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Looked up to your atmosphere
Saw a little girl with wings
Painting the sky with the
Brushing them up
And letting them flow
Like she did
With her mommy's hair
No camera can capture what we are gifted to see with our eyes and imagination. What do you see in the clouds
M Solav Jan 7
The poetry of thoughts shines despite the deceit
That lies beyond the kingdom of the forgotten
For it is otherwise shackled by the extraneous resolve
To bind it to mortal forms with the cross of the sheet

And the hammer of the pen.

From this mere p*rversion one can't help but marvel
At the speed upon which we surrender to defeat
And stand ready to relinquish newfound heavens
For the sloppy aesthetics of poetry and prose

And the fate it can't but meet.

For we walk alone on the quicksand of time
And it swallows us whole before we dare speak
So breathe the fresh air before it goes stale
And let every moment be a chance to exist

For it is swaying on the edge.
Written on January 7th, 2023.

— Copyright © M. Solav —

This work may not be used in entirety or in part without the prior approval of its author. Please contact for usage requests. Thank you.
Amanda Kay Burke Jun 2022
I can't imagine what it's like
To wake up free of fear
And to be completely certain
I have a purpose here
Life would be so much easier
If the past would disappear
But I cant let go and the memories
Only seem to get more clear
Feel so stuck
Persephone Jan 2022
No two snowflakes are alike. Do you know what that means? Are you able to grasp just how much weight that statement carries? That means that even during a blizzard when the world is being consumed by snow and the flakes are falling faster than a torrential down pour and you can’t see your very own hand in front of you, still even then not one of those trillions of snowflakes will ever match another.
It’s practically unthinkable, a laughable old wive’s tale. But then I remember how I saw you that one day with your friends, laughing at something one of them said and I realize in that moment then how something like that is truly possible
Within the torn books,
As old as the time
Lies an unveiled spell,
Vexing the barren souls.

Amidst this lost world,
Does it whisper its golden words,
Shining through the hazy air,
Those, who listens always finds their way.

And just with a touch of shredded phrases,
The once despaired sky will smile,
Will they see the moon listening to them
The once despaired sky will smile,
Looking the flowers bloom in joy
And listening the winds sing in rhythm,
Will they let the curse vex.

And when devoured to the last essence
Is when the glass will break,
Crushed into little pieces,
Perished to never be welded again.
There arises the dark foam,
Returning to the golden lines,  
But now to be blotted with red inks.
As the wood wails dews on lands.
What is the spell?
Robert Ronnow Oct 2021
From marble and granite to steel and glass,
we were discussing Rhina Espaillat’s On the Avenue in class,
was it 1950s or 1980s NYC and were the fifties
the city’s halcyon days or is it now, the 2020s,
the boroughs teeming with immigrants
from the round earth’s imagined corners,
Hasidim and Muslim, Haitian and Russian, as we
Italians and Irish in an earlier era were. Everything will
be ok or not, the recombinations which make
prediction and intuition fortunately hopeless
and each individual an experiment gone well or wrong.
On the avenue God speaks by spewing
toy and clothing stores, breakdancers and ice skaters,
the Brooklyn Navy Yard seen from the Brooklyn Bridge,
the skyline admired when my car broke down on the Triborough Bridge.
The numbers of us overwhelm, there exist powers
overwhelming for the human body and mind.
I don’t mind but I can’t make sense of it.
Gandhi said What you do may not seem important
but it is very important that you do it. By that what is meant?
Linda said Why does God always have to be a man?
I said He could be a she but She’s probably really
a Tyrannosaurus rex. I like to be in America!
—Espaillat, Rhina, “On the Avenue”, Playing at Stillness, Truman State University Press, 2005.
—Donne, John, “At the round earth’s imagined corners”.
Oil and vinegar,
Sugar and spice;
everything looks nice.
Your wit and charm,
sends long walks of
harmony into a world
of a never ending
Put's on his best smile,
but he will always be
a broken man.
Stay's at home,
I try my best to
console him and he
Put's his head high,
and thinks no one will
On the way, he imagines
reactions, that someday
he will have a perfect world,
made the way he wants it.
Making plans for Mikey,
to make sure he's a happy man.
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