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Sand witches, solar sisters, they are the
west coast in this part of the cosmos,
tied to the hip with American thighs
and Brazilian otherwise, donning
catamaran bottoms the color of
red liquorice and snuggly
they sit at their
as if by
Some say I'm soulful,
Others the Devils tool,
One minute I might find you doleful,
The other acting quite the fool.

Yet that's patently unfair,
One aspect that I can't abide,
For I'm as pure as the morning air,
A child of the gentle ocean tide.

You may not think I live, but live I do,
Spawned in my cocoon of flames,
I thrive, but then die too,
Often amongst angst and conflicting claims.

My pedigree is strong,
Admired and always wanted,
With me you simply can't go wrong,
At times even something to be flaunted.

Your forebears held me close,
I'm privy to their secrets,
Through me their lifeline flows,
Despite them lying with the crickets.

I'm a chameleon, color is my muse,
I change according to my company,
Treat me well, never abuse,
For at my core a fragile symphony.

Where I came from no one knows,
But the world is my own oyster,
Having neither friends nor foes,
Life itself is what I foster.

Now you ask, who can I be
Someone quite so clearly needed,
Look around and you might see,
Generations that preceded.
The one word answer needs fit every stanza and there are clues throughout. Feel free to email me.
Robert Ippaso Mar 21
What am I?

I’m great fun and sometimes crazy,
Loud or soft with moods quite hazy,
Full of love, sorrow, unrequited loss,
One minute happy another sullen, cross.
I see the world in shades of neon gray,
Rarely do I care or anyone obey,
My vibes are epic, they constantly perplex,
Full of contradictions, invariably complex.
I can praise the Lord, drink myself into a stupor,
Stalking the room with unrequited humor.
*** is my go-to, gentle or pulsating,
Not always happy, at times tearfully heartbreaking.
I know the secret to capture every heart,
Life would be intolerable by keeping me apart.
Whatever you may think this is no passing phase,
I'm known to be pervasive and hound your mind for days.
My moods are epic, a journey to discover,
Your friend to soothe you or belatedly recover.

Come on - What am I?
One clue - the answer is a What not a Who
Ken Pepiton Mar 14
Fluid time, fluid stone, fluid light
all right, solid nothing,
nothing at all, a solid wall,

with a clustering of curious curio types,

messengers messaging between
whole and part, paid tuition
ars intuitus
rare anachronists insist, words evolve.

Words expand, as children into sage
or wastrel conformed and conditioned
expanding the idea of wedom,
breathing, statistically half in, as half out
what manner of man am I, wombed or un?

Were there ever men such as we, who can
share context across history, at earth level.

Considering the ant is no childish passtime,
Fulfilling aristocratic duty to learn then teach,
Considered here, linearly, on a thread

one thought wide, picked from circumstance,
to consider sidereally distant, sent from Mars,

between three and twenty minutes of time away,
on an arc affected by cohesive force, eh

grave-definite down, down, down
to the core of our communication organs,

signaling scents accepted as thought projected,
kindly lines, minds attuned as thought accepted.

Consider ever, from your vastest sense,
of the gravity bubble we exist within,

you and I, my hearing, seeing, knowing
me and you, my guardian guiding will,

to which I choose to submit, under no threat.

General Common Sense, beauty recognition,

test to tell if the word lord means any true -ing,

Greek men, pure, indeed, wisdoming wedom

mob minds and freedom do not mix,
oil and water, sure as Hell.

Freedom from all forms of tyranny, what holds
our we shape, in our minds? Common sense,

under all the stories contained within this
Goldilocks zone of unintended circumstances,
working out, fine, just iusta think
is no real answer, it is a code, a social norm set
said, fine, I'll say it, as a code for so small
we'd need ants eyes to see it…

and, lo', we have those,
we have predictable macroscopic images,
graven deep into our idle time drifting state

watching art mock life, and learn life laughs.
For you to use in any way you can imagine perfectly fine with me.
Do with ya.
Make ya breakfast on time. Duh…
I see somethin diff about cha.
some don't know what to do with ya.
But you can see sumthin different when ya with me.
preparing ya lunch.. What you like I got a hunch..
every day when ya f'in with me.. be somethin diff.
Dinners going to be somethin to stick to ya bone.
Ya won't get the same thing er’day.
the young chicks don't know what ta do with ya..
with ya yeah yeah.
I'm like seasoning simmering and classic dinning.
but home grown fixing..ol schoolin know what I mean..
I'm jus saying I'ma eye pleasing cuddly smiling thang.
Dedicated behavior..
dressing thangs up and smoothing things round..
so cool so cool....
Bring yah specialty behavior...
So I can bring tha flavor...
tasty gravy.. committed chemistry, sweet rarity.
I could be best fa yah...
cuz some wouldn't know what ta do wit cha..

H.E.R_Poetry By SelinaShardaye
Being Her.
Zywa Feb 27
I flounder, hanging

over grandpa's leg, hello --

super shiny shoes!
Poem "Grootvader" ("Grandfather", 2019, Bart Moeyaert)

Collection "Here &Now&"
I'm on my own
I've been on my own since I was born
Once born I struggled to breath the air
When dying I'll struggle to stop
It will feel like someone's sitting atop my chest
Until I die I will do my best
To live my life to the fullest
Death will just be the punctuation of my life
After my life I will be put to rest
No more love, no more strife
Horizontally, I'll be planted
A prayer will be chanted
No more vertical living
Nutrients to the ground I'll be giving.
Passing on....memeto mori...
Anais Vionet Jan 18
One evening, in a sleepy Connecticut town, the locals saw a peculiar sight,
a UAP had landed in an empty field, and man, it lit up the night.

They were, axiomatically, from a distant galaxy, here to explore our shared cosmic space,
their metallic-*******-rocket was multicolor pastel bright, like a carnival showcase.

There were cows that mooed approvingly and dogs that barked up at the sky,
like they needed to show where the thing came from - no one really knew why.

Soon little green people-like beings emerged, they had big, wide eyes that looked eerie,
but then again, this is how they’d always looked in movies and on TV.

"Take us to your leader," they said, but it was hard to take them seriously,
because this is America and most of us disagree on who that leader should be.

Someone brought out lawn chairs and the alien-astronauts settled in,
tables appeared shortly thereafter with a spread of pies, casseroles and fried chicken.

They spoke of their interstellar journeys, of planets far and wide,
of space cafes and wormhole highways and how gravity worked like tides.

One of the kids played some music and the explorers started to move,
soon we were having a dance-off - which they won - with some wacky, cosmic moves.

As morning light edged the horizon, our little green friends waved goodbye,
after saying that in some ways they envied us and our simple terrestrial lives.

Though they never promised to revisit, when the sky turns certain shade of blue,
townsfolk will set up a pasture party - just in case they do.
(*BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Axiomatic: something understood as obviously true*)
Anais Vionet Jan 13
I’m a tightrope walker, strung between
the hedonistic abyss of winter break and
the unforgiving canyon of organic chemistry.

The stack of spring syllabuses are a prophecy whispered
in Latin. The story they tell haunts my dreams - wherein
each biochemical is a monster lurking in the shadows.

“I’m not in a tailspin, that would be unfair,” I tell Lisa, “I’m in a lull.”
“It’s like that awkward time, between a hangover and drinking again.” she laughs.

Sure, I envisage late, week night study grinds, and sleepless
hours, but the price of serious things isn’t trivial - success and hard
work are, unfortunately, yoked together, like Shakespeare’s double shadow.

A tough spring curriculum won’t stop me from
taking 3 or 4 minutes to dance with roomates
when a head-banger like ‘Spiral City’ plays or
enjoying sudden, late night jelly bean melees.

And then there are the spring things that spark joy.
Walking to class on a brilliant spring morning,
with birdsong, a warm sun and fragrant breezes.

Laughs stolen in the back of classes,
gossip and secrets exchanged over
guilty coffee and croissant indulgences.

Skipping through crowded halls, drawing looks
‘cause we’re clapping aggressively to each other, singin’
“You got the swag sauce, she dripping swagu, ooh!”

“Ok,” I think to myself, putting my hair in a ponytail,
“I’m ready for spring semester - bring it on.”
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Envisage: picture something it in your mind

“You got the swag sauce, she dripping swagu, ooh”
Are lyrics from the song “Party” by André 3000 and Beyoncé
Zywa Jan 11
Splashing, destroying

the puddle by stamping, and --

again, and again.
Novel "Een Fries huilt niet" ("A Frisian does not cry", 1980, Gerrit Krol), chapter 1.1

Collection "SoulSenseSun"
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