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casper Nov 2020
My writing will never be nice.
It will never have rhyme or reason or hold iambic pentameter.
It is not typewritten on aged paper bought from a small bookstore, carried home hurriedly under a black coat in a downpour.
My experiences are not universal,
on the contrary,
they are painfully singular stories.
My writing will never be featured in a book,
or on the front page of a trusted source,
it will be buried away in a desk,
dormant with the other scraps of musings once cherished.
I am not one like Keats, Byron, Frost, Dickinson, or Poe,
I, for all intents and purposes, am a fawn lost in the forest,
admiring the sights and sounds around me,
listening to those wise ones who can describe them in such perfect tone.
It would be fair to say that I am not even a poet,
I am simply a brain that thinks,
A body that moves,
And a soul that feels that very special something.
Dated for the day it was written.
Norman Crane Aug 2020
Two posts emerged on my Facebook,
And sorry I could not peruse both
And be one user, long I stood
And scrolled down one as far as I could
To where it went into a long blockquote;

Then read the other, as just as shared,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was classy and about footwear;
Though as for that the likes there
Had rated them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
I believe with no comments written back.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever tap back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two posts emerged on my Facebook, and I—
I read the one less thumbed-up by,
And that has made all the difference.
michael Jun 2020
Around time scarred columns,
Sun bleached waves swell.
No songs or poems
Can say
What these weathered walls tell.
susanna demelas May 2020
First, Mother Nature met Diana.

Mother nature, autonomous woman
Place the elixir of life onto my tongue,
Three drops, put your mouth above mine
Let your saliva drip in
Touching the roof of my mouth.

I’ll now tilt my head back,
Choking as it runs down my throat,
A beautiful agony, as always
Into my body,
Down to my stomach,
The tonic of life,
Our life.
Now we shall create.

Second of all, with fountains of love, they created a child. They went on to call her Rosina.

let your bees come in,
pollinating, creating life
but only under my terms,
only when i choose
to let them feast upon me

let a small peach form
on the branches of my womb
but let her core be poisonous
hydrogen cyanide,
to keep thieves at bay

if my body is a garden,
let it be ripe,
ever growing, ever flowering
a stretch of soft grass,
for us to lay our heads

mother, mother, daughter
the heavens will sing.
The Fortune's orange blush and light-gold face cross the pale-greeness of the stone decay. Though the crone vale and the mountains star-peaked high above, itself may rotten well, no loneliness resides in the Palace Divine; for among the chambers ruined and the bronzy-bluish of the Nile mosaic, her voice maternal, glorified; the Primordial Force, she echoes in the mind - not distant, but as if from a cloud. The Call is sweet and known from the Time when body was souless or soul bodiless, she cried: "Nature, Nature, take your part! Leave me strandless and light: I beg you; do let me be brave, alone and might! "
I wrote this after my university project on the sanctuary of Fortune in Praeneste
Maria Etre Jan 2020
When everyone is going forward
I find myself
backwards to the simpler things
Yue Wang Yitkbel Oct 2019
Though the sift of time may sort
Beyond our comprehension, unseen
We may infer its shape from
Whatever marbles remain
Unbroken, and defying decay

Grains of truth and wit with just enough
Substance and optional glamour
To survive the great mesh of necessity
And bright enough to be cherished
By well nourished seekers of more
Never too dull, lest overlooked
But also
Never too bright to incite fright

Never one of innumerable sand
Washed away with the prints of men
Never a fabled relic, stranger to hands
A maze promising truth, yet with no end

The sun brings you warmth
The moon guides your flight
The Needed begs no envy
But relieves your plight

So don't distance yourself from
The thoughts of Old
Still so simple and intimate
As if in voices new

Raise a drink
And warmly cling
Love the great tomes of high above
Not as never reachable untouchable
Shrines of forgotten kings and gods
But as your dearest friend or perhaps
Even as a reunited lover, long separate
By the scarcity of soul pouring words
Reluctantly replaced with fleeting
Musings of often rapidly dissipating
Bland taste
Of fulfillment and disappointment
Never lasting enjoyment

Leaving us with hunger and thirst
For the seasoned fruits of old
That only visits ever so often
But each moment with, spent so
Cherished and with fear of time
Passing, as
A childhood tale, swiftly unfold,
Too briefly told
Left dreaming for once more
Often only to be granted in pages
Wrinkled and stained, shaped
By fate’s mold

Those pals that you’ll ever remember
Those gems that you’ll constantly
Caress over and over again
Those greats of highest degree
Are they so overdressed till envy
Till too heavy, and invites mockery
Are they so kissed by sugar till ****
Unconsumed, banished to rot

They are all soft and familiar
Always with the present
Of the ease to comprehend
As if you know them
All your life

Your Blakes, Shelley's and Shakespeare
Your timeless contemporaries
They never command as gods above
Or hide behind too much whimsy
Always a wise elder, a ***** friend
In sorrow, in passion, in dreams, in fright
Baring the truth like a mother’s wisdom
Or the sure brightness of lone stars at night

Prepare yourself for tomorrow sifts
By sharing the shape of collected past
In essence, not in likeness
For if you dress your soul
To not fall through
In great stones’ cast off dust
When the brush of time greets you
Your disguise will fall off
Lest you waste your growth
On shimmering cloaks
And when judged truly
To be found not as a pearl
But a grain in others’ clothes

If you fill the entire night sky with sparks
How will they find the one guiding star
No shadow to hide, to soften the light
Everyman be lost

If you pride yourself bearing golden straws
They will shower you with praising remarks
But when time leaves you behind after dusk
It’ll be dark as you crush

So tread plainly with only what and
All you are
With timid steps, and light feet
And only must in your keep
You’ll go far You’ll go far
Till steady heights beyond the lofty larks

Where children ceaselessly dream
Where children ceaselessly sing
Where Children Forever, we are.
Truth Bares Itself Plain
By: Yitkbel Yue Xing ****
Tuesday, October 8, 2019 6:07
Aramitz J Durant Sep 2019
She had meteoroids falling from her mouth
when she spoke, a wish waiting
to be granted, and she murmured
to the young Adonis: forget me not,

and he, bare-faced, beautiful, perhaps
more than she, held her in his arms
as if she were Aphrodite herself
and promised: forget me not.

He always said the planets
aligned when they met, the sun
alight in her laugh and the moon
alive in her smile of darkness;

and he, alabaster, like a work
of Duquesnoy, shattered as the meteor crashed
through his love, terracotta rooftop,
the forget-me-nots burning, his hands stained like merlot.

And the girl with bluebell eyes,
stars on her tongue, teeth like the milky way,
looked to the angel-faced boy and hissed:
forget me not.
Aurora RW Aug 2019
As love flows free beneath the trees,
Thy heart unbound eternally by love
Poisoning self with the disease,
True love knows no shame, nor bounds
Thyself is ruined in love, forever to be
Stuck among the stars,
The heart is open, never to close
In the center of this destruction
Heart is unbound, unstrung,
All hope of salvation
Lost to this consumption
She feared a most dreadful act
His lips parted and love reached his lips onto hers
Her face pale,
His eyes grew with passionate sincerity.
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