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Joanna May 16
The river flows to the ocean, releasing in me the freedom to love like never before.

Beckoning me, to immerse myself in rays of light that pierce the dark waters below, and wooing me to let passion grow.

he river flows with beauty and charm, removing dullness of vision and adding length to years.

Bringing forth a new tributary it draws me near, similar, and at the same time all its own.

This river flows forth with strength, out of a foundation of stone.
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Skaidrum Oct 2018
and all the wishes stuck in their throats.

(i.) when i throw quarters
i wish i knew
what the universe tasted like
in my tea; and then i wished
that i could hug my babushka
& dedushka again for the last time
before their hourglass ran out.
i wish i could still witness the way
the light dribbled like honey in
that foreign land familiar street.
Back then I was taught that love
was contagious by nature,
that love was unconditional-
---maybe that’s what the universe really
tasted like to begin with.

(ii.) when i throw dimes i-
wish that my antidepressants were more
like leftover echoes
that i’d eat for dinner.
i wish i hadn’t said that but it’s too late
‘cause this ode is too busy
tripping over it’s own shoes;
i wish my poem knew how to tie it’s own shoelaces,
and knew how to say grace.
but most of all...
i wish there was a softer metaphor
to lower me into this hurting;
just like the leftover echoes

(iii.) when i throw nickels
i wish i could erase the murals of flashbacks
behind my eyelids;
before i fall asleep.
i’m convinced that they’re to blame
for my eyesight that acts more like
a broken compass than a disability.
i wish i was blind to the way
the world spoon feeds us the dark;
like it’s a requirement for us
in order to flower into people.
i wish i could fish my name
from infinity’s belly.
please just never wish for

(iv.) when i throw in pennies
i wish i wasn’t their daughter.
i wish i didn’t have russian strings
and american footsteps for bloodlines;
i wish i was born a moon somewhere,
orbiting or worshipping the the color of
space, which is coincidentally the color of poets
the color of ink.
i wish my forbidden fruit was poetry,
i’m glad it isn’t.

(v. ) and i think,
i will always wish
for quicker deaths.
I don't write like I used too,
and I miss the dark.

© Copywrite Skaidrum
Ciara Jones Jul 2018
Did you know what I felt
When you spoke an untruthful truth
Did you see my happiness melt
When you thought you were trying to prove

Can you look out at the mountains
And see where the ridges formed
Can you look at the many fountains
And see their designed forms

What do you define as perfect
And what do you believe is worth it
Is it the reefs in the ocean
Or is it the truth you consider worthless
HTR Stevens Jul 2018
Under the golden fountain,
Watch I my silver brothers:
Shooting high as a mountain;
Landing on the still waters.

Silver Blue, wish I were you;
Tho’ each one is so tiny,
All can shine brighter than dew;
Give some of your shine to me!
Shubham Solanki Jun 2018
I see the fountains
brown blue and gold
architect's heart and soul
a sight to adore
for eyes too sore
from day's turbulence
an' crushed conscience
searching for an exit door.

one moment of magic
is all that it takes
when the water jets out
with all its mickle might
an' signs of subtle finesse
above the surfaced stress
into that carefree sky
and suddenly you sigh
as if you soared with it.
Small things in front of us can help release our stress, worries at least for a moment or two we just need to look for the beauty it beholds.
Paul Butters Jul 2016
Fountains of flowers, growing so fast.
Such a shame that none of them last.
Summer blossoms soon will wane,
They’ll be back next year again.
Bees await the autumn flowers,
Checking out the wooded bowers.
Twittering blackbirds guard their land:
Will their fights get out of hand?
Swallows swoop with arcing wings,
Ever returning for endless Springs.
It’s early July, just past midsummer,
Every green leaf is a newcomer.
Earlier dawn and longer light,
Durable daylight and shorter night.
British weather will still prevail:
Sunny spells and storms with hail.
Winter always is a ******,
I thank Goodness we have our Summer.

Paul Butters
Your soft lips to all my lips
blow hot
breath everywhere
Your tongue to my tongue
taste me
Your fiery desires to fulfill all my desires
cry out loud
love fountains everywhere
Valora Brave Nov 2012
simple ways you float in and out

like the obscure path that
electricity wanders through
fluid like the reliable crash
of the sun beneath the mountains
breaking like eroding fountains
believing one day you may
continue on your own way
but the garnished sides
reduce the tides
of radiant light floating in and out
no longer they illuminate
no longer do you radiate
no longer do you float in
no longer do you live beneath my skin

— The End —