Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Elizabeth Zenk Jun 2022
Robins call
Chickadee bleats
The aroma of summer peeking through
the gentle mist of morning’s blue
Dandelions push through concrete
Trees are lush and green,
pink petals sprinkle like snow
Invasive flowers stretch and grow,
to roadways and ditches
Joggers emerge once more
for only when weather adorns
Cloud cover appears at 9 am
Then rain at 12
And sun at 3
Never a dull moment in spring
neth jones May 2022
uncut grass
   casts long shadows by night
animated on the inside
   of our basement windows
elongating and dashing away
   projected by the passing traffic
no mow may (May 2021)
witching hour May 2022
my feelings are a mountain
i have yet to tackle
detached of my body
way ahead of me
in a sense it may have manifested its way of life
now it is a head, with a heartbeat
i’ll let it grow a hand of its own
perhaps two, even
limb after another
& who am i but a shell?
Wilkes Arnold Sep 2021
On a bed in fair mid-May,
Away from school, work, and play,
Lie a young boy devoid of joy,
Trying to break away.

It wrestled, fought, and struggled,
But fatal aims redoubled,
His iron will held them stock-still,
Neither could break away.

Motions were slow and fleeting,
Instinct and Will competing,
To end two pains in different veins,
Crumble and break away.

Strangling a blind reflection,
White-knuckling throats mid-section,
With fratricide, a part had died,
What's left to break away.

Downtown a young man stood tall,
Behind eyes, perturbing pall,
Lie a young boy devoid of joy,
Trying to break away.
March has marched in
Half way through the month
It is hot and has brought summer along
The grapes and melons have turned sweetest ripe
The mangoes have arrived too
Raw and green, they are best pickled
Come May
King Alphonso, will be here
From the wild coastal lands
To conquer every heart
For a golden reign
Coleen Mzarriz Feb 2021
If I tell you, my muse,
how I long for your presence
amid the desert in the crack of dawn —
would you saunter by and stay
until these wounds be in silence
and covered by your unpredictable peace,
will you stay?

My muse, when I write you, no name
no shade, no face — a beauty with only
a mere part of your body in a physical dimension
of my story, with you here, I feel
the sense of belonging
the unknown familiarity,
take a plunge, face the mirror —
I am there, I am there.

You were born in May,
in full moon by the seaside.
You were crying melodies
and the current flow of the waves,
carried you to me, in reality, in dream,
in song, while your face
soft and maiden for what I saw in your eyes.

The past, the future,
how you brought comfort —
while my book stays there, in draft,
in awe of you, my muse.

This is how I celebrate the month of May,
where are you muse?
come and take a look in your creator —
I am here, I am here.
Wrote this for my muse! Hope you'd give this love since it's hearts' day! Bless your pen now and keep writing, writers!
Next page