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Valentin Oct 10
Less than five minutes was enough
For the sun to disappear in the sea
It let this orange color in the sky
After its tangerine and bright light
About to light off on our island
It made us feel dizzy and blind
Or maybe it was what we felt for each other
Dayna Aug 28
I want to live on an island, all alone. In a nice yellow house, with some vines on the windows. And i'd relax for the rest of my life, and wander around my island. I'd be the only soul. No one to bother me, no one to talk to me. No one to impress, no one watching me. No one to laugh at me, no one to tease me. No one to ever love me. And not once would I ever, attempt to leave that island. Even if that meant, I'd be all alone. As long as I wasn't. Lonely.
Caitlin Aug 14
You call yourself an island boy
Though you've barely left the shore.
Still, I can see the resemblance
Because your eyes shine like stars on the water
And you're as steadfast as the cliffs
Buffeted by heaving tides.
Your arms are as warm as the summer sand
And I forget to breath when I watch you sleep
So I feel the peace of drowning
As I'm pulled into the depths of utter devotion
To you.
Happy eighth anniversery honey. I love you.
island poet Aug 9
green island privilege

we thread our way through the Johnstone Strait,
where every landmass, largest and smallish,
all islands, so this particular three-island-man is comforted and
comfortable in his surroundings, in his skin,
in his watery rivered veins

the outlines of myriads shapes, assorted puzzle pieces of earth adrift,
fitted sheets, awaiting assembly upon the magic of water,
fitting the continuously moving puzzling frame, accepting all,
mutually funding each other for each must, by definition,
define each other

the sky allows itself to be glimpsed, “yes, I’m still blue,” it teases,
but sky is busy bathing its undersides, in gloomy whites
of a bubble bath, of a deep morning mournful fog,
we underneath, observing, bestride a double sided fir and pine forests corridor either-sided of our the cold calm watershed,
a green privilege

fog above, touching so lightly our green tree waterway enclosure,
just as a human caresses his truly beloved’s cheeks, so so softly,
the fog sitting on top of the treetops, kissing, allowing that,
but no more,as the day is now only hours young,
disallowing mature sunset romance

close enough to touch, the fallen branches that people the shoreline and I, marvel at my privilege, my history, how I came to be
witness to this moment, testifying to the luck of life, cris cross continental running from European Black Forest persecution,
Spanish inquisitors, whose auto-da-fe cris cross burnings earned them no truth, no fame,
where racism hatred made my tribe an official inferior kind,
worthy of extermination, yet, here I am surviving to be arriving
to the serenity of this goddess Columbia moment in natural embrace

but here again, at this second, still excoriated as virus-privileged,
aligned this time to the guilt of my skin colorations,
guilty genetically, in my nation of 99% immigrants,
which confuses us,
for we, our troop, victimized by quotas, ghettos, crafted laws,
once upon a time burnished, now burnt by our successes,
we asked for nothing more, fair play,
a chance to win but never by stepping on the backs of others,
are told, no, no, guilty by chance,
cause you won the oppressors color coded lottery

the sun keeps on battling, though now late afternoon,
its glare, no fair, makes me squint to see the horizon,
a thin lucent bright line, who knows how far away,
it challenges me, saying am I not the sun to everyone,
leading you to new islands, green end zones for anyone
to touch down, leading you back home to where you shelter
anyone who asks, a new horizon for anyone comes to me,
giver of words, my inspiration family history shared for anyone,
I adjudge guilty, your privilege was earned, by the exile you’ve endured and the truth of your island green privilege,
and the trees, in unison say, hallelujah selah
Ackerrman Aug 2
In case you forget,
In all your darkest moments,
Sunshine dancing petulantly on the water.
I would like to share the majesty-

Endless lawns of forlorn, scraggly grass
Stretches and etches hills into life.
Formed from the hand of an artist,
Stroking the countenance
And beaming beauty into its many folds,

Little hovels of black, vert and emerald
Hide like mice and voles,
Shivering in the sanctity
And uncertain security
That the upside-down mounds afford.

The lane is a wash of blue,
Smiling delicately at a distance
Flowing as it waves,
Languid and ***,
Comfortable in it's age.

But one tree,
Standing helplessly,
Hopelessly, out of place.
Feeling content, in its lovely face.

Even the sky agrees,
For there is no quarrel
Between it and the translucent, ethereal colours
Flooding the canvas.
What is the work of man compared to God?

And how much more beautiful it is than anything I have seen
A poem I wrote in the lake district
JDL Jul 12
As I stand upon the shore,

Peering into the waves of what came before;

Reflecting upon times of pleasure and revelry

Just as the tides leave awash priceless treasures and memories

Some are swept away into the seas of eternity

The ocean before me, the only certainty

Into sand the water seeps

Like tears for loved ones lost we forever weep

Each day another tally etched upon our flesh

Each one bringing us closer to the day of our final rest

Adding yet another plank upon our rickety raft

Born within a body that was not meant to last

The final plank in place ready to head out into the great unknown

For our sins we must be prepared to atone

For on this journey they will be our only companion

Yet blocking our way is our soul’s Champion

His body and soul bruised, cut and bleeding with every one of our past mistakes

My flesh renewed, is that all it takes?

To the hand of the Son of Grace we grasp

As He reaches to the Father of Truth and Love that will forever last
Joanna May 25
Little flower, so delicate and fine, you live where fate has stopped the hands of time.

With the forest above and the falls below, you have a simple beauty all your own.

You lighten the load, of others as they pass by, setting a new tone.
Without even knowing it, I would say you don’t have to try.

Nestled in like hidden treasure, you give joy that surpasses lofty desire.

Little flower, so gentle and refined you inspire me to live above the mire.
To read more of my writings go to:
Daan Vandelay Jun 15
Heads are getting turned,
cliques and bridges lining
up to one by one be burned.
As a fan of fine wine and dining,
Tommy's witches are cursed yet eaten
by b*tches, fighting each other,
boxing, punching to bother,
lunching till everyone is beaten.
A little cheeky peck, it is what it is.
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