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Steve Page Nov 28
Too tired to give
an egg a clean break,
he crunched
into his omelette,
ready for bed
long day today
Nigdaw Jan 4
a hard man doesn't need to shout
threaten or front it out
a hard man can crack an egg
without breaking the yolk
Tony Tweedy Apr 2021
In a foreign land,
over two thousand years ago,
there lived a man,
whom the world would come to know.

Raised out of Nazareth,
his humble place of birth,
tasked with spreading words of love,
and of peace throughout the Earth.

Many were his deeds,
and so timeless and true his word,
that he changed the shape of the world,
for those who saw and heard.

He challenged the authority,
of those who then held sway,
by telling common people that through his Father,
there lay a better way.

Challenged by his word,
and fearing influence on the wane,
by deceit and lie,
they sought to take control back again.

Despite his deeds and truth,
evident in what he taught,
by deception, lies and betrayal,
he was rounded up and caught.

In a trial that found no arguement,
to undermine what he had said,
he was sentenced to crucifixion,
nailed on a cross until he was dead.

I am sure you know the rest,
of how on the third day he did rise,
and you have seen our world still battling,
against the hate and all the lies.

On this very weekend, remember,
this man from long ago I beg,
for there is much more to this remembrance,
than the chocolate in your egg.
Enjoy you Easter everyone.
Chris Chaffin Jan 2021
robin’s-egg blue walls
contain two empty shells—
one lamp on, one lamp off
four eyes open
both minds closed
Lyn-Purcell Jan 2021

Demons dance on wounds
But for one to rise again
One must find their peace

And to find our wings
We must find our one true selves
Live and embrace it

Emerge from the egg
Is what we want meant to be?
Time to test your wings

Based on a dream I had last night as a bird.
I hope to at least try and live by my true self.
By whom I was meant to be in life, only living by it would I ever soar freely 💜🙏
Paul Idiaghe Aug 2020
submerged in a cascade of
cacophony, my pieces wade
like fish, into semptember's silvery net
so its plundering pull would heave them
                                                          ­       out
from their misery, grant them purpose
in the mouths of fortunes, that gobble them
as delicacies;  they wither, till my egg-fragile
unravels itself, savors the warmth
of the virgo sun, and hatches
immaculately, into me.
Savio Fonseca Jul 2020
Sing Me your Poem,
on Love Divine.
As I raise U a Toast
and Sip on some Wine.
Our Nights have been,
on Beds of Red Roses.
With rooms that are filled,
with Fragrance of Posies.
Midnight Romance begins,
as We draw the Curtain.
When We are done,
Our Happiness is quite Certain.
Nights without Passion,
are simply Boring.
As I fall off to sleep,
in an Hour I'm Snoring.
Ken Pepiton May 2020
what would force a wise septuagenarian to imagine himself
President of the USA?

Could it be
A ghost of war's glory days in the
grand old industrious gay nineties
days of smokestack landmarks of civic pride,
as seen by stevedores loading dry buffalo hides,... nay,

I trow not... war as imagined in a wise septuagenarian,
has no glory, but value, in depleting the other
side, and

rubbing away the bank on that distant shore, make it

seem so much further away...

what would force a wise septuagenarian to imagine himself
herself President of the USA?
see who salutes, nobody salutes
but military minds, tie-wearers.

nope, nothing comes to mind as reasonable,

a broken-spirited, old-mind-bound hero-sell-out,
in my opinion,

with a plan to scuttle spaceship earth.

Okeh. We stop that. What next? It gets better.
Political fantasy, because just...
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