Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
~
Corrosive elevation
Metabolic creation
At the mouth of cough drop falls
Trails of caustic, nomadic influence:
Coffee lips
Decaffeinated tongue
Resealable groove
Reusable embryo
White hunter
Melt snow
Hang fire
Black crow

Mechanical peak
Summit on a stick
Chiseled grey
The smoke ascending
They call "day"
Lovely shade of sadness, this
Wandering endocarp
Hidden in caves, hollows, crags, cellars, and cisterns
It came naked
From out of the acrid woods
And said

"The locust are upon us..."
~
M Solav Mar 22
Thought is finding its shape,
Becoming stronger,
And word by word,
Layer upon layer,
Self-erasing,
Taking form.

The mind is a collage
Creating itself from cut-up scraps;
It is a sculpture built by a flowing
Fountain of sand,
Both constantly being eroded
And being formed

And grown by the erosion,
The sculpting fingers of erosion,
The sculpted shadows of forgetfulness.
Grains of memory
Beneath the fingernails,
They fall, they forget;

One remains.
Written on January 6th, 2022.
This is a photopoetry collaboration with poet Paul Rowland (www.jonathanpicklesthecity.com).


— Copyright © M. Solav —
This work may not be used in entirety or in part without the prior approval of its author. Please contact marsolav@outlook.com for usage requests. Thank you.
Ashley Kay Nov 2021
A cross section of a man
Bones pointing to the high
Road, I lower into sloped layers
With an asymmetric smile
Built from earth up, jagged
edges slowly erode away
Ashleykay2021
We never give much thought,
Thinking we are standing,
On solid ground every day,
There is always something moving,
Below our feet, over forty - one thousand,
Earthquakes, in the year twenty - twenty  
That’s just in the U.S.A.
Then if we think of all of the void spaces,
Empty mines, caverns & caves…
Many of us living above, under - ground holes,
While the oceans, along our country’s east & west sides,
Wash away, acres A year, with high tides, and waves.

                                                                                              Tom Maxwell©
                                                                                                                                              
                                                                                            4/12 2021 AD
                                                                                                                                            
                                                                                            3:45 AM
Seranaea Jones Jul 2020
my footfalls translate to mileage in the
way that feathers can be lost to a given
amount of wing beats—

each iteration of propulsion will shed
bits of material,

and these are mixed into the sands that are
splashed across beaches, bleached and
eventually broken down into elemental shapes

one of those grains flew and landed on a
boardwalk and then another one
kicked it aside many years ago
by some distant shoreline,

they now lie together in my path—
why i know this is anyone's guess,
but surely the math is in my favor

needless to say, even if my remains withstand
the sands of time there wont be anyone
left to recognize me,

yet i am certain a piece of me will always
be a few steps ahead somewhere,

either washed there from a recent gale,
or maybe blown from the nostrils
of a passing sea gull...

"shoes and feathers"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved
Kat Schaefer Jun 2020
Some people carry sorrow
In such a way that it flattens
Their shoulder blades
It erodes the spinal cord
And devours the skin
Until there is but a memory
Of a person that remains

And yet somehow
We continue to feast
On the crumbs of grief
That fall onto the dinner plates
Of our most fragile memories

And still we sleep
In the crevices of
Our deepest insecurities
Only to be comforted
By a gentle reminder
That the end is
Growing nearer everyday

And we continue to play
The part of the aspiring optimist
Always grinning and laughing
While what's left of our insides
Curdle and churn
For even they are aware
Of the lie that sorrow makes
C James Mar 2019
Fear standing atop crumbled clifftop.
A fleeting breeze whispers to me "what’s next?"
My Earth corrodes, this tearwater runoff

lifting fertile soil. Memories cropped;
despaired debris remains in frame. Perplexed
fear standing atop crumbled clifftop.

Two arms spread wide, frantic, balance I sought.
"Resist," whispers the breeze, "and breathe, reflect:
my Earth corrodes, this tearwater runoff

you precipitated; my ruin you wrought."
My toes begin to peek: the sea. Obsessed
fear. Standing atop crumbled clifftop

we teeter with unease that love means naught
when trust already sunk below the crest.
My Earth corrodes. This tearwater runoff

shall carve away our ache, and so we fought
against the chance that our love could contest
fear. Standing atop crumbled clifftop,
my Earth corrodes this tearwater runoff.
This poem is a work in progress. I still need to revise it to clean it up, strengthen images, and remove cliches where possible. Any feedback is appreciated.
Tidal process
Abrasive progress
Rocky shore
Sandy floor
Quiet day
Ocean spray
Salted shell
Melodic swell
Chilly feet
Lovers meet
The prime I’m in (cold file) grinds down
the onslaught of the surf. Wet hands
coerce her tidal politic:
a love-sick shire of common knots,
revolting, wretch assured.

   Unleash the phantoms of
the wistful world at bay
from that optimal day when climbed I up
the risers, capped to fortune,
palme-d'essence, mindful hitch.
You stitched the barrier
between your absence and my glitch -
upheld the cases made for fiery rhythms
of romance, as echoes clattered in the apse
of quiet towns’ pastoral grasp.

   I’m sitting shameless in
the offing of a while. Unseated:
will my offspring smile
at sunny landings on
the peaceful shores of joy?
Can such be relished by a boy?
Or will his chains hold strong
and anchor back to relapsed wrong?
Can such be relished by a song
and her soprano? played piano
for the crowd, but filling one’s forever,
wonder-loud?
Brokk66 Apr 2018
light mist and heavy clouds
it is fog that guides my way
rivers and mountains will remain
long after i am forgotten
for i erode too
sheltered in my quiet place
i think of myself
growing older, but more aware
i have done so much
i have done so little
i would give it all
to re-live one day
with you
late now, and night is deep and still
i think myself foolish
for even believing
you've taken notice
can you see through the fog?
am i left here to stumble?
blindly?
if that is my fate
i will not wear it well
i will erode
with the other forgotten
and dream of the time
when i was alive
For her, as always
Next page