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Heidi Franke Jan 13
I was sent
to a dark room
From your words.
Littered on the couch
Spilled into the air
Dark-like smells
smudging and
Textures touching
With antipathy for being futile.
       Irrelevant.
That artifact of darkness

I know the unlit
The heavy
      immovable monolith of despair.
Fence sitting for days
In Wait for a shape of
intentional light.
Incremental, as it
Fractured the silence.
That burrowed through
Despondent dirt
down Here.

I saw you flick past
a sliver of
Shiny coins
Alarmed by their details,
Lost in remnants
Of absurdity
As the cloudless score
rounded the sharp
        edges
That softened
        your eyes
       as you peeked outside.
This came to mind after reading 3 strong words of a poet on HP.
waiting in line
to see something interesting
this light of mine
is my bestest thing
waiting in line
to see a new movie
i saw it online
looks pretty groovy
waiting in line
to ride a carousel
the names of every animal
i could never tell
waiting in line
for a celebrity signature
the beginning of that hour
made my heart rupture
waiting in line
to drive and see you
stuck in highway traffic
allows me to take a few
waiting in line
for the next train
the carriage stops within
they all look the same
waiting in line
to get something to eat
hunger moves throughout
and pain through my feet
waiting in line
to wait in another
i've been in here for days
don't want to be a bother
waiting in line
to an elusive pit
everyone lines up
apparently seen as fit
waiting in line
and when i finally leave
the ride is only a minute
a photo taken is left behind
is it really worth it?
waiting can bring joy, and also sorrow. it is up to us to choose how we spend our time in line.
dead poet Dec 2024
i’ve done it again -
i know not why.
with tethered wings,
i sought to fly:
my feathers dye crimson
in the grips of disquiet;
a sworn enemy now,
though once an ally.

i fight the urge
to be myself.
yet, sometimes -
i get overwhelmed
by a sense of futility,
so strong, and lovely;
i’d trade the world for,
and all its wealth.

i hurdle through life
with a beacon un-flamed -
a blackbird through seasons,
with a spirit untamed.
i urge for someone to
light the torch,
so i may sew - the
verses i maimed.

and though i’m weary -
but not for worse;
i must prepare to die again.
tonight, i chase the truth -
for tomorrow -
i must lie again.
dead poet Dec 2024
a quote of wisdom
makes it to school bulletin;
janitor reads it.
Ylzm Nov 2024
My tongue's not my own neither the deepest longings
And neither these for pursuit nor grasping but to know
Of promises unknowable in the flesh but will be
For which given only glimpses of their shadows
And to know that before Time and for all times
Not futility as seeming for the Teacher is present
And so too the end's the beginning and vice versa
But to hear the Voice for in the dark the ears see
H AE MZ Sep 2024
I look out, to see nothing
Only shadows that refuse to speak.
I look in, to feel nothing
As if my soul forgot how to breathe.

Once, I held hope in trembling hands,
A flame that flickered in the storm.
But winds of sorrow snuffed it out,
And left me cold, without a form.

Now i drift, untethered, unsure,
As a stranger to life I knew.
Is there a path beyond this dark?
Or is my fate to just pass through?

I've made the changes, stitched the seams,
A patched up heart, but no relief.
For what is better if hope is gone?
An empty vessel that holds my grief.

The days move on, yet I remain,
A drifting form, caught in between.
I reach for light beyond the dark,
But linger where no hope is seen.

So I exist, without a dream,
No spark to guide me through the night.
I wander through the haze of time,
A fading star, devoid of light.

Will hope return, or is it lost?
A question I may never know.
But even in this endless night,
I'll keep moving, slow and low.
"Where Am I Going" is a deeply personal poem that captures my own  sense of being lost, both internally and externally. Using imagery of shadows, storms, and fading light, I express feelings of numbness, grief, and the absence of hope. Even though I've made changes in my life, I recognize that without hope, those changes feel futile. I'm still searching for meaning, drifting in uncertainty, unsure if I'll ever find the answers I am looking for. Despite the darkness, there's a quiet resilience in me, as I keep moving forward—slowly and without clear direction. The final stanza leaves the question of hope open, reflecting my ongoing journey.
Jamesb Sep 2024
We have spoken of tacking
Our ships away,
Changing our divergence
From one mile
For every sixty sailed,
To one mile every mile
As we part at ninety degrees,

Having sailed close aboard
A few years with
Turbulent waters between
Our hulls
Offset by occassional beautiful
Moments of sunrise
And reddened dusk,

The sun is now more often
Obscured by storm clouds,
Black and angry,
Unfeeling and irrational,
Lightning-full and dangerous,
With fewer sunny moments
Or even any forecast

The wind is picking up,
And the waves have
White caps on their heads,
Spray bursts more often
Over my bow and the rain
Is freezing now
Time not to tack so much

As wear ship,
Turn away from the wind,
Give up the beat to windward,
Accept the futility
Of a fools errand,
Slamming into a sea that
Does not forgive nor want me,

Turn instead south,
Away from the teeth of
A gale driven by spite and ADHD,
Sail south and hope to find
A sunnier clime
Before my ship

Finally

Sinks
There are times when one knows one should give in, knows that one is causing oneself pain, knows its unlikely to change, can see the smart move is to bail, yet keeps on anyway. This poem looks at the moments immediately before a dramatic change, where the hope of better things has not yet quite died
Ken Pepiton Sep 2023
Autobio. Belief. Cautious ****,

dear, the cost, of time lost, while aching,
after sitting as still as you can imagine
for as long as you can imagine,
ignoring bowel and bladder,

yawn, and feel the stretching, think again
any work in progress
works best with conjoined minds of the kinds
one finds in old texts, and sometimes, illustrations.
Suddenly life has people init intuitive arting on letting peace be.
a fly, bloated, buzzes
trapped between the window and the curtain

i hear it bump against the glass
the wings crumple
the fly falls
landing unceremoniously on the windowsill

after a moment, the fly is once again airborne
returning to the window
to continue its exercise in futility
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