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perhaps the moth
simply doesn't know
the strength of
its own wings
but the way it flutters
seemingly erratic
        in its choices
never straight forward
        in its direction
can be infuriating at times
as those silken sails
appear to force it
where none expect it to be
in disjointed circles
often far off course
only occasionally
will it find itself
exactly where it should be
whether accidentally
         or by design
its every path is filled
with calculated corrections
revisions and redress
in order to reach
its intended
that source of light
one way or another
at breakfast
another hotel restaurant
another choice to be made
of mediocre cooked
or bland continental
a fish bowl
of floor to ceiling
panoramic windows
strangers passing
insignificantly through
one another's universes
parents desperate
to negotiate the morning
without a scene
suits with shirt and tie
top buttons undone
for now
retiree couples
happy in each others silence
or those lucky ones
who still find words
when alone together
or the curious
solo diners
alone and lost
in their own thoughts
or striving to hide
how they watch
those others
as they go about
their business
of goodness-knows-what
another banquet shared
unbeknownst to all
in attendance
a gentle patter of rain
tapping politely
at the window
not tempestuously
but imposing enough
in its constancy
a passive aggressive reminder
from the heavens
of our ultimate
lack of control
such a minor obstacle
and yet it tips
the scales of
what was planned
or hoped for
to something perhaps
not yet considered
i thought i had
no intention of
leaving the house
but find myself
rolling my eyes
with huff and sigh
cursing the grey
for ruining
that potential

by lunchtime
windscreens glisten with
newly welcomed sunlight
reflected blindingly
from droplets that linger
despite the fresh warmth
carried in the convective air
it no longer appears
to be "coat weather"
though the ground
is still puddled
to squelch or
splash underfoot
perhaps i could venture
outside after all
with a motivation
fuelled by this
latest change
but for all the blue
stretching the sky
there is still that
darkened mass of cloud
hanging heavy in the distance
unable to tell if it has
been weathered already
or is another downpour
yet to come
JD Apr 17
There is a war happening
Which side is the right/wrong?
How do I stop the war
Before my head explodes!
Carlo C Gomez Mar 16
She egresses from a pool of blue and straight into the colorless, Californian dregs of summer.

Each passing plane reminding her how stuck she is.

The question remains whether some people are doomed to just survive, a yearning for freedom following them around, until they learn to numb themselves to such aspirations.

Faraway trains pass by.

The sound in their whistles knowing the events she will litigate with herself for years to come until it empties the contents of her soul.
his hands
are firmly wedged
inside pockets
unwilling to risk
exposure to this
frost-coated morning
if he tripped
or slipped
even then
he would not rely
on their numbed support
he could not trust
that they would do
what was necessary
if called upon
deep in the sherpa-lined
abyss of his coat
his fingers remain
protected in gloves
clenched and wriggling
with all hopes resting
on a return
   of warmth
   of bloodflow
   of feeling
before he gets home
before central heating
   and chill-blains
turn his frozen tips
into scalding rods
when there is
no use but
to desperately
and ironically wish
that he could not
feel anything
at all
David Bryan Feb 6
there was a boy who used to smile
always beaming from ear to ear
but he gave his heart to the wrong person
now he is all tears
wes parham Jan 10
There has to be something to show the way,
In the fumbling flash of thoughts and just how,
As night draws us closer to each dawning day,
Where we plan for a future that grows out of now.

There has to be something to do or to say,
In a stumbling dash to prevent or allow,
The night that approaches to soothe a bright day,
Where the words resonate and the sound is just…
Grown from free associating, and probably about the feelings when reading another person’s verse.  The best ones come falling out, imperfect but fully formed anyway, right?  I feel like my best poetic writing are ones whose origin I couldn’t clearly tell you; whose meaning isn’t completely clear.
Cody Haag Nov 2022
There are many things to desire,
In this world of frost and fire.
I know not where to look,
Who is friend, who is liar.

Many paths exist, calling my name,
Some born in modesty, some in fame.
Despite this, I ignore them all,
Buried deep within my shame.
Nicole Aug 2022
At the edge of a cliff
My heart sprints like a bullet
My arms tremble impatiently
Waiting for my decision
Do I stay on solid ground
Where the illusion of safety is a blanket
Only faintly covering
The truth of impending doom?
Or do I dive into the unknown
Hoping to splash into water
And avoid the jagged land?
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