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anonymous Aug 2024
delicate petals unfold
and swallows swoop and glide
in a dance of new beginnings
as the earth breathes
a gasp of renewal
and green stretches
from beneath the cold grey

each bud
is a promise
each raindrop
a melody
and the sun
wraps its arms
around the world
lifting shadows
with gentle warmth

as hope blooms
in every corner
i grow with the flowers
learning to bloom
in the season of becoming
as spring whispers
softly through the trees
Hadrian Veska Aug 2024
Dreamed about for centuries,
humanity finally now knew they were not alone in the universe.

They had arrived in such a manner that our instruments detected them only three days before their arrival.

Some believed it was an attack, or a mere scouting party for a larger force, others believing the ship was actually derelict, operating on autopilot long after its occupants perished.

Soon, both those theories were put to rest as the ship landed and indeed life forms emerged from it.

But there was no diplomacy with them, no greeting of peace or aggression.

They exited their craft, the hulking oblong thing that it was and merely wandered.

For weeks and months, a half dozen of them crossed fields, climbed hills, sat in the woods, splashed in streams and just generally meandered.

They had no weapons, no advanced tools to aid in their travels, they had what appeared simple fibrous blankets, a large metallic ***, dulled by age and a single instrument with which to light fires.

Any attempt by political, military or media figures to approach them and engage with them in any communicative way failed as they showed no interest.

No one dared to try and corral them anywhere, for fear yet that it was some kind of strange survey party, one that would report back to a much large fleet or home world.

Yet after a time of a little less than a year they had returned to their ship. there was no message, no waving goodbye. They simply closed the door and after a few minutes of undoubtedly preparing their instruments they left.

The world then waited. Years, decades and centuries for another visit.

Searching, determining, where the ship had gone and from where it came.

But it's origin or destination were never located.


No subsequent visit came.
Maria Mitea Aug 2024
when you watch the shadow crawl from the floor to the wall,
a branch falls,
the dawn crushed in the palms fades,
the spiral of smoke despairs of its own act,
not to enter your sight, moves aside,
evolution worked on these blue eyes for millions of years, no joke,
you follow every move
like a spy
the shadow returns:
- be wild again, dive into the green water
sunlit,
with the arrow in the back,
call your arms, shout, swim,
she is a tide in the chest,
just a tide,
the moon an ellipse end, a chain,
it spins around his axis
like a hub,
the waters break the sky, bleed between the thighs,
innocence lets us see the valleys beneath her feet,
don't let your lungs melt into smoke like a forgotten spring
out of air,

like grass,
tender and gentle
the spring draws its life from the graves,
out of mourning,
that's why the murmur resembles a cry,
a sigh,
and thirst,
hunger,
and the river smooths the stream,
and the wind settles on your cheek, waits
a feather to fall on your head,
in the abyss
waiting for you to look at the sky, amazed, to ask: - who is hitting me,
who hits me every time i try to find solace,
refuge,
serenity,

when you watch the shadow crawl from the floor to the wall,
the murmur elevates any escape to the rank of genius
Q Aug 2024
The sticky sap crawls down my limbs
Violating the purity of flowers and foliage all around
I want to become one with the trees
One with the garden and dirt
From which I sprouted.

I look at the crimson endlessly pouring from my wound.
It lets me know that for now I am still human.
Not yet plant or earth but soon.
Soon I will be.

Maybe the creatures
will have families and love
So in death I could have
What I could not receive in life.
My bones will finally be a home
that they never were for me.
MetaVerse Aug 2024
Tiptoe through tulips aching big a toe
That breaks for every bee and blade of grass.
Who knows the mower hates to hear the mow,
Nightmare of ugly noise that passes gas.
Dilly and dally me through dandy kittens
Roaring like lions loathe to take an oath.
The present age is hot with extra mittens.
Organic earth is hell and heaven both.
Inhale the floral undergrowth of germs
That scent the summer's ***** flowerbirds,
Albeit worms are slimy snotty squirms
Delicious raw with ketchup made from turds.
Zephyr a sweetwind, winter wind with ice,
Earth is a hell that's partly paradise.


Henessy J Beltre Aug 2024
Humans on celestial bodies, if you exist, this is a message to you
In a billion plus a million years, when you find this book hidden in your sands
You'll close your eyes to imagine the beauty of the Earth,
Know that the sun once shined so bright it made our skin glow
The bodies of water hugged the Earth,
All while the moon and stars gave us hope

Humans on celestial bodies, if you exist, this is a message to you
Don’t be cruel to your 'Earth' like we once were
Let the tides of the ocean play with you until they knock you down
Just to look up at the stars as they light up the night sky
Remember, everything exhausting energy will some day die
Leave something so your souls won't look back and….

- Henessy J. Beltre
Coleen Mzarriz Jul 2024
"One firm step," she said. As shallow as she must be, one could think she radiates midnight, and while no one is looking, her lips are similar to Burgundy—soaked in wine and in her drunken state; resting her body as she sat mellowly where no one would choose those seats made for her—deluding herself that there's just too much space in between, and they danced around each other's thick skin while their gazes were fixed on her. "One firm step," she says, straightening her back.
 
Every day, she'd meet her own grim reaper in the shade of the earth's brown mist, kissed by her long, thick lashes as she closed her eyes, surrounded by the people she considered dead. As strange as it was, they didn't know her. There's one string of luck hanging side by side in hopes that she'll live another day.
 
At dusk, she'll attempt to accompany the earth's body at her expense. She'll whisper nice things, and they'll blush at the thought of her noticing them. She'll offer her hand and kiss the molds, and her lips, the tint of burgundy, will now be the same pigment as the earth's body, and they'll chuckle at the sight of her.
 
When the world is laughing at her, death stands still in front of her, waiting for her presence, but she remains still. When the sky cries for her, she gives him rainbows and butterflies, even though he hates them. And when she's alone at night, she kisses the flies roaming around her bed while he thinks of her—but then again, the expression of death is inevitable. It seems like he doesn't want her to be happy. She lets Earth do what he wants with her, even if her skin glows like ivory. She lets him soak her in his dark mists and long-tailed veins, and death starts to interfere again.
 
He shows up in a crowded room with his thousands of soldiers, pretty faces, and partygoers. In his simple armor and at the grocery store, in his childlike appearance and beggar state. She must have been so exhausted from showing up minutes later or arriving at his usual business hour—midnight. Even with the screen, she usually spends the rest of her day. He shows up. Death was persistent. He signifies everything she could've had, even the voices implanted inside her. They named him Death. Sometimes he's a song, a lyric, or an instrument she could not quite understand; the ring before the call was answered; the tap before the keyboard; the lump before it washes down by the water; the movement before she lays her eyes on.
 
He was once a person she grew tired of—but now a metaphor she'll always keep in the back of her notebook. And sometimes, he is an anecdote every old person mentions in their hospital bed. She was shallow, but he was a willow tree.
A swamp.
A locust.
A lover once.
Hi, it has been a while. It’s been months since I wrote something that I’d like to read. Now, I’m just rereading every piece that I scratched from the back of my notebook. I don’t feel like writing anymore. I don’t think it’s coming back, and I don’t think I’ll give it a chance again. There's not a day that I don’t think about it. At the back of my heart, I know it calls on me—in total solitude, in the noise of the world. I haven’t forgotten about it, but I’m tired of pretending that I still love writing. I’m often a wanderer, and a wanderer gets tired too—we get lost in the woods, in an empty grave, or on a blank page.

A wanderer sometimes loathes herself. I’m exhausted.

On the other hand, here’s a piece that I wrote back in 2022. 
I won't leave this page. I know I'll be able to bleed ink again. Maybe I'd write my next piece on my skin—or on an old tree, or maybe in a dream where my words are limitless and in total sonder.
Glenn Currier Jun 2024
Thinking of him flings me from these plains
to the nearest body
of water whose mist smells of salt and life
the unrestrained passion
and ****** of sea.

The book, Odes to Common Things,
a gift of a dear friend
who knew not the arousal,
the seed of near sensual desire
it would plant in me
like the buttery aroma of a woman’s hair
or the taste of her moist lips.

Even a thought of Neruda
takes me to the stormy stirrings
wrought from the ***** of the Pacific.
and sounding on the shores of Chile.

How could the writing of a man
a continent away
foment in my chest
a fervor akin
to a spiritual awakening?

I read him in English
but feel the thump
of his Latin heart
in my body.
I read that his book, translated into English as Residence on Earth, was born of Neruda’s feelings of alienation. It seems that a large part of me feels as if I have been on the margins of society and maybe that is why I feel that thumping of Neruda’s heart within me. Spanish poet Garcia Lorca calls Pablo “a poet closer to death than to philosophy, closer to pain that to insight, closer to blood than to ink. “A poet filled with mysterious voices that fortunately he himself does not know how to decipher.” * I thank oldpoet MK https://hellopoetry.com/MK/  and his poem Broadcasting the Seed of Poems https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4845320/broadcasting-the-seed-of-poems/  for the inspiration for this poem.

“The Thumping of a Latin Heart,” Copyright 2024 by Glenn Currier
Written 6-23-24


*From: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/pablo-neruda
Zywa Jun 2024
There the waxing Earth

is low in the sky, lying --


in its starry crib.
Short story "The Sentinel" (1951, Arthur C. Clarke)

Collection "Human excess"
Oskar Erikson Jun 2024
across both acres.

lawns and fields.

haze of uniform green.

horizons nestled upending.

bowls of porcelain grey.

like crevices coiled up.

remaining time spills.

over mounds.
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