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a cocoon of silk
nights are heavy but fertile
from which the sun rises
Macy Forte Nov 21
I once mistook the fresh soil
you poured
down my throat
for butterflies.
But love should not
crawl
deep inside you
And tie
your vocal chords
in knots.

Gardens now infest my lungs
in the same ****** place
where you carefully
dug yourself
a grave.
I make bouquets
with the flowers
that burst
from the rotting marrow
of your
bones.
            —“your absence taught me fertility”
my Instagram is @macyforte if you want to see more poetry
Just Grace Aug 18
take sips sip sips
tumble down the flowers
bundled in white towels at
my rose hips
from raised graves
velvet hearse
sandstone paves
push away stones along way

soothe
change patterns
surprise
break the consonance
act-like defiance
it's harder than we thought
hurry
get back to the tower
don't choke on the powder
before I get there

complex lush
doesn't need any soldiers
off horse, of course
only I reside in these gardens
part my own lawns to my great gates
a dosed beast waits
and I must return
Scott Hunter Jun 3
When once I was a child quite young
I heard a silent song unsung.
Sweet echoes now it brings to me
Yet fruitless fruits they seem to be.
© 2003
Alexandra Coates May 2019
Ashes
love's sacrifice
remnants of a message
fertility

Air's gift to Earth



Alexandra Coates
13 May 2019
Tommy Randell Apr 2019
I want you over me like a swarm of Bees
I want the stings and then the honey please
I want the mantra of a million Hums
And then I want... I want...
I want the Queen to come...

I want you growing in every cell of me
I want your wings fanning the heat I feel
I want that golden molten juice
And then I want... I want...
To be a Hive for you...

Swarm then, come on, I'm here and ready
Senses on fire for your Royal Jelly
Let us be one, synchronised together
A colony of passion in a union of pleasures
With each mortal kiss prepared to die
As one, to swarm, prepared to fly...
In honour of the 1st day of Spring
Zywa Dec 2018
It's a tradition, an old superstition
the night is hot
we'll go and do it
as soon as everyone is asleep
we sneak out of the house

leaving our husbands
as to take a ***

It is not far to the rock
with the flat stripe of white
In the light of the moon
we *** indeed
with laughter

while ******* for the picture
because we want to have proof

We slide our **** warm
over the pale stripe in the middle
of the Chilchliflue. Landed
in the grass, we feel
with each other

for the beginning
of a baby in our belly
Glacial erratic boulder in Steinhof (Solothurn)
Fluh = boulder

Collection "The Big Secret"
Stanley Wilkin Jun 2017
In the quiet of the morning, heavy with mist, rabid with scents
a woman settled in the copse meditating amongst the fleeting mice
and secretive rabbits, the bee and butterfly. What was she thinking
of on such a humid day? Her features relaxed, a smile lingering
over her lips, eyes opening and shutting ritually,
the sun poking its frazzled head above the half-light, the grass
heavily hung with dew. This was our goddess, still alone, still alive,
a thousand years after her demise, battered by crosses and incantations,
holy water and an ever-present authoritarian god searching the land
for sacrifices. I watched for several hours.
In that time, that uneventful time, she grew older, flesh flaking away from her opaque bones,
the sun slicing through. Within hours,
her presence vanished, earthbound, seeking to emerge once more within the millennium
exhorting religion's timely death; with once again irrepressible love, life and joy
freely restored. As darkness fell
her shade morphed into a seed, sinking slowly into the soil.
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