Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
lib Feb 12
beneath the pale stars
your strong arms holding me tight
the clock strikes midnight
carriage returns to pumpkin
dress of silk and gold to rags
another tanka poem
Lani Apr 2021
It's a dance.
A beautiful and deadly dance.
The kind where you put on your best makeup,
best shoes,
best dress,

only to fall apart at midnight.

The kind where you stay close,
pull away,
fingertips graze,
come together again.

Except sometimes,
they never return.
The fingertips never find each other.
They find a new partner to dance with.

They never come back to you.
Wow, a writing streak here.
annh Apr 2021
Frequently, I discover words with hidden meaning, shining like coins in a handful of fluff, apple seeds and other down-the-back-of-the-sofa leavings. Some are too precious to share and I secrete them away. Others I spend cheaply on rigged slot machine verbiage. Mostly they sit waiting to be written usefully. Adding insight, lending moment to my day.


Foraging amongst the dahlias
For Cinderella’s lost slipper,
I am Barbie magic made manifest,
I am Germaine (sodding) Greer’s antifem,
I am Super Mum with gumboots on.


The best nonsense is always spoken in the middle of the afternoon while heading north on a train bound for a smallish beige town, and so it was that the occupants of second-class carriage BG1754 found themselves gripped by a kind of eloquent hysteria as they rattled around the final bend in the tracks before the steep descent to the weatherboard station at Claggy Peat.
‘The lampshade on my head is for my bright ideas. I won't be able to convey them until Monday, when my curtain gets out of the dry cleaners.’
- Bauvard, Some Inspiration for the Overenthusiastic
James Carney Oct 2020
Who gave you that name, Cinderella? Grey
Like the faded ashes they make you clean.
Strict as the hour-glass, they haven’t seen you gleam.
Granular vision curtails them to day.
Cursed curfew; trickling sands serve time’s keen gain.  
Chandeliers and red wine, the ball’s a dream.
Midnight’s starlight in your slippers, you flee.
Shatter all the glass; then, with me, remain.
Sharp as its edges, coarse time vanishes,
Like the bacchant’s memory, your form’s bare.
Soft feet brushed by sands, lips seal promises.
Exiled, like your gown, we don’t belong there.
See through me, Cinderella, take my hand.
Your name’s gold-dust; I’ll sign it in the sand.
This poem is something of a thematic continuation of 'the little glass slipping'. I fused the petrarchan octave with shakespearean sestet to form a unique sonnet that explores romantic love and lust respectively. Hope you guys enjoy!
I am not Cinderella
There is no glass slipper on my feet
I don't need no Prince Charming
I am already complete

My story is no fairy tale
This does not end the way you think
Reality is harsher than fiction
Good guys don't always win

I am not Cinderella
I traded my ball gown for ripped jeans
I don't need no Prince Charming
I am already Queen
alternative fairy tale
SophiaAtlas Sep 2020
If Cinderella
Was a cooking slave
Instead of a
Cleaning slave,
Her name would be....
Ken Pepiton Sep 2020
Aristotle at my fingertips,
not locked in soliloquies I may perform,
but heard from an Oxford don I have
in my pocket,
as I lean into each lesson and trudge
up and down my morning
where the firebreak meets
chaparral alive with cottontail
this morning, when I almost said, "it's too hot."

C'mon, walk a mile with me… like
on the road to Emmaus, but Christ, no;
this character,
a soldier in me, about to salt out, bids me,
walk a mile, "not two, one
does the trick."
The thought comes
as a dare from the Ralston Purina guy,
and I stepped onto my trail.
I dare think Aristotle's thoughts after Plato's,
I could have known this when I was younger,
but not to this degree,

if I had not dropped out, and never knew,
by rote,
to pass a test, that
"All men by nature desire to know."
This is
Curiosity, right? I suspect it is a gift.

The joy we find in sensation, proof
offered the gainsayer,
I say again, that which is good for nothing
naturally exists, so
what tool forms an eye to notice that…

see, through the window
of my poetic-pathetic e-thoughtic soul
a feathery
family of phoebe birds, flits by,
if that is the proper name
{Tufted-Titmouse, my AI replies},
tails reflecting a smokey blue hue,
they swoop and flutter past;
I see
in a non-imaged flashpast pattern
from a time in the summer of 1969…

Disneyfied trails
from Cinderella's dressing room
scene, not seen, but reminded of seeing,
the pattern, in this phantomind dance,
being witnessed now, as
this old soldier once saw it
performed by bluer birds than these…

Time skipper
shifts to another bubble intersecting mine

I hear a worried neighbor fret about the fire.
I almost say,
"One of the benefits of being
backedup to the cloud,

nothing to lose."

But I remember, she collects purses and shoes.
Ah, I share an edge dwellers accent if I talk about tech to myself. I suspect I always have sounded like Little Luke McCoy, and now I hear Walter Brennan.
Pyrrha Jul 2020
She's a reflection of those who survived great pains
Shes what every person who's ever been hurt wishes they could have turned into
Turned their pain and bitterness into redemption and possibility as she did
Transformed their trauma and loss into kindness and dreams
But not everyone has a fairy godmother
Not everyone can hum and smile away the hurt as she does
But she smiles as if she didn't cry herself to sleep every night
As if she didn't wish upon every star to save her
As if she didn't beg her dreams to stay just a moment longer
As if her loneliness didn't drive her to madness as the mice and birds began to feel like family

But she gave them hope in ways no one else could
Hope that one day they can smile away every trace of a tormented past
Hope that one day poets will write sonnets in their name
Hope, it was her gift to the broken
Abby Jul 2020
Cinderella is the story that most young girls start out with
She is the character that we looked up to
As we get older we are told to not be Cinderella because she was weak and needed a prince to save her
But let me tell you something
It’s okay to need saving and it’s okay to need help in order to be saved
And it’s definitely okay to be weak
There are some times you need to be weak in order to know what being strong feels like
This is where my head is right now, I’m not entirely sure why but I felt like it needed to be said
Reappak May 2020
Leaves crunched, he ripped through the wind
His fur gleaming bright,
Anger, fury, wrath, danced in his eyes
But deep down he blushed
His Cinderella watched him with warm smiles
She was finally in love,
with this wild night creature
Next page