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Mystic Ink Plus Aug 2020
You're right
We as poets are
Self-amused entity  
Sane in thought  
Breathe with passion  
Dream circadian  
With the torrent of emotions  
We as poets
Look toward an open sky  
Communicate with cosmos  
Question lucidness  
Get something from nothing  
Glorify average, as special  
Feel everything, closer  
Spell, when have to  
Stay silent, when need to  
Touch, the untouched  
See, the hidden  
Honor: blood, sweat and tears  
Revive, the beauty of life  
Heal, the suffered  

With the recipe of words  
We as poets  
Yes, by default  
Go beyond norms  
Forget a lot, but not what should not  
Despite everything  
You're right
Genre: Experimental
Theme: Confession
Author's Note: Inspired from Eric calabrese
annh Dec 2019
‘How quaint,’ remarked Mistress Hora as she turned the afternoon on its head, ‘that you would consider time to be a linear construct.’

‘Positively post-historic,’ agreed Master O’Clock, nodding his head in perfect synchrony with the orchestra that played inside his ear. Today was Waltzday (or so he had named it), an interminable reminder that atomic metronomes particularly those of Viennese manufacture were not to be trifled with.

‘Be assured, my dears, that this fancy is a passing one and exists only as a fleeting extemporaneous distraction,’ our Mistress continued. The first year students breathed a collective sigh of relief. ‘Now, I want no clumping, no running ahead, and NO helical improvisation. When yesterday’s fish and chips come wrapped in tomorrow’s newspaper it gives our school a most unfortunate reputation.’ The class chortled as one. ‘Most importantly, please remember to take your pocket guide.’

I reached for my bedraggled copy of The Theory of Chronometrical Fluidity: Compressed Edition and wrung the pages out. I had failed badly at applied clepsydrics and my cousin Widget wasn’t letting me forget it. From behind the glass, I spotted her playing a furtive game of Gregorian and by the look on her face February was winning. I blew her a lemniscate to grab her attention. She scowled, looked up from her losing streak and giggled when she saw me spiralling in her direction. ‘Good luck,’ she spiralled back.

Miss Hora flexed her wrist and glanced at her temporal transponder. ‘You will be marked on cuneiformity, consistency, and rate of continuance. Now be off with you. Tempus fugit!’ With a flick of her bejangled fingers she opened the S.A.N.D. grates. I held my breath and jumped.
I couldn’t get hour glasses out of my head, and overnight my poem became a drabble. In my travels through Wiki-land I discovered that a clepsydra was a water clock, a device used by the ancients to measure time during night hours when sundials were reduced to decorative but functionless masonry. A lemniscate is the symbol for infinity, the horizontal figure-eight of algebraic theory.

‘Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun. Orbiting this at a distance of roughly ninety-two million miles is an utterly insignificant little blue-green planet whose ape-descended life forms are so amazingly primitive that they still think digital watches are a pretty neat idea.’
- Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
Brandon May 2019
An iridescent collection of condensation forms
the warmth that once was, fades with fluidity
weightless blades begin to dance passionately
rumbling collides with the earth below
supple gems fall in tempo, bursting with brisk nectar
clarity blooms as filth washes away
leaving beauty to reign.
c Mar 2018
As a child I dabbled in ******

No barbie was safe from the hands of their god

Ran hills caked to the toe
Roughed terrain with neighborhood boys

They called me girl
But I felt boy

Upon later years I learned:
Amenities accustomed to this body;
A bustling street of hormones without a
red light

Next were *******—
Wild & rambling, I soon
Mastered the art of shrinking

I kissed my first boy & felt it rattle through my bones
His hair an ocean in my hands as I rose up
to the surface

Later I discovered the shared experience of Woman,
Shifting about the world as a silly metaphor
Carved fingers into mace & metal
Ankles clinking busily on a subway platform

In learning to fight
The young boy dwindled into memory and
I couldn’t sense shape anymore

Fell in and out of love with woman and man alike,
Sinking deep into salt & sand

These days I can’t help but wonder if
attraction is a mode of defense
Or that of love

These days I run hills in heels
Caked to the toe in color

These days I try not to identify with a normative sexuality. I believe it is fluid and shouldn’t be contained with labels. I hope this poem is relatable to those that feel/have felt the same.
a dress
a skirt
pink lipstick
that never felt quite like me
baggy pants
baseball cap
dirt and roughhousing
that wasn't quite me either
I was ugly
or at least everyone told me I was
I was too masculine acting
sometimes feminine features
my chest was too flat to be a real girl
my walk was too swagger infused
my fashion style, too--- not enough cleavage if you know what I mean
apparently a shirt and a pair of pants suddenly made me unattractive to both sexes
both sexes
I felt like both
makeup and a baseball cap
flat chest, and a flower skirt
skateboards and hair products galore
looking back,
I was always fluid.
the gender waters in which I was drowing
I was only drowning in because I can swim in both currents
Donielle Apr 2017
You float over the concrete
the way driftwood rides the ocean waves,
smooth and graceful.
Your arms rise to the sky
in sync with your legs
like a puppet,
but you hold your own strings,
you control your own movements
so seamlessly
as if you were born
with a board beneath your feet.
Your eyes hold focus
how a starving man
holds a scrap of bread,
not fully moldy in the garbage.
You spin and swap your body
with the lash of a whip
and how I wish you'd crack me
just once
so I could taste your precision.
How beautiful a sight it is
to see someone so perfectly aligned
with the Earth
that gravity allows you a pass
on the rules.
And when you're finished
the passion that beams from you
is so intoxicating,
I'm too unsteady on my feet
to try to follow.
Melanie Kate Nov 2016
I see you on the middle line
between the sun and moon.
You can't decide to cross into time
Or give yourself more room.
But the days are moving through us now,
And I feel a change coming soon:
The horizon between light and dark,
The stay-or-go wars within the heart.
(c). MKD 2016
K Balachandran Mar 2016
At it's ecstatic heights,  life is
a splendid display of ballet moves,
I watch you fly high precariously,
stopping a  beat of my enamored heart
with  an astounding move speaking beauty
and dexterously land statuesque,
in a graceful  arabesque stance,
defying gravity with amazing ease
creating beauty none ever dreamed,
so kaleidoscopic, appreciating it means
touching the eternal with one's being
in a fleeting moment, get transported,
for that, one needs a mind as sharp as
razor's edge and constantly pirouetting
360 degrees embracing  you at the
speed of light, before you turn to a
lightening flash,of different wavelength,
all over again and begin the next cycle.
Arabesque is a ballet position, in which the dancer stands on one leg(the supporting leg) with the other leg(working leg)turned out and extended behind the body, with both legs held stright
LN Apr 2014
Distorted sense of time
Seconds changed to minutes
Minutes to hours then days
The years stacked collections of
Dusty shelves of memories
Ringing telephones, one sided calls, no replies
The striking of their shooting nerves
It rattled and shook them
They changed shape
Fluidity in their being
Trying to settle
Trying to calm down.
Maybe I'll eventually find inner peace
until now, it seems impossible.

— The End —