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Henri Coetzee Sep 22
There exists a special type of insanity,
Only known to poets
And those who adore poetry.
It is something that cannot be explained
Or described, only experienced.

And those who experience it
Are never the same. They know
The burning need to write and read
And the comfort of finding yourself
In someone else's words.

This madness holds a hidden truth:
No one chooses this insanity.
Instead, it reaches out to those
Broken, disillusioned, embittered
And held captive, by life itself.

I do not ask you to pity the poets,
Or those captivated by poetry,
But the next time you see one
Ask them: Why do you love poetry?
And watch as their eyes light up.
The other day, I started talking about poetry and my friends couldn't understand why I loved it so much. That conversation led to this poem
Studying the wrinkled lines
of elder poems
on the topic of
the Four Directions;

the poetics of
haunting bards
and mossy sage
to the
acorn of the heart

In this infinity;
a piney cabin
inside a bamboo

and Wonder,
sits cross-legged
below the
river rock hearth;
warming her palms
against the
irregular downbeat
of snapping flames

“North, South, West and East;
Trust the Wise Arrows
Aiming True
from Your Heart's
Pondering the Inner Compass; our Heart space and the infinite wise sage that resides within.
every man looks bigger than they are in the shadows
it takes courage to step in the light
and really be seen
Do you agree?
considering all the people
    we have lost throughout the years
          grandparents  parents  lovers uncles aunts
               if lucky   no children
    we know that our time to leave this world
    will come to pass eventually

         and yet
    as long as we feel full of life
    we prefer not to think of this too often
    borne by the vague conviction
    that the survivors of our family
    will bear the pain of loss
    as we did years ago
and live on
C Jul 26
A chameleon
I've become
Self taught
To blend
And quietly fade
Or to POP
Stand out

I know the tricks
But not myself
I know the types
And what they like -
But what I like
My memory fades

Not fades
But blocks
It's there
Deep down
And now I search
And some I've found
Are things of which
I have had fear
For years and years...
Buried like gold
For my thirty-year-old
Self to discover

What joy
In finding joy
In such small things.
Joy and
Openness of being

What use have I
For one true love
When I feel loved
By the moon above?
Love is all around and in
Love is joy and peace and sin
Love is want
Of no-thing
Love is connection
With everything;
Not just
One other
Now and forever
Never to be shared
With any others...
Love cannot be possessed
And possession cannot be

Love is life
Love is knowing
That that life
Fuels every

To realise
That we are not special;
Not you
Not me
And not your lover
All of us
Just like any other
Andrew Layman Jul 23
Stand by me
for I am still at last
no rythm in the vein
no fog upon the glass
no light will ever dance forth
for my time becomes past.
Wordsmith Jun 10
Peace —
A feeling
A state of being
Of being in the present
With a deep sense of calm
That comes from — knowing
One I conflate with faith
Alan S May 6
the songs of wings flutter in the air,
            softly through the stars, begins the fear,
                                                    the loss of who
                                              a question remains,

          a destain for the most precious,
          a party of cranes conversing in silence,
          a life that remains unbalanced.
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