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The road ran out at
Foothills masked by the late
Morning of illusion
Through the fog
Choice was taken
Allesha Eman Sep 3
Dust settles between this continental divide
I, on one end, a fleeting candle wick
Burning slowly, hopelessly against this cold
And time, like fallen clouds,
Does everything to hide the sun.

I practice dancing to sounds of silence
Distances become all too familiar
and like melted wax, I fall to the floor

hoping that before you walk away
you will break this barricade of silence
that time has built around us
The fog here is thick, until you step into it.  
The storm rages until you get to its eye.  
I wish this same principle could be said of me, too.  
But like a gas giant, you could slip right through me with
                         the smallest amount of pressure.
There is no calming sense of self at the core.
Gravity does not apply to me.

There’s a boat on the lake cutting through the fog.  And then nothing.  
                                                      ­                                    More waves.  
                                                        ­            More birds.  
              The fog covers it all up again.  
The sun slinks and the tide comes in, or is it out?  Does it matter?  
The moon controls it in some way—the push, the pull of the waves.
At least the lake looks blue today,
                           looks green today.
The geese are in the water now.  The families are packing up.  
                             The ice cream shop is closing.

And I do not remember if I was ever here with you.  
                                This, of course, is a collective you.  
Could mean you, my reader,
                                               could mean one specific person,
                                               or two
                                                             ­       or three
                                                                ­                          or four;
could be whoever I'm thinking of when I reread this to myself.  
That’s the funny thing about the litany of loss.  
                                           It all starts to congeal.  

Waves crash against the rock.  Starts to chip away, create something new.
                                                      That’s what memory does.
It’s not permanent.  It’s malleable.  
Flexible.        Bendable.        Moldable.  
It smells like lakewater.  Like
                                                  fish and sand and mud and
                            gulls and rocks and shells and
     algae and fog—thick, thick fog.  
Smell is supposed to be one of the biggest memory triggers, and yet
                                       I cannot place a single memory of you here.
                                                    And that’s mildly crushing.  

So I would take you here:
                                              to where I wish the air was
                                                       saliter and less earthy.  
                                              to where I come sometimes to think.  
                                              where the clouds are so thick and puffy and
                                                            the setting sun makes them look like                                                                cotton candy on the Fourth of July.
                                              where the sun’s reflection on the water
                                                                ­      turns the green lake pink.  
                                              where the geese are back out of the water and
                                                                                                     onto the shore.
I would take you here with me.  
Into a new memory.  
                                      Homemade.        Handmade.        DIY.
write your grief prompt #14: imagine writing a letter to the one you have lost, what would you show them?
Nat Lipstadt Jul 17
Of ***** roasting pans and racks and island fog!

if you love me, then you know poems wright themselves when standing, driving, bus riding, love-making and especially when
doing manly battle, ******* ***** dishwashing midst island fog

a passing remark goes noticed and summoned to a
Friday night feast, roasted fowl, wild rice with golden raisins and mushrooms, English spring peas, was it a Montrachet?

for dessert the washing up is obligation mine, a traditional desertion,
separation of church and state, her cooking a church  in which I worship, she states eloquently:
“Unto Caesaria , Render Her the cleanup”

this is hand to hand combat, no dishwasher mechanical
can scrub like the human hand, and with body english,
water hot, but no gloves employed for this is ***** man’s work,
not for sissies, cleaning roasting pans and roasting racks
that are at least twenty years burnt and crusted with a blackened
finish, residue of other lovers and dinners P.N. (pre-nat)

array three kinds of sponges and some human & metallic *****,
no one asking which came first,
the scrubbing away of life feasting residues,
or the poem writing that comes with pre & postscript sleepiness

when I say the dark stains and the grease buildup are
flavor enhancers, am beknighted with starry stares of
“how stupid do you think I am?” and sadly return to the
Battle of Agincourt, the one the American lost….

but they do source poems that flavor life

*sometime last year?
Allesha Eman Jul 3
You stand at a crossroads
unsure of where to step
the night is too dark
The day is always accompanied by fog
at a street corner marked by time
Where moonlight collides with your midnight blues
Jay M Jun 25
A great blanket atop the quiet homes
Flowing without fault or try
A beautiful grey gradient
From the heavens to the Earth
Cascading into the land
Rolling in without a sound

A veil ever lingering
Pierced by everything but nothing
Existing in what would appear to be a stand-still
Only to be moving ever so slowly
All about without any care or doubt

As the great body roams
There isn’t need to scream or cry
The sunlights reflection ever so radiant
Just softer than a grand hearth
To heat the frigid hand
That holds firmly to the ground

Surrounding the daily mingling
Noticing the hills and something
Just beyond the rocky hill
A call ever lowly
Unsure of the words to be made out

Chilling, perhaps even ghostly
Figures in the gleam
So calm and so serene
Taking in the morning glow
Before the fog will surely go

- Jay M
June 24th, 2021
There was a lot of thick fog this morning! It was beautiful- ethereal, even.
Viseract May 13
Mist-minded, clouded thoughts
Can't seem to focus, or keep rapport
Importance is relevant, irrelevant I dwell
In this cartography, well-drawn Hell

Zipped up lips, verbiage tripped
The spoken, delivery, edge unclipped
Harsh and cold, worn limestone
Regardless of polish, I'm overgrown

What feels real is this heart of steel
All else surrounds, of fabric, of gown
Dressed up nice to masquerade
False-tipped smiles, dead parade.

The forge burns true, just underneath
My love, my Sun, I shall bequeath
Hardened and cold, aftermath of the craft
Add a little heat and reveal my heart.
Reality can feel like the worst illusion, but when it fades, my heart awaits
Jaicob Apr 13
Drowsily dreaming the dreary day away,
I lean 'gainst the sill, looking out on the city.
Deep sighs cascade from my open mouth
Before I close my eyes and hum a diddy,
Remembering the people who've shown me pity,
As the train rattles on heading south.
LC Apr 12
my hands brush over the wall,
guiding me through the room
as my eyes are blindfolded
by a thick, grey, opaque fog.

my hands stumble over every surface
until they glide over a smooth lamp.
the blindfold is taken off my eyes.
and I see my reflection staring at me.

I blink at the handheld mirror, bewildered
as my eyes pursue the direction of the light.
I look into the mirror, yelling "eureka!"
because my heart is glowing, even in the night.
#escapril day 11! A little late, but it's here.
I stand before an ominous beast in a forest of concealed destinies.
The hour of decision has been prowling and now meets me in a lost realm of time
My chest clenches, my head swells
Breath begins to tremble as the windows to my soul observe the foreboding divide

I despise decisions.
The impacts, the consequences, the possibilities
Wisdom stores within itself both gift and curse
All my searching, the answers I thought I knew, fade in this place

The pines silently observe in judgment.
Grand pines and firs catch my every terrified inhale and broken exhale
Ancient bark, swelling green of lingering moss, sacrificed needles covering the damp foliage
All silently anticipate the choice

One path remains constant, where past souls have wandered long before my arrival.
Light breaks through the shadows of the immortal forest, the trail unbent
It is the way of assurance, peace, safety, security
Mindful wisdom magnifies the direction unto here

Deep inside, I betray myself.
As my eyes remain on the way of wellness, my heart lurches elsewhere
There is another path, my other choice
One where darkness lurks, brooding with a dense fog that makes sight impossible

Why do I feel drawn to it?
I want it, I crave it
Every element of my mind cries for me to turn away, but my heart howls to move forth
Onto this strangely beautiful and unpredictable trail

I terrify myself with this desire.
This desire of darkness, of complexity, of the unknown
My head is within the security, my heart within another
If living is found in the known, what is life?

As I stand, the forest awaiting the moment, I know what my trek has prepared me for.
I take a step
My head screams
My heart sings

I gaze into the dark, into what lies ahead.
Despite the risk, I find an odd comfort
My faith begins illuminating the dark, and
Logic has been lost to the pining fog of the selcouth unknown
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