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mja Feb 2015
I poem my way out of everything.

I disguise all the misery,
euphoria, contempt, and solitude
into the beautiful form
of poetry.

Losing myself
in the world of
twenty-six letters
is my enthralling form of
escapism.

But no matter how many
sonnets, haikus, free-verses
or six-word stories
I do;

I could never

poem my way out of you.



-m.j.a
Moon Humor Jan 2015
The lust we share on cold midnights, lucid
and gentle but so passionate and rough
can keep me hypnotized. Translucent blue
eyes shine like moonstone, glinting bright with love
hidden from sight. I want to call you mine
but I know better than to pine over
a man up way too high, stuck on cloud nine
not planning to come down or to get sober.
I’ll let myself get lost a little while
in the forest of curls behind your ears.
I’ll wander your body concealing smiles
that give away feelings that interfere
with the promise to love myself before
someone else. I am who I’m living for.
A sonnet written in iambic pentameter complete with rhyme scheme.
~
love as purest love
is as white as flight of dove
over land of dreams
~
dove is a symbol of love,
peace, pure heart,
innocence
~
Imagined by
Impeccable Space
Poetic beauty
~
seasonalskins Jan 2015
a misguided symphony
forging its way
to the rest-
less form which writhes
and shifts
in cotton sheets
of yester-
day
it's been a long time.
Barbara-Paraprem Jan 2015
The key to paradise:
What would be the benefit to you,
if not you yourself
are holding him in your hands?
But where, you ask yourself,
a thousand times,
can I find it?
Only in one place
you have not yet sought,
because it is closer than
your own breath
and any form.
If there you are searching for,
is your quest
truly a quest
and not just escape in disguise,
and every search has an end.


© Barbara-Paraprem, 2015
Bb Maria Klara Jan 2015
He was sleepless that night, the buffoon
Who questioned himself if he was a loon,
For he desired so deeply to compose a tune
Inspired by the darling moon;
Similar to those who died so soon,
Immortalized all by fading rune.

Across his desk, did lay the rune
interpreted by this buffoon.
He realizes in it far too soon,
That he was like the other loon
Who fell in love with the lovely moon
And also wrote a rhythmic tune.

He began to hum his heart's humble tune
And began inscribing his personal rune,
praying that he'll be loved by the moon.
He is quite a fool, this valiant buffoon;
For he never did care if he was a loon
And either if he would be gone all too soon.

Seemingly, somehow, so soon was soon.
The buffoon had sung his final tune.
There goes the buffoon who was a loon.
He lands on the pavement, made it his rune.
That was the end of this loving buffoon,
Who jumped off, thinking of flight to the moon.

There hangs the modeled, magnificent moon,
That was never too early nor never too soon,
That was died for by our busted buffoon,
That had been dedicated several tunes,
That had been depicted in plentiful runes,
That turns gentlemen to lunatic loons.

Tonight was the night of demise of the loon.
of the man who died for the love of the moon.
The moon's loon becomes part of the runes
of men who loved Luna yet died too soon,
of men who serenaded Luna with their tune,
of men who we may call "buffoon."

The loon became rune far too soon,
The loon who wanted to be of the moon.
He sleeps at last, the late buffoon.
Written 1st of March 2013. "The Loon of the Moon" was the first sestina I have written. I believe there is an error in the form of the last stanza, and I have always been tempted to correct it. In the end, however, I decided to leave it as it is. Poetry needs not be perfect.
Elizabeth Hynes Dec 2014
We pile them high
The slush taking shape
The sky made solid
In our hands.

Every one young or old
Likes to fabricate
The form

Armies would they be
If, like in cartoon,
They could attain conscious
Motion

But alas they are doomed
Like so many of us
To melt and evaporate
And return to whence they came

In the big melt
The sum's rays glinting
Fiery inferno
Causing gentle curving,

Maketh ice
Which forms puddles
Which give way
To earth.
Bluebird Dec 2014
Don't try to shape me with your mind,
because yesterday i was a bird.
Don't try to shape me with your mind,
i don't want to be you.
Don't try to shape me with your mind,
today i want to be shapeless,
And  If you don't try to shape me with your mind,
tommorrow i'll be something new.
Bluebird Dec 2014
You pop into my head,and suddenly i can see,
i can't say a thing when people ask me about myself
i don't know who i am,beacuse you moulded me.
I am here,where you left me,behind the closed doors,
it seems like i have lost my true form,
so what is my name now if i can't call myself "Yours"?
myself and i
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