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Close your eyes, take in a deep breath of the salty air.
Now open them.

With fresh eyes, looking out you see the deep navy blue water and numerous waves in the distant water.
Crash, crash, crashing into each other.
Pristine white cross-hatching sea foam patterns scatter and reform.

You have been walking towards the water's edge and haven't even noticed. The soft cream colored sand starts to darken and harden as you approach the water.

The wind is loud enough to drown out nearby conversations and passing cars. You are in your own world. Nothing from the tangible world can touch you. The cool wind constantly battles the sun's heat on your face and hands, causing your skin to tingle.

You reach your arms out and close your eyes, lost in the moment.

Breathing in the salty fresh air you let go of your troubles, if only for the moment.
Tess M Apr 2020
it hasn't even been a week,
still i miss you;
i  cant stop thinking about
you
about how I ended things.
i'm sorry

i can't stop worrying,
you could my thoughts
i miss you
this is for you Travis
Agatha Prideaux Apr 2020
Liquor bottles and rapt promises
All sometimes mean the same thing for me
At first glance, they seem a little bit too much
To be handled by a mere, innocent minor like me

They say I'm too young to take or drink them
They say only adults can get a taste of them
But of course, I let my curiosity get the best of me
And here I am, sneaking some from the shelf.

Bitter. I unconsciously rejected it
For it was too bitter for me to handle
Manifesto too new, flavour too foul
Sensation incomprehensible, what's yet to come?

I finished half. Half of the bottle.
Internalized half of the emotions thrown
Embedded in between those highfalutin speeches
And I'm only waiting for what's next.

Warmth. It's warm, it's creeping in
Am I letting myself be thawed by their voice?
Or maybe it's just the liquid speaking
As it glides down from my mouth to my throat?

Euphoria. I feel nice. For the first time.
Taking more gulps doesn't feel a bit wrong.
Being succumbed to their words doesn't feel wrong.
It only feels all the more alright.

Tepid. Loaded. Giddy. Fine.
All these are happening all at once
I've been searching for this feeling all my life
WHY HAVE I NOT KNOWN BEFOREHAND!?

I only bought a bottle to try
Only sought a promise to swallow
Is one not enough for my troubled soul?
Is this how much I craved to feel fine?

No matter how many bottles we gulp
No matter how wholeheartedly we trust
When the ethereal high runs out in a bittersweet haze
It's time to clean them all up.

For the empty liquor bottles and empty rapt promises
Will only leave you reeking with its pungent smell
Along with trailing tears on your cheeks
And another throbbing head the next day.
Day 3 of #NaPoWriMo 2020. Funny because the prompt of this one was created months ago---but I only actually wrote it today. Well, I write too many pieces about intoxication.
Sky Alice Apr 2020
Wishing wells dry up

    One, two, three mirages

       A hidden reservoir
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
At Caedmon’s Grave
by Michael R. Burch

At the monastery of Whitby,
on a day when the sun sank through the sea,
and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free,

while the wind and time blew all around,
I paced those dusk-enamored grounds
and thought I heard the steps resound

of Carroll, Stoker and good Bede
who walked there, too, their spirits freed
—perhaps by God, perhaps by need—

to write, and with each line, remember
the glorious light of Cædmon’s ember,
scorched tongues of flame words still engender.

Here, as darkness falls, at last we meet.
I lay this pale garland of words at his feet.

Originally published by The Lyric. “Cædmon’s Hymn,” composed at the Monastery of Whitby (a North Yorkshire fishing village), is one of the oldest known poems written in the English language, dating back to around 680 A.D. According to legend, Cædmon, an illiterate Anglo-Saxon cowherd, received the gift of poetic composition from an angel; he subsequently founded a school of Christian poets. Unfortunately, only nine lines of Cædmon’s verse survive, in the writings of the Venerable Bede. Whitby, tiny as it is, reappears later in the history of English literature, having been visited, in diametric contrast, by Lewis Carroll and Bram Stoker’s ghoulish yet evocative Dracula. Keywords/Tags: Caedmon, hymn, first English poem, Anglo-Saxon, Bede, cowherd, monk



Bede's Death Song (circa 731 AD)
ancient Anglo-Saxon/Old English lyric poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Facing Death, that inescapable journey,
who can be wiser than he
who reflects, while breath yet remains,
on whether his life brought others happiness, or pains,
since his soul may yet win delight's or night's way
after his death-day.
Swaroop Shetty Mar 2020
One spring season, when it was a cold night and the full moon was all shinning bright.

With my friends, I was on the walk inside the Lincoln's park.

We were busy doing funny gossips of my old jacket's leather, beautiful weather and that tiny owl's feather.

Suddenly, I felt the winter glitch when I saw that beautiful witch.

All I could feel was the sensational breeze and the running time being stood freeze.

Her eyes were shining as it was doing black or white magic and I was hypnotized by the tragic.

All I could remember was her eyes were performing some art, which left the permanent tattoo in my heart.

When I came back to sense, she disappeared away, before I could find out what happened in a way.  

My feeling was like love at first sight as mentioned in a play Cinderella and in Book Alchemist, when santiago met fathima.

Now, I feel she was the one whom I was waiting so far, and I was all wasting time with doing nothing above par.
Love at first sight is my first written poem so far. The theme of the poem covers the scene when we fell in love for the first time. It was all started when I written a line ( jam) for the Topic "I Fell in Love" and I modified it to write a poem using the same subject and same theme. Later, on I modified with new Idea and I am happy at last I was able to complete it.
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
First Steps
by Michael R. Burch

for Caitlin Shea Murphy

To her a year is like infinity,
each day—an adventure never-ending.
    She has no concept of time,
    but already has begun the climb—
from childhood to womanhood recklessly ascending.

I would caution her, "No! Wait!
There will be time enough another day . . .
    time to learn the Truth
    and to slowly shed your youth,
but for now, sweet child, go carefully on your way! . . ."

But her time is not a time for cautious words,
nor a time for measured, careful understanding.
    She is just certain
    that, by grabbing the curtain,
in a moment she will finally be standing!

Little does she know that her first few steps
will hurtle her on her way
    through childhood to adolescence,
    and then, finally, pubescence . . .
while, just as swiftly, I’ll be going gray!

Keywords/Tags: child, childhood, adolescence, pubescence, growing up, first steps, walking, running, aging
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