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Ylzm 2d
in seven of sevens,
in time, times and a half,
from the very first night,
the harvest is completed.

the fruition of the leaven of truth,
once a strange tongue,
coded in familiar languages;
unquenchably burns on altars.

a foreign bride awaits,
the reason a man leaves his family;
love shall be awakened and aroused,
for the time is right!

the light, fully revealed.
a child, a new creation:
King of kings for a thousand years,
then Armageddon!
I gather our memories and tie in it bundles
praying that the harvest
will last me through the winter
maybe this season
I won't be starved
of you
Reap the fields of dying holly
and sow the fields with red berries.

Dream of sunny spring awakening,
before the dew sets in the morning.
#9 in my Year One collection, from notes on 12/1
Artistical Apr 5

above my head.

And the swans' necks snapped in unison.
Through each of the valleys and ever anon.
I am chased by the waifs and the hooligans.

I hide in the caves, but hither they come,
they steal and they sneak through the heath;
and as I lie broken, bent and alone .
I have come to this wretched belief:

That over the aeons - through centuries passed -
there are bones of all those that were lost;
for they, too, were buried and left for the wolves
in caves, that from life, they were tossed.


over my ears,

and the bullets leave holes through my head.
Please, somebody come, and gather the bones,
of me and all those that are dead.
I don`t know what this is. I just had a dream...
death’s entrancing lure and charm,
I’m far away from my heart,
questions to reach an aftermath,
my lustful youth murmurs the sea of weeping void,
gentle flames to climb the sky,
above death’s veils and tempting allure,
the swan would stare close to the shore,
picturesque face upon night’s bright dispersal in the darkness of a mind,
pearls to shine an urge of power,
swan’s pure demeanour changes the faith of time,
spiritual emotions,
both in its poise and weeping beauty,
a nymph would stare back at the boiling water,
Earth’s harvest burnt like vanishing disasters,
eyes to eat a song of luring infinite,
I travelled till the end of human life.
Poem from my book 'The Allure Of Time' which is available on amazon.
Do you remember the night of September?
How I ran desperately through the garden?
It's dark and wait anymore,
And I fled, sensing freedom.

I saw bonfires burning in the distance.
I heard birds singing in the trees.
To stay? Wait? Turn to river?
To listen? Stop again?

Trample those who slowly fled, flew.
Shuffle and rake in an armful.
They will arrange an unscheduled execution.
They will remain on the empty sneakers.
Alind Bokodi Mar 22
It was the night of the harvest moon and all around gleams of light snaked their way through the autumn leaves
painting the ground with the colors of the sunset and setting the forest on fire
Up above
the sky was cloudless
the stars were scintillating
and every place you set your eyes you couldn’t help but admire such a comely scene
Never again would you see a more exquisite sight in nature
beauty in its purest form
The world revealed its deepest secrets that night
told a story that only the luckiest people would ever apprehend
The crisp fall breeze spoke in awe of the wise as it carried the sweet scent of baby’s breath through the boney trees
Then came the turn of the stream
who murmured on the words of renewal and healing
And the stars whispered the words of our ancestors
“ We are one with all that has been
and we are one with all that will be.”
Brian Yule Mar 12
Acorns in absentia
Adorn the barren field
Ungathered post the autumn fall
Unsprouted seed beyond recall
Withered where once was wherewithal
In accord with the fallow yield

And will the bare earth reignite
Weedwild and verdant, full of fight  
Second wind, second sight,
Some forgotten, refracted beam of light
In shifting dust revealed

Some autumnal hymnal hummed
Will popping fruit to fullripe come
Once this lull’s long hurt is healed
This restless tomb unsealed

For now
Acorns in absentia
Adorn the barren field
With thanks to Ms. Francesca Ruffo for her casual museship.
Rei Coman Dec 2018
That morning, I picked mushrooms.
They were red, almost round
like a tomato, with little white flecks
clinging to their domed caps.
Their earthy smell filled my nostrils
when I pulled them from the damp,
sandy soil, pine needles still clinging
to their sticky surface.
I was so excited for my find.
I was so thrilled to show them off.

But then you burst through my joy,
tore my dreams from my tired fingers,
and tossed them into the dumpster
with my harvest. I felt alone. I felt
unheard by those sworn to love me.
I lay in my bed unmoving, my spirit
screaming in pain and sadness.
I just wanted the pain to end.

You’re not sorry for what you did.
You hold no remorse for the fresh
red mushrooms you destroyed,
the irrevocable time you squandered,
the suffering and shame you caused.
I cannot argue with you: in your mind
you are absolutely in the right.

To you, I am a possession. A tool.
A doll god gave you to command,
unwillingly sworn to obedience.
I try so hard to hate you, but
I cannot hate someone who truly
believes that they love me,
even as they beat my soul down.

But someday I will rise to my feet,
look you in the eye devoid of fear,
and fate will compel you to reap
the harvest which you have sown.
In your eyes, I know I will see only
unwavering self-righteousness,
and the conviction that you
have done me nothing but good.

It makes me sick.
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