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The Dead Poet Nov 2023
I hold myself at night,
“I do”. . .  distant echoes, awake at night at your side.
The smell of linen, your snores so distant and yet so close.
I hate myself for dreaming. . .
Of someone coming to dance with me,
Even though they hate dancing only because
it's with me and no one else.
I hate myself for dreaming. . .
Knowing it's not you,
“I do” distant echoes, young lovers. . .
Formerly in love
Carlo C Gomez Jan 2023
Trust the sun (she says)
her first rays when creation was young
and God's window opened outward
as a place of worship
born to be breathtaken
daylight imploring for companionship
and bleeding into itself
as it bleeds into the worshipper.

She notices that her own taste
in repeating patterns doesn’t mesh
with the apparently similar
patterns in Drakensberg
they obey a different logic, and the friction
between them generates
a fascinatingly ambiguous color.

Tinctured cathedral of time passing
on its first layer of stairs...
In homage of The Great Escarpment, a major topographical feature in Africa that consists of steep slopes from the high central Southern African plateau.
David Hilburn Aug 2022
Stars to dwell in the night
Paces in the account, of a new peace
Rages, and the toll of evidential might
The cares of worlds that collect but a keeping least

Use, and the unction of void causes
Reciprocate and notice a share in the form
Flowers of justice, tree's of a unique treasure
When we spy a day reproofed, the kiss of all and norm

Wishes to run...
And bless the cold shoulders of avarice
With a requited passage of what is ours, what is fun
When a place above clouds, has a charity to give, this

Speaking of that...
The tow of mutual praise, the tongue we ask in
Is but a soul of callous salt, to understand a matter
That came, and with a loving precognition, we are the spirit to win

A hat of conscience
The truth in a lingering hope, the total of unity in a breeze
We meant, we sent to an angel, for hands of presence
And the miracle of a kindness that liberated even life's dreams
The taste of hope, what wouldn't you do, to share another, and another...?
The Dead Poet Oct 2021
It is not the pain itself,
It is the memory of having seen the bottom of the abyss,
The pain of each cataclysm, the pain of living torture.

It is the pain of these sleepless nights,
of this vile memory multiplied.
It is the pain of remembering your scent, It is the pain of this heart which beats through my poor crying soul.
The pain of reliving my abyss , full of nothingness, regret, empty , cold, desolate without you.

These memories bring me down,
     to the void, which I now climb alone.
Carlo C Gomez Aug 2021
~
Mother of many waters
the manner with which she ascends
is sympathetically informed
we are a running spring
from her womb
flowing along the magical line
of peaks and summits
to cascading fiery birthright

and the rain fell
and the snow settled
and the ice theologized
to remind us
the outside world still worships
her eruptive embers

~
Justin Lai Dec 2020
squelched between bodies spiralling into escalators,
my trained eye couldn't help hovering a little left

right there, coming into view at the watch store,
though never caught dead anywhere near M·A·C

but neither should my stares, blatant without restraint,
fixed on a trio chattering like keys jangling

to the beat of a million other stolen glances,
only for them to slip away for some froyo.

rather than melt into a fruity confection myself,
I steel my eyes back into the spiralling masses

blocking out three gym bags marked 'WATER POLO',
my untrained heart pulses still for their suntan

and the bleachers of yesterday, the sight and sweat,
jocks jangling for position in glistening waters —

only then did I dare scream my lungs out,
safe in the crowds of a high school roar.
the bj stands for bugis junction, it's a local shopping mall okay xD
Dante Rocío Jun 2020
It hurts to end a book,
It hurts to end our story.
To know it was just a glimpse,
Soon nothing short of an eternal memory
Embedded, anything but faded

It hurts to leave you by,
To detach myself from you
Knowing my departure’s to be now or never,
For any other encounter shall be a timeless pain.
Knowing already, with you unaware,
Your journey’s destiny,
What came to be, comes and what will come,
Perish or last.

Like a mother, or a father, or a heavenly angel,
I see you grow, I see you change
And dance and play with the dangerous and unknown fate.
Then I can’t help but notice as melancholy,
So great that sorrowful,
Starts simmering in my chest
When I finally come to my senses to, in fact, realise
That with every new difference, every new feeling, thought and day
You drift further and further away
Like the dearest ship you loved with all your might,
With me, surprisingly, sailing away,
With the sense of excitement and fear too,
Together into the Unknown

When we arrive at our last harbour,
Despite our battle with merciless time,
At the last droplets of the quill’s ink staining those rusty pages,
I acknowledge the inevitable finale.
Though my mind stands tall, my heart crumbles
Not wishing to leave,
To untie the bond with the one,
Who loved the same world of dreams,
Audacity and passion,
The one and only who knew and believed in my vision,
Ideals as I
And never returned to the chains on his knees

With sobs racking my body and fiery protests in my stomach
I give you my last kiss, bidding goodbye,
As if death was making us part.
It’s been my greatest honour and pleasure to accompany your every step.
To look back with aching heart on your glorious days,
To see every dark corner of your puzzling past...

To experience this mystery being life as truly one entity.

I mourn over this moment,
Aware of the cruel ticking of the clock that came to an end
And returning no more to us,
As every other return shall leave a bitter taste in the mouth,
Overwhelming with my conscience of your final chapter on every step:
With you already gone
Lingering in the memories of the pages,
Invincible to time yet aware of it no more,
Unaware of any other moment than “now” and “here”

It hurts to close a book.

It hurts to end a story.

Of us ceasing to be,
Of us ceasing to speak.
As no other tale shall replace soon what we bore,
I bid my “Farwell”,
Leaving another piece of my being in you
For an eternity.

With these final breaths I pay my tribute to you,
For what you were, gave, did,
Took, created and left.
To James Fry, a barefoot sailor of the seven seas.
The consort of the oceans and the seas.
The audacious, brave and challenging kid.
The man who was courageous enough to live,
On his own terms, never bent to any mortal,
Never bound to the earth nor dull reality.

Wish you favourable winds in the sails of The Morning Star.
May you end your days with the same greatness you lived and were destined for.
5 di dicembre 2019.
Un omaggio a “La Vera Storia del Capitano Uncino” da Pierdomenico Baccalario.
Le ringrazio moltissimo per questa avventura e per guidarmi verso le lacrime del Cuore. Per le nostre lettere. Per il mio primo poema, questo.
Che bello.
Wilson May 2020
I did not despair when the crumbling path fed into muddy grass
And I do not despair when my walk in Jackson Park comes to pass
You can show me danker, darker, soaked in ****** evil roots
And I can show you higher, tougher, softer rubber boots

I did not despair when greeted by splotched grins in the maize
And I do not despair when my fears fill my fields with daze
You can burn my farm into blazing screams rising into razing sky
And I will seal my eyes to bask in heat that keeps me dry
In the style of Edgar Allen Poe
The Dead Poet Apr 2020
please don't cry
dry your eyes
I can no longer hide the truth

So choose me
see me
&
Let us be happier
You
&
Me
#homage #love #
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