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After the Deluge
by Michael R. Burch

She was kinder than light
to an up-reaching flower
and sweeter than rain
to the bees in their bower
where anemones blush
at the affections they shower,
and love’s shocking power.

She shocked me to life,
but soon left me to wither.
I was listless without her,
nor could I be with her.
I fell under the spell
of her absence’s power.
in that calamitous hour.

Like blithe showers that fled
repealing spring’s sweetness;
like suns’ warming rays sped
away, with such fleetness ...
she has taken my heart—
alas, our completeness!
I now wilt in pale beams
of her occult remembrance.

Keywords/Tags: deluge, flood, rain, power, shower, swept away, absence, lost, vanished
A Simillacrum Apr 2019
Had a thicc fog,
had a dark bog
and its bad, bad
presence, manifest
and ****** me.

Here I thought it left me.

I think leaves me over,
over and over, again.

Had its tendrils
fill the holes full,
fill me with hope,
pull out suddenly
and depress me.

I thought it came for me,

turns out it does leave,
turns out it leaves,

most likely, when I need it.

So,
Bright Beam,
I offer you refuge,
I offer you         my bad blood,
If you'll only do
What I need done
I offer you         my ill love,
I offer you deluge,
Bright Beam,
So,

Please,
Fill me up.
Jade Mar 2019
Tears percolate from
round, fishbowl eyes,
cheeks a sting
with salt
and loneliness.

I barter with the deluge,
hold my breath
for as long as my lungs
will permit
until a motley of colour
bruises over my vision.

And I can't help but think:
perhaps fainting is
the next best thing to dying,
especially when you are too afraid
to commit to the permanence
of killing yourself.

My only dilemma?

What am I to do with myself--
with the tears--
once I regain consciousness?
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

jadefbartlett.wixsite.com/tickledpurple

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience.)
TheMystiqueTrail Sep 2018
You always transcend my sadness
with your hypnotic stillness,
your entrancing symphonies.

My thoughts go back to the banks of Langat*,
where one day a little boy sat alone,
just only five,
bewildered, in a canoe.

From the sea,
from the streams,
from the rain,
you chanted a calming mantra to soothe him,
calling him to dissolve
in your awe-inspiring presence.

Your aquamarine sheen paints
the intricacies of all that I'm.
In the cool blue depth of your stillness,
I long to create the tabernacle of my being.

Never I thought
your melodies could become
the war cry of a devilish psyche!

Today I'm perplexed,
when I hear the anguished human cries
from the twirls of your turbid anger.

I realise
you’ve become an enigma
that pulls me to the depths of a
crazy conundrum.

How many more shades of anger you hide
in the burning red heart of the mantra you chant
to give me a heavenly bliss, Oh Water?
* Langat is a river that separates Carey Island (Pulau Carey), an island in Selangor, Malaysia, from the Selangor coast.

NOTE: My love affair with water started when I was in my mother's womb! It continues even today. Water has become so integral to me that it sustains my spirit in its fullness!
trf Sep 2018
I'm covered from head to toe in resin, acrylics and epoxy,
Some pulverized rocks my son gathered from the Chattooga River,
Now reduced to a burnt ember dust.
I added silicone sludge and a little baking powder as well,
And once mixed, this dicey concoction is beautifully toxic,
So I waft the air and inhale it.

Painting a colorful sunset is too easy, I prefer black and white,
So with a wooden board the size of a door,
I get to work with my rubber sledgehammer, blowtorch
A gallon of poison and flammable spray.

The passers by have seen this look in eyes,
From The Shining or possibly their preachers,
You know, the same look that's a sight to behold.

Slamming the hammer down with brute force
And purposed abandonment,
I paint my sunset and wrangle the stars later.
A shower won't do me justice>
Here's Johny
K Balachandran Aug 2018
Net fish from doorstep,
In deluged water world;
Beat rain’s curse this once!
Jesse stillwater Jul 2018
there are the ones
that feel it climb up
the shadow towards the light,
hesitation on every rung,
each wave of the arising
      overwhelms  unabated ―
and woe betides those
who are on the run
from a storm's deluge


A rousing ocean breeze
stirs inside the memory
of an unframed seashell
lying on the hearth mantel;
heightened sensitivity
lapping soundlessly,
spindrift plashing
the shoreline
of another world's
feigned peace


Perhaps the muted voice
of guilty pleasures,
hushed by their own
hidden truths
Feeling the unfelt textures
of every stifled vibration
left unbreathed


The naked truth befallen
so cold and lonely
Running in circles,
volatile as all those
     unspoken excitations raging ―
and the whispers of those
who hear not
the voices in the wind


An emotionally enslaved  heart
tarries,  marooned high and dry
in a memory on a distant sand bar
     lain fallow for so long ―
stagnant darkness
of an unsated soul
gathered on the back
of a parched tongue
sullied wordless


Rising up through
a dusty hieroglyph corridor
through an unlocked
labyrinth gate;  vestige echoes
from somewhere left behind
in an incomprehensible
abandoned wake


It's getting harder and harder
   for an insatiable soul to breathe ...
   climbing up a tree trunk―
up within the silence
of the listening tree


  Toes dug into
the rough bark furrows ―
fingers reaching upwards
beyond their deepest known grasp


A shadow stranded
out on a hangin' bough
hearkening without ears that hear:
“perhaps they’ll listen now“  
the wingless bird sings
in psalms that fly away
on tattered feathers
over untamed waters roil


Back to nature’s waning youth,
the bough bends unbroken
to taste the freedom
of the wild absolving seas



Jesse Stillwater
June     2018
Notes:                                                                                                          
a friend sent  a link to a deeply thought provoking modern classic 70's song about Vincent Van Gogh and the complexities of imperfection some of us relate .... i'd listened to the words prior but never heard before now.

  Title is last final lyric line from:  "Vincent" (Starry, Starry night) 1971
Writer(s): DON MCLEAN, ENRICO NASCIMBENI,
ROBERTO VECCHIONI
A Henslo Sep 2017
What antiquated tongue as such
Hissed Eden's serpent to get in touch?
Angelic would probably not be true
Possibly Arabic or perhaps Hebrew
But almost certainly it wasn't Dutch

What dikes would Noah's land comprise
If these polder pros had been about
And the deluge struck fields fitted out
With some deft water controlling device?
Would we have preserved our paradise?
First illustrated publication Dec. 6, 2016 www.facebook.com/a.henslo.poetry/posts/1797306240533810
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