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I laid my pen and line to rest for twenty seasons
as the frost settling in my mind and fingers, warmed up to dream
only to waken again by the grace of a lover,
a muse unlike any other,
a kaleidoscope of raining colours.

With the twinkling of your eyes,
the words fell out of my head,
parading on papers for the world to see
just as my veins welcomed the warmth of creativity.

You are the vision behind every verse I'm founding,
thirteen in counting,
a finer motive than fresh air and tranquil sleep
every fibre is clawing at me to keep you close
to never fade away like a withering rose.

Will my senses still serve me without your touch?
Will I ever write again if I let myself forget
the melody of your voice and your silhouette?
I'm not ready to find out just yet.

We have taken a vow, my pen and I
to keep you alive, for an age or two
or however long it might take to find
our glory in someone new.

Copyright © 2020 by S. Y. Kalindara. All rights reserved.
Thinking about how I stopped writing for 5 years until I met Jordan and he inspired me in ways I didn't think possible. I'm still writing because of him, and about him. I feel like I can't let go, that I'll disgrace his memory if I do.
Yolanda Oct 14
In the morning the  sun gives farewell
to the moon and in the night time
the moon gives farewell
to the sun that's their routine.
Spicy Digits Oct 14
Poetry is the portal to the release of grief
But why?

I want to say the things I never could

The inner weird

The trauma

And concluding hopefulness

In the melody of a poem
In the sweetness of a song.

I want to express my early life
In it's rawness,


And pain

In the arms of soft decorative ribbons
And shiny metallic hearts.
You're sitting in the room alone, comfortable in yourself.
That's when someone else walks in,
and now you're someone else.
Add on to it with a few lines of your own. Let's see where it goes.
ChinHooi Ng Oct 1
Ancient temple bathed in morning sun

lotus blooms quietly in front of the hall

here i am an uninvited visitor

lost in the golden Sanskrit sounds

bells of the temple echo deep in the mountains

looking at the solemn face of Buddha

unspeakable thoughts flow slow

thousands of books i've read

just to find an answer

thousands of miles traveled

just to find a place where the soul can dwell.
Jenie Sep 16
Existing unrest exacerbated or
change in climate lowering the cloud cover
surrounding the mountain peaks For once
visible the centuries of suffering
now leading us into violence The
tables upturned by an invention spreading
like wildfire across dry meadows
or storm rivers under the seas
Bewildering Frankenstein monster
a stage for
the flowers of the brains to radiate
in strands of light above the lands
discoveries and creations
passion and truth and
kindness valued in
a world in transit An echo
of upheavals from ninety five theses
when the rolling waves of knowledge open
for children to follow their drive
where it takes them
A transfer to learn
without belonging pains while
we downsize our upkeep
and upsize our bonds
our unfettered feet buried in the sand and our
heads held where the wind blows and the
sun shines We dance
We sing to a tune freed
on our way to be and to become
and together
in time
save what can be
                                     or end with beauty
Myself reading it on soundcloud, a first try despite my accent!

Ice melting, political upheavals, positives of social media, impact of printing press and Martin Luther's ninety five theses, knowledge available, alternative schooling, minimalism, mindfulness, music accessible. This is a kind of reverse follow up on 'Social media - A modern coliseum'
Izzy Sep 14
Creativity is a coping mechanism for those disillusioned by the reality
Norman Crane Sep 10
My writing desk
My chair
A slap to the face
Fingers running through my hair
I will words
Which refuse to appear
I will
That which I will always fear
That only the quill knows how to be sincere
Unbuttoned shirt
A battered sternum
Under the hurt
The heart
Blooms the poisonous laburnum
Beating like a drum
I insert the quill
Holding in
Until it's had its fill of yellow ink
I do not think but write
Numbed but the words appear alright
I repeat until the flowers pass their bloom
And blackened fill the room
My throat is dry
My writing desk is wet
By my laburnum blood and sweat
Time to rest
To sew up my open chest
To sleep and in the morning feel again
Anatomical garden
Quill pen
The best
floods through
the writer’s pen,

A wildfire of shooting stars
across papery rows
of crisp oat fields

The most delicious
imbue the reader
down crowny heads
out waltzing feet,

A lyrical nectar
ejecting the soul
into the stratosphere
Blind Pathos Sep 8
You can see it in a drowned man’s eyes
In the pawn shop window I just passed
Frosty truths that come to the table uninvited

The poet and the truth
Face to face, one whistles, one listens
The napkins fill with cognitive snapshots

The poet drowns in words
Just wanting to say something
Or hear it said at all

The dying words from a poet’s mouth
Blow about in autumn color
Drifts and piles that shape the years of practice

What's worth saying has to be said by someone
So a poet goes looking and would suppose
That words rubbed together right would produce

Word museum sentences ripe with meaning
Phantasms haunting great books and minds
Torches lighting the way for all

The poet takes aim and fires
At the fog of meaning
He tugs at God’s coat tail
We are creators, created in the image of God. Like the fish we are having a hard time realizing the water around us. There is more that has not been created than has been.
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