so divine
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