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Beth Garrett Oct 5
You remind me of fresh dew on the grass,
In the morning when it’s cold,
And still dark but the sun is ebbing,
Just below the horizon.

In the sort of calm way that a heart,
Can open,
I wake up to you like snowy mornings,
Mild frost and a chill in the air,
Just enough to make me feel,
A little more alive than usual.

Something crisp, and delicate,
Begs beyond the surface.
Is it the siren’s call?
I have no concrete idea of what this poem is about, but I know exactly what I meant. Somehow.
Austin Hunt Sep 16
Two bros converged into a fellowhood
And stoked to share their Fight Club quotes
And be two broskis, juiced they stood,
And shotgunned PBRs, long as they could,
till they were wrecked in a sweet-*** boat

Then proclaimed the bros, into the air,
“Turn on the flatscreen, let’s watch the game”,
it was Saturday so the day was theirs;
and as they sat in their folding chairs,
the smell of axe the air became

And clad in their Costas they loudly played
a song no bro’s cracked iPhone lacks.
Oh, they know their bops like they know their whey!
They smelled their teen spirits and exhaled away,
JUUL clouds of fruit flavors with swag densely packed.

There is no replacing these two guys
and their dudely jockish fashion sense.
Two bros converged as two would, and aye-
They forged the path bros travel by,
a path of bliss and ignorance.
Austin Hunt Sep 16
we say
that “nothing lasts,”
and we’re too old to ask
why gold can’t stay past
sunrise

we get
by folded, passed,
and sold en masse,
kept cold and
advertised

we choose
to mold and mask
ourselves solely after
the soulless laughs
that leave us

it’s true
that holding fast
is bold, but glass
breaks wholly grasped
when heedless

with hearts left
swollen, gashed
from a scroll-on-past
control mastered
with age

we chase
a goal of basking
in rolling grasses
where something gold
can stay
Creator Sun Sep 3
A wisp of a breath, a flick of a brush,
The canvas begins to be filled with colour.
A hint of violet, a dab of vermillion,
It seems that she is painting a girlish parlour.

A red drips slowly down her wrist,
As she wipes away at her work.
The foggy glass seems to offer some relief,
Against the cold harsh winter.

The girl stands on her frost-bitten toes
And look upon the scene with wonder.
As the tantalizing warmth appear against her fingers
She can't help but ponder.

Why are some people in the parlour
But others look from the outside in?
For she can't help but question
What is deep within.
This scene is depicting a girl looking into a parlour in the midst of winter. She does not understand why she cannot go in even though she is freezing. The concept of social hierarchy seems like a world away yet she tries her hardest to get a peak of what is going on inside. She had cut herself on some patches of the uneven glass and her lips were turning blue from the frost-bite. I would like to think that this takes place in Russia.
gracie Aug 30
and your halo can be seen on november nights before the car starts
when our breath is cold in the air
and, for a moment,
your words can be seen instead of felt.

when i look out the window,
i see a streetlight.
astrid Jul 24
Pools of aquamarine sink in the depths of golden quartz
as a figment of a feeling --
too foreign to be named,
yet
too familiar to be told --
grasps into their cores
as a their hands intertwine
with sudden daunting urgency.
Long forgotten are the piercing words
that become nothing but murmurs
in the cool and crisp air that fails to
shimmer and soothe the embers
between his and her beings.
By which the ardent winds push them,
so does the tip of his --- no, hers
she laid claim on this many moons ago ---
her knife, nicking a far edge in their chamber,
hilt bobbing in rhythm with nimble fingers.
Patience and longing, fever and urgency,
all colliding as desire feeds on hope.
The closer they sink,
an anchor beneath the water,
where they find each other
in a movement of souls
through a spirited exchange of breaths.
It begins within them,
a threshold
of a furnace
that burns in
war and frost.
internecine series; d1 (prompt: confessions) entry for a sifki subproject
The way is foggy
There is no signal here
No maps, no roads
No lights, no signs
Nor signals to guide me
I am a stranger
To this one-horse town
I do not know

So I fall into slumber
To dreams of woods of umber
The ground still with frost
This icy chill biting at my heels
Are these the dogs of winter?
Is the cold of autumn or spring?
Am I the only one who
Feels anything?

As I climb it gets colder
The mist steals further in
More so I feel lost
Torn between the way home
And the way my heart leads
Though I do not know
Which of these is in front
Nor behind me

From love I draw strength
Blindly it pulls me onwards
I do not know if my path is true
If it leads me to you
If it leads to pastures new
If it leads me back to paths already trodden
Retraces unseen footprints
Through marsh and swamp

I feel so small
A speck in this vast landscape
Amidst unconquerable forces she commands
To which I am subject
Strong may be my legs
But a great load they carry
And I fear they may buckle
For weak, she can make me
you were the first snowfall in winter
your fragile soul
broken from a haunted past
like a rose amongst thorns,
teaching me how beautiful
it can be to bloom after the frost.
Crystal Freda Jun 18
Glimmered warmth
congealed on the wintry rice.
A sumptous surprise
melting apart the frosty ice.

Twilit timbers
radiated rays of sunny soils.
Rooftop thunders
swirling and softening snowy oils.

Phthalo pastures
engendered the energy of dawn.
Spring's riant arrival
among winter's mix forgone
Crystal Freda Jun 18
cold confetti
fused flakes of  f r o s t
onto her silk splashed skin
and her lucidity  longfully l o s t...

a ****** braided bun
mantled the misty move of  m a g i c
under the navy novels  of the night
flowing on the fiber of her floral  f a b r i c....

a seamless, sastrugi sky
crested colors of celeste and cobalt  b l u e
warming a wild wave of magnetism
melting the magnolia mist of the daisy  d e w...
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