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SO much depends upon a red wheel barrow
So MUCH depends upon a red wheelbarrow
So much DEPENDS upon a red wheelbarrow
So much depends UPON a red wheelbarrow
So much depends upon A red wheelbarrow
So much depends upon a RED wheel barrow
So much depends upon a red WHEEL barrow
So much depends upon a red wheel BARROW
Madison Sep 2018
Still, without the touch of the needle

The silent record sits in wait.

Line after line of etched in melody

Worn, -- even abused

Scarred and scraped

A scratch here

Some dust there

Replayed, again and again

Black vinyl, once heavy, worn thin

Only to be abandoned on the turntable

Where it once served its purpose.

Neglected, unused

The silent record stays still

Hoping to one day turn again.
For a workshop exercise on imagism, in which I had to create a 'portrait' of an object. I picked a record, of course.
Knit Personality Aug 2018
the red sun
    on Japanese instruments

                      music for koto
                             like green tea

             shakuhachi & musician  
        with the colors of the wind                          
                 paint music in air

     my pincushion eardrum;
                   a bachi plucks three strings
              Toru Takemitsu
in an autumn garden

Daniel J Weller Jul 2018
A composition, bordered by brown track, white shelter and
yellow line;

off-white, smear-windowed building (background)
                                  hexagonal floors, brutalist mandala;
triangle across the frame, a *****, polluted structure
                                  one half of a red cross logo, boarded windows
                                  - chipboard, corrugation, MDF;
and Southern Rail green is grass in the lower foreground
                                  arrows, words, people.
East Croydon Station, July 2018 (see cover photo)

As part of 'View from...', a collection of observational poetic experiments, whereby I allow myself five minutes to finish a poem regarding my surroundings at that time.
Madhumita Apr 2018
The potted banana tree has borne fruit.
Light, water, fertilizer,
I gave it as needed.
Every day I watched it grow.
Every day it made me happy
to see the potted banana tree
and not just survive,
in a place it wasn’t supposed to be.
NaPoWriMo Day 11
Poetry form: Imagism
Annie Ra Jan 2018
Clouds cast shadows
on the mountain
Sunlight peeks through
white brume
Wet grass shines
like glass
An attempt at Imagism. Why not?
Michael Frost Apr 2017
Out of the
Black veil of night,
Crystals fall,
In the icy wind,
Illuminated by
The yellow glow
Of streetlights,
Along the
Winding boulevard.
Samuel Fox Feb 2017
I fancied burning;
nursed charred fingertips
from placing them between.
lips. I enjoyed love warm.

Love was easier
to kindle with friction
under sheets pre-lit,
shaped by body-heat.

Somewhere, an oasis
is brushing her hair,
is rippling with light,
lush with a fleeting smile.

I found her in autumn
laughing like a creek.
Her hair the color
of poplar leaves afloat.

She, restless, cascading
away and sometimes
over me, cannot
be contained readily.

My other lovers:
they were forest fires,
were all holocausts
filled with sharp facets.

An oasis is still sharp
to the taste. Her kiss
smooth: I can feel it
douse memories of cinders:

her eyes turn soft with mist
within my scorched daydreams.
Wrote this for a friend/lover.
Alex Bex Jan 2017
Only for an instant
can you witness the parting
of the mist over the ocean.

The heavy
pink curtain collapses,
swallowing the wavering shore
in its fumes

divides the sky in separate columns
          of gold and silver
in a single sensual gesture;

no existing border could be made out:
The dunes were a few meters
higher! The sky reached out to us
in the shadow of the water lines.

©2017 Alex Bex -
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