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Leslie Ledezma Apr 2019
I enjoy collecting evidence of God
rush of a feeling that it’s all going to happen soon
I’d be a liar if I didn’t fess up
your eyes helped show how soon
love the old songs, like em, don’t belong to none
not afraid, are you? implore on
for everything, expect expanses wide as nothing
just as it has always been, drift with this smoke ribbon
into the dream called now is all
Deb Jones Mar 2018
She seems like a bumble bee
Quick and flighty

Her eyes always flitting
Her gaze ever flirty

People are drawn to her
They love her liveliness and charm

Her attention casually given
So lovely and warm

Her words are like wine
You feel heady and drunk

You want to be closer
To be noticed and loved

It's so warm
That attention of hers

But she is looking for treasures
Assessing worth

She collects hearts
No matter the cost

Being caught in her net
Doesn't feel bad

The knowing look in her eyes
Doesn't offend

It's like having a secret
Unknown to the rest

What no one sees
Is that gaze they admire

Is furtive and restless
Tallying the tolls

Assessing treasures
To line her nest

Taking and using
Her charm is all gilt

A thin layer of gold
Covering her soul

Do you never wonder why
Most of her crowd are men?

She is a Magpie
She has collected you
Peter B Oct 2018
I collect dreams,
I've got loads of them
at my tiny place -
they are everywhere!

On my bedroom floor,
in the corridor,
in the kitchen, stacked
on the wash-machine,

next to plates and mugs.
And under the sink.
In the cellar, and
in the attic too.

They are - everywhere,
no place left, no room.

But I'd never wanted
to chuck them away -
I believe my dreams
will come true one day.
Poetic T Jul 2017
I collect sea shells listening to
the voices within, telling me
what I need to think....

But I'm fractured like every
one I listen too...

Hearing a sea of voice drowning
in the vocalization of self..
I listen in cracked shells listening
for the drowning voice of myself.
Clare Margaret Jul 2017
Your hands spell trouble--paradoxically,
in red bruises that swell and blue
veins that reach outward
past the skin,
searching for something fragile but intangible--like the song
of a rare bird or the color that a peach turns
one moment before ripeness--to cup in your hands
and then preserve
in the wooden box bolted down
underneath your bed--if only
you could figure out how to open it.

The box locks and unlocks
and you were never given a key.

Sometimes you hang from your bed
and try to tease the box open with your eyes,
praying to the absent stars that your brain will fall
through to the top of your skull
and click open the lock with its flipped-over thoughts.

You wink at the lock and it winks back,
but does not reveal its contents
and only flirts with the idea of openness.

After a while you swing yourself upright and lie with open hands
until your palms’ little collection of colors and sounds floats toward the ceiling
in an exhale so quiet, it borders on silence.

And you close your eyes,
allowing the darkness to empty your mind
of its divine fullness.
CautiousRain Apr 2016
What are the chances,
a woman like me,
so obsessed with flowers,
branches and leaves,
finds something so beautiful,
so lovely pressed against my chest,
so intoxicating,
that without another thought,
I had to have him too?
I just collect so many flowers, leaves, sticks, pinecones, and rocks that my desk still looks like the outside.
He's just so beautiful, like the things I collect, I want to hold him close and look at him forever.
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