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benzyl 7d
Gold, oh gold of homeland soil touched once and nevermore
glisten in my memory for eternity unbeholden
and cast the visage of perception, shrouding your long distance
that my heart may rest in clouds of artifice and mirth

Scatter all the truths amidst the wind
to drift unnoticed to a distant desert, buried beneath the sand.
Paint with chlorophyll of sickly verdance; mask the image
greener from the other side and poisonous within

Some day 20 years from now
I shall look back and see the hills
and think of misty mornings;
196 up Old Belair Road,
Middlemarch by Windy Point,
Rehearsal Room 3 just down the hallway;
A chance to pluck the strings and cast illusions with my melody

Sentimental whims below the shade of the veranda
Said I’d write my debut novel 'fore I turned 18
Then the venom poured on down
and withered the roots beneath my feet
and sent a southerly wind to sweep me to a ‘home’ that I know not

In truth, the venom was always there
but I never deigned to see it.
I frolicked and danced upon the grass;
merrily ignorant of its prickles.

Now from balconies and windows in a foreign haven
I see the grass as only green and bask in sweet nostalgia.
I need not fear the prickles of the truth’s venom spires:
I am far away and safe
I’ll never touch it anyways
About involuntary migration & selective nostalgia. Formerly 'from the other side'
Birdie 7d
Unfortunately I did it again,
I fell for the daydream,
I idolised men.
Now predictably I’m in way over my head,
Your presence I’m used to,
Your breathing in bed.
You’re part of the furniture now,
We can’t stay away,
Your love is a grass stain,
I can’t wash away.
Fell for someone who won’t fall for me. Again.
Yashkrit Ray Jun 14
Wind drifting through grass
At my feet, it stops and moans
Wind breaks- moaning ends
When the wind stops, silence remains- the moment of stillness.
Nastia Jun 4
Lawn mower,
At noon I hear yours echoes,
Like thunder, spread evenly
Across the earth.

Touching you
Always was unacceptable.
But now it's happened.

The wind rustles
My long plaid pants,
Touching the ends of my hair.
I walk slowly, rejoicing at this day.
I had a soft dream,
We were lying in the grass,
Staring at the moon.
Luna Saturne May 19
As Roosevelt said,
“Comparison is the thief of joy.”
Six simple words—
struck something deep,
A truth felt,
But never named.

We measure ourselves
against strangers and friends alike,
whispering,
“I want what they have.”
And just like that,
our joy slips through the cracks.

Comparison breeds envy,
envy turns to bitterness.
“Why them? Why not me?”
we ask,
as if fairness follows longing.

But truth is—
they’re likely looking back at you,
thinking
the *******
same
I was walking in the cemetery,
a place where death sits quietly among grass, bush and trees,
where grief is softened by green,
where the living come to forget and remember.

Sunlight filtered through the leaves.
Birdsong floated, indifferent and kind.
Graves stood in silence
some proud, built with stone too heavy for the dead,
others modest, marked by trees,
their roots winding down
into stories no one tells anymore.

Most had flowers.
Bouquets like offerings,
some fresh, some already fading.
Life pretending it can outlast death.

Then I saw it
a tulip, maroon,
its head bowed, its stem bent
not plucked,
but broken while still alive.

It hadn’t been laid there in tribute.
It was growing.
Rooted.
Alive.
And dying.

It leaned on the edge of a grave
like a mourner
who had run out of words.

Its siblings stood tall beside it,
still laughing in color,
still reaching for the sky,
unaware of their fallen one
or perhaps resigned to the order of things.

There was something tragic in its solitude.
A flower that had come to give beauty
and now was dying
on dust already claimed by death.

The irony was sharp
even the beautiful who serve the dead
must die too.

And no one brings flowers
for the flower that dies.

I stood still.
The tulip did not move.
A breeze passed, but it did not rise.
Some deaths happen quietly,
with no audience,
no cry,
just a slow fading
into the soil.

And I wondered
Is this what we are?
Not stone,
not names,
but small, nameless offerings
meant to bloom once,
to bow quietly,
and to vanish
without sound
while the world keeps walking.
lilli May 13
looming over a flower field
booming over a quiet sea
falling into an easy solitude
calling out to an empty chasm

when I asked you what you wanted
I never guessed it'd be me
when I asked what you needed
I didn't expect it to be anything

you looked otherworldly in that lighting
something ancient in me shattered
I just had to go down fighting
and risk my heart being battered

sitting in a bed of plush grass
spitting into saltwater
plunging into a suffocating silence
dispunging over a bottomless pit

thoughts breaking into glistening raindrops
knots tying messes into my stomach
decay taking over all my crevices
betrayal to every one of my senses
A short one, but still meaningful to me.
Anais Vionet Apr 14
Lisa and I played a round of frisbee-disc golf today—let’s reminisce.

I love the ‘live performance’ of sports, how you must physicalise
discipline. You get this instant feedback that you have to own and
lean hard into. The being present to adjust, the internalised mechanisms of performance—the ‘liveness’—is the most exciting thing about sports. And, of course, the one who does it best wins—there’s a simplicity to it.

Being Sunday, the course was crowded with guys. Most of the groups were college teams of five or six guys. Since there were only two of us, we were playing faster.

I don’t like going up to a group of guys and asking to play through.
They always let us but we get these appraising looks—not strictly golf related—that you can feel. So we skipped around the guys and played open holes—still playing 18—they just weren't contiguous and it took a bit longer.

It was great to get out in the sun. The course was all rolling fairways, there’s no grass greener and no sky bluer. I came in 14-under (straight brag). I’m a little competitive, my ego loves to be placed in a hierarchy, and winning seems to give form to me, it’s such a pleasant and coherent narrative.

As we were leaving our escort Charles stepped away for a minute and a couple of Yale looking guys offered us a ride back to campus—which was all very innocent and chivalrous—to save us waiting for an Uber or something—I'm sure (we were all sweaty and looked like drowned rats).
‘Sure,’ I thought, ‘let’s run off into the sunset.. not.’
But I said, “No, thanks, anyway.”
.
.
Songs for this:
Golden Boys by Res
Fruitcake by Subsonic Eye
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 04/13/25:
Reminisce = talk, think, or write about things that happened in the past.
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