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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 19
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
façade.
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
notice.
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.
I always imagined
I'm on the beach,
watching the waves roll in from your long hair booth,
seagulls flying on a sailing ship,
o it flies between the two of us
who are running around
looking for *****
on the shore
which turns out
to be close to the beach.
My lips,
so salty sweat
and sea water add happiness there.
I saw the sun rising
and setting in our e y e s,
which turned out to be a s i g n,
I needed to learn
to love the lost dusk
and also the dawn that came.
I saw the fishermen
who came
                   and then left
and that was my
h e   art
that was anchored in the old wharf which turned out to be quiet and
l               one            ly,
and was your  h   e   art  there too?
I always imagined
we forget names,
forget places,
but don't forget to go home.
Or perhaps, this is another option.
I always imagined
we were in a house in a cool village, where the rice fields were green and wide,
so vast that our l  ove was never measured.
The chirping of birds will always be heard
and answered so s w e e t l y
from tree branches
whose leaves are thick and shady; every time you
                            and
                                    I wake up.
From the windows and ventilation aisles,
sunlight e n t e r s to warm our cold bodies shivering all night
because of the
r
               a
                                i
   n
and      
         s     t    o   r   m   s
that never subside,
even though we have spent the night with various kinds of hugs
that are not the same.
Even I always imagined
you are there
when I imagined good things,
maybe when you are not by my side and I feel it is not something that feels good.
I always imagined
that I really love you.
And you really love me too.

O, I always imagined it all
when I see you smile every time
I have a bad day, and you said, everything
      must
         be
           easy
             for
              you
               to
                 go
                   through.

I imagined that, while writing this poem.
Indonesia, 3rd May 2021
Arif Aditya Abyan Nugroho
Ken Pepiton Aug 2021
Stories older than kings,
these exist as stories told with old ones,
imaginings of messengers,
seers saying this is the vision, made as plain
as pi, point, plumb, line, and wall,

man, made in the imagination
man imagines, and affirms,
this I die to know, I am made
to be a doer of this,
listen
_  yes, in the wind, give it a year... listen, speak when spoken to... how strange we seem, men of few spoken words... who serve to hold winds in fists once used to hold clubs and swords and guns.
Triscuit May 2021
I lay dormant
Subdued but in whole
I manage my being in stasis
At peace, I am cradled by the light
The long and gentle fingers nestled into the ether
A lengthy slumber is ahead of me
What comfort may it bring?
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