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Kitt 6d
the girl made of paper sits by the sill
contemplative and morose
she struggles but cannot find the will
to break from her comatose

she dips her eyelashes in kerosene
and strikes the wooden match
when, oh when, will this waking dream
from her living world detach?

fertility hath left her bleeding
those virile meadows scorched
she knows her youth is fleeting
yet she cannot put out this torch

this girl, set ablaze by selfish desire
howls up in wrath at the moon
why, oh why, does this unending fire
burn hottest to those near'st the tomb?
Leocardo Reis Apr 14
What had burned
turned to ash.
In the end,
even a violent blaze
turns to nothing.
Which flame lasts forever?

I give ashes
as proof of what once was.
Judge me, as you like,
but know the dust before you
was once with form;
warm and bright.
LC Apr 9
when we fall deep into the never-ending abyss
where biting, caustic words nip at our shoulders,
we forget how to ward them off, but we can.
we can with these ingredients:
- aloe vera infused with compassion
to nurse the acidic sting of those words,
- honey that sticks to toxic atoms,
protecting us from further damage,
- a flame to remind us of our humanity
so we can join with **** sapiens across time,
- and coffee to give us presence of mind
to stay in this very moment.
We can take what we need,
whenever we need it.
Escapril Day 8! Prompt: ________________ as medicine.
I was inspired by self-compassion research (especially Kristen Neff's research). I hope you enjoy this poem!
I S A A C Apr 4
you attract more flies with honey
like moths, to a flame, you bug me
ready for hot humid summer days
ready to have my picnics by the lake
my family I have crafted, my kin in essence
my family I have drafted, my purest expression
truest of true, brightest of blues,
chatter filled dinners, loved filled rooms
I prayed for times like this, the flowers in bloom
We climbed in the back
And I laid in your lap
While your hands ran gently through my hair

Oh I'll never re-feel
How your fingers had healed
And your absence has peeled it all back again

And again I fall
Outside a stranger's walls
Cause it's comfort and warmth at a distance

I wont break them down
Or keep them around
I prefer a more temporary assistance

Sometimes we get cold
With no sight of a flame
We get a little bold
To forget the next day

And again we default
To pouring asphalt
Leaving old streets below to decay
Jay M Mar 10
As a moth to a flame
So to the call she came
A walk entranced
Each step her hips sway
Almost as though she danced
Through the ever-present mist
Gone is the light of day
Only the shine of the moon
As her hands reach forth
Twist to grasp for warmth
Toll of the lunar noon
Cross into the time
Of the approaching dawn.

- Jay M
March 10th, 2022
Sometimes, we are but moths to unseen flames; seek them out, and you shall find the most peculiar things.
I first saw you at the bookstore
Months of texting culminating in that first moment
Days filled with vulnerability and laughter
Hours of silly photos and odd Tik Toks
Bunny videos and cat dramas
Books, games, and basketball
Family, dreams, and needs.

During those first months, I envisioned
how it would feel to meet you
If I would recognize you
If it would feel as natural in person
Would conversation be filtered?
Would we not know what to say?
Would nerves get in the way?

The wait before I saw you was tense
Knotted stomach and sweaty palms
Aimless strolling without seeing
Picking spines off shelves
While my own swivels every time the door opens

Surrounded by vanillin escapes and bitter coffee
Seeing your pink sweater and jeans
The heart calms and breath steadies
Chatter and rustling dissipate
Every crevice of my being thrums
As I watch you approach
Sparks shimmer up my arms
A mirror soul stares back

I first saw you in the book store
Walls filled with happy endings
Hopes and dreams of others' imaginations
Yet those stories I held so dear told me lies.
That I was worthy of a fairytale kind of love
And for a moment it felt real.

Our first hug felt too short
I didn’t want to let you go
Our first kiss left me wanting more
I melted in your arms
Our first misunderstanding dropped me
I didn’t see it coming
Our last conversation left me shattered
I wanted to keep going

But I’ll always have when I first saw you
The outside world ceased to matter
The smallest touch set me aflame
When everything stilled
When all was novel
When all was ardent
When all left me animated
When all left me breathless
When wistful was just a word in a book
Jordan Gee Feb 12
early retirement                                           2.11.22 Mercury/Pluto conjunction

I’ve been cracking jokes lately,
when in the company of others.
When there was an opening in the conversation
I would insert a comment;
I would joke about my life in early retirement.
I would joke and say that I am retired.
It's obviously funny because I’m only 35;
fairly early in my second Saturn returns.

Over the last 18 months I’ve made modest acquisitions
fit for a retiree;
house slippers, a few extra lines in my face and
even a piccolo pipe with dark cherry Cavendish tobacco.  
They all fit rather nicely,
(according to my eyes)
when worn with my gray cardigan with the red whip stitch
suring up the right pocket;
the same cardigan I wore the night of the accident and the
morning of the ward.
That was an equinox to remember.

Maybe it's in poor taste to joke about early retirement.
Perhaps that it isn’t very funny to go on about,
or maybe it was only funny to me.
It hadn’t quite occurred to me until now that
it may be kind of awkward for a grown man to crack
funnies about his lack of income or industriousness.
I suppose I just gave myself a pass.
Because I figured everyone already knows I’m
a little unhinged-
a little ungrounded-
certainly a bit touched…
and that “he just needs time to heal because he is
an activated Light Worker and the benefits reaped
by his inner struggle to anchor the
Light upon the Earth plane is in everyone’s best interest,
and that it takes an untold exertion of Will to exact such an incarnation,
and that it takes more than a few several months for the
risen Kundalini to come to maturation.
Quick, can someone please get me a tourmaline.

Well, here I am in
southern Jersey
Manchester Township
Ocean County
Riverside retirement community
side of the pond (man made)
composite bench under a gazebo erected on a concrete pad.
Sitting inside my cardigan next to my piccolo pipe and a pen in my hand,
wondering how I could feel so lost and so found at the same time.

I’ve been a stubborn *******.
Afraid to bear my Light within my hands and
expose it to my kin in a meaningful way.
But here I am,
early retirement
on an early afternoon
in a retirement community
full of elders
slinkin through the
early dusk of the
twilight of their lives.
And I don't like it.
I am not equanimous with what is.
I’ve excreted so many toxins that the
re-uptake is nearly too much to bear.
I’ve carried empty green notepads in my back pocket for years.
Pen and pad with scotch tape holding down the binding;
worth about three or four poems max.
“Yea I fancy myself a writer, just not very prolific.”
You can only speak something into being so many times
before the universe starts agreeing with you.
Old man Saturn couldn’t give a **** about
little fears and excuses.
The limits of necessity were only
bad wiring
rendered by
my own hand.
And that goes down smooth like a fish-bone in the throat.

I own enough scarves and robes to
circumambulate the globe a few times.
If only I could fly
it would be in such style
because on the outside I look how I want to feel on the inside.
Before my heart center I hold the dharmachakra mudra and
I stare into a candle flame.
I could of sworn they prescribed this treatment
early in the Rig Veda for guys with ailments like mine;
running mad like beside his shadow and
fleeing all the house flies;
sliding down the side of a waxing crescent moon.

only the moon it is a scythe;
a crescent knife.
Waning in early retirement,
old man Saturn coming for his life.
death and the sickle
hebrew rope
and a buffalo nickle
Gea Venise Jan 9
"The closer the moth is to the flame,
the higher the chance it'll burn."

If you think the light
could hurt the moth,
but the moth thinks otherwise,
who's to say it's not a happy ending?

If the last thing the moth wanted to do
was touch the light,
death
in the form of warmth and comfort
comes upon touching it.

Wouldn't it be a beautiful way to die,
still?
s y kalindara Dec 2021
Our once matchless flame is flickering with dancing fragility,

but my inextinguishable warmth is still yours to hold and keep

in the last, crackling embers of this desolate December.


Copyright © 2021 by S. Y. Kalindara. All rights reserved.
Tried writing a sijo for the first time. Hope I did it right. Thinking of J on his birthday.



(P.S. you can follow me on instagram, if you'd like to @sykmusings ♡)
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