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Kirsty Taylor Apr 25
I didn't know when I'd see you again,
Four years loved and lost,
Right here.

Every time I leave,
I leave a part of myself behind.
My old self lived here.

Can I learn to love you again?
I watched lives get lost living here,
I lost friends and family here.
I cried and screamed here.

I watched people get married,
I saw relationships begin.
I laughed and smiled here.

No matter how far,
You never leave my heart.
Life took a turn,
And now I'm here.

I'm ready for my next move,
I can see myself growing old here.
But I also dream of leaving here.

The time has come,
The streets glow in the winter sun.
Auld Reekie, how I missed you.
It's good to be back with you.
Josh Hill Nov 2020
In your dreams
And in your memories
It is there.
Wild fantasy.

Don’t pretend that you don’t chase it
Like a toddler playing make-believe.
And don’t pretend you don’t yearn for it
Like a roaring thirst you cannot quench.

In the dreamscape,
We all run free
And let our thoughts run amok,
But I know you have that wild fantasy.

Through the meadows of your mind
Past the daisies of yesterday,
And the poppies of tomorrow
You chase the little menace.

Into the fields of wheat
That seem like your emotions.
Past the grain silo
That vaguely resembles your memories.

And soon you catch her,
Your mischievous little sister.
You can’t remember what was on your mind before
So the two of you walk back to the farm and

You just enjoy
Your wild life;
In wild fantasy
We are more real than we will ever be.
Susy Kamber Oct 2020
The sound of the leaves written primarily by trees.
As such was the beauty heard plainly with ease.
Up mountains, round rivers.
A song for the birds.
For the people that fly there.
Across valleys was heard.
Now what be the mention of this, you may wonder,
Alone to unravel the blur from down under.
A song can be sung from the language of trees.
I heard in the sky and then carried to thee.
https://www.susykamber.com/
Ekphrastic Poetry Explores Art
Solomon N May 2020
Days' number and my value decays
So I set out to seek that of eternal worth

At a focal moment, the map now walks before me
So I move closer for better inspection
Still, I am treading on foreign lands.

I do not want to be in darkness
I keep myself close to the lighthouse, and my beacon always in reach
Curiously pondering over a reflection of myself

I am convicted and the turbulence of escape has exhausted my potential

I trace the course as each nautical mile pulls me further away from the typical reality
I am afraid to lose

And yet by myself, there is no point to prove
Keeping myself afloat has drawn all my energy
And I am frozen from being afraid to sink
This is inspired by the idea of being withdrawn from society without actually burning any bridges - hence the lighthouse. The beacon can be a cellphone - the quickest way to call for help. Yet I am exploring. The picture of the reflection of myself is very important as it inspired the idea of being out at sea but I am not searching for myself rather, I am searching for like-minded people.
Natasha Bailey Jan 2020
For Better, or For Worse,
I am blessed with a curse,
with each verse spoken,
clouds dance the skies to heaven,
mountains move, as mother nature is awoken,
she is pleeing for world peace, on her knees- begging
rain trickles down trees,
and off leaves,
into running rivers.
feeding the diverse universe
effie ebbtide Oct 2019
all mirrors serve a purpose
set me reverse a mean law
all mean men serve a ream list
send me reverse no meme law
all mean ones serve a reed nest
send me reverse no meme law
all mean ones serve a reed nest
poetry instruction:
you will need audio software capable of reversing audio, like audacity.
think of a sentence, phrase, or other series of words.
record this slowly, and reverse the audio.
transcribe what you hear as close to existing words as possible.
record your transcription and reverse that, transcribe again, and repeat as much as you like or until you reach an equilibrium.
effie ebbtide Jun 2018
saturn's interior is probably composed of a core of iron–nickel and rock.
saturn's interior is probably composed by
one of those big-budget cinematic musicians who abuse the cello -- the soundtrack's coming soon.
saturn's interior is probably composed of a core of iron like the statue of liberty
saturn's interior is probably composed of a core of copper like the statue of liberty (i forgot what the statue
of liberty was made of, i apologize, it's hard for me to keep track of these things
like what statues are made of what and which state capital has the highest population and who my state senator is).
saturn's exterior is probably not composed of a core of iron–nickel and rock.
saturn's interior is the only part that's solid;
my interior is the only part that's solid.
saturn's interior is probably composed
of a core virtue, patience or compassion, the same virtues hammered in in elementary school.
i remember when i was in elementary there were these seven posters showing the core virtues (i forget what most of them were.)
i was confused over compassion and respect, thinking they were the same thing.
the poster for self-control showed a boy looking over a table of cakes --
i suppose the point was that he was not eating them
but i bet he started eating them after the picture was shot.
saturn's interior is probably not made of cake.
saturn's interior is probably not very self-controlling.
saturn's interior is probably composed saturn's interior.
expanding upon a simple notion
Lemon Tree Jun 2018
Sometimes,

And only sometimes,

The walls crack and

Burst forth



Blessings, an ode to the Silent—

All who see it—by which all do see it,
See its sound, round the feet that start to tap, to

Symphonies, to newer worlds than ours.



Resonating upon these empty halls,

Orchestrated by voices,

Never slurred or sharpened or slid so often:

Elegiac or elegied. We are uncertain.

The walls break, though,

And burst forth bounty

Letting ring amongst masses
(That which we whisper afterwards)


Originating light, itself, beaconing



Overheads, above

Newspapers, narrowed eyes, nocturne night-owls

Across, around ticks and boxes, circled, crosses, texts, and line-borders

Resonating upon our empty halls, walls, all;

Poco a poco, almost piano, punctuating,

Odes to joy and a chorale for something—

Sometimes



and only
some
times.
We break down our own walls

and bring forth
blessings.
A simple exercise involving the simple concept of music as a metaphor for something, and how we are all connected despite our differences.
Mark Wanless Apr 2018
"Why Even Try"

Why even try to name the nameless
Why even shape any shape
Only to ungrasp the form created
Tainted with conceptual suffering
From the root throughout eventually
Holding no thing when it happens
In an unpredictable flash of moment?

To ease the pain of healing
Anne Jul 2017
Perched atop a table, surrounded by some jazz

Sits a pink rose as glamorous as

A golden age Hollywood starlet  

This rose is nocturnal, resides in her own darkness


The rose lives in shades of grey  

Like the remnants of cigarettes in a nearby ashtray

With the occasional ring of cherry red lipstick  

Her intoxicating perfume makes men sick


The fragrance of a pink rose

Never does as shes told

Circulates the room like a cloud of smoke

And dances around as if life were a joke  


Almost transparent in the full moon’s light  

A breeze knocks the perfume out of sight  

Natural Beauty is an oddity of her own

With blush pink petals, this rose stands alone


The fragrance drifts out of town  

Near some trailer parks, waiting for something to go down        

Traveled along the highway’s long, slick road

The fragrance belongs in a dream world of her own


Some dare to bottle her, capture her essence

Fools! Will they ever learn their lesson?

Somethings must remain untouched by man

For they have been beautiful since their lives began.
This poem is inspired by  

Josef Breitenbach’s artwork, “Fragrance of a Pink Rose”,

New York, 1945.
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