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Saanvi Apr 4
Dusk paints the hillside in a subtle orange glow, the colour so warm
it reminds me of a summer long ago..
It was only yesterday that we were playing with each other,
now we listen to the kids laughing in the park.
Dusk paints the hillside in a subtle orange glow,
It reminds me of the last exam on a Thursday or Friday so,
We were growing up with each line we wrote with our pens,
Filling the blank answer sheets,
Listening to the kids free and wild screaming outside
brought back memories of innocent childhood life.
The sound of glee was from somewhere nearby,
Yet I still couldn't trace its source.
Maybe it was my younger self blessing me with her glow.
It faded away as I stapled my sheets,
The fate was then forever sealed,
and now the sky is turning blue.
So what? Golden wheat ripened in the fields stands tall...
A blazing summer awaits me, youth is still to be lived.
So what if childhood is forever over,
We were in that cramped exam hall, writing our names on our sheets,
Painting our futures with ink bruises on our skin.
Dusk covers the sky in a beautiful tangerine,
Reminding me of eating oranges
Grandma peeled for me
while the afternoon silence went on and on
like life often does...
Nights will linger in Nostalgia,
perhaps I will fall in love with a stranger...
Of course I will,
it's my first summer of freedom.
The sun is setting on a glorious day,
somewhere it's the beginning,
somewhere it's an ending.
In my story, it's an ending with the beginning.
Dusk paints the hillside in a subtle orange glow.....an ode to my past present and future self...
I am older now,
And we've been together
For decades now,
So I don't pretend
To remember
Our first kiss, now.
Anyhow,
It's sensations are still with me.
That kiss was a sentence.
Anywho, or, Anywhom,
What's more important,
Is...
I don't foresee
Our last
Anytime soon.
Debbie Apr 1
As I open my eyes, the tide of the soul
pulls back my dream, slithering into oblivion.
I struggle to remember from deep within.
Half faces, fractured voices and shadowed symbols.
Further back the tide pulls.
The theatre of slumber has a distant thunder.
Memory of the dream is just a blunder.
Morning's reality is chasing me down.
As my thoughts plunge into that inner ocean.
Sleep clutches her secret potion.
Until black night returns,
To once again seize my soul.
Andre Mar 30
This broken compass guides to me a field of reeds.
I keep a file by my side so my horns will recede.
My herds gone they’ve left a long time ago. They’re waiting for me in a place with no sorrow.
I carry broken shackles on my feet from when I was set free.
With every clank it makes I’m revitalized abundantly.
My hairs grown long and my hooves worn dull.
I set my place of rest in the bright meadow.
Created while recovering from being sick.
Brian Mar 30
It's now been years,
moments frozen behind glass.
with our fingers interlaced,
like lattices of coloured paper,
neatly folded into swans.
Bold, elegant, proud.
a small army of comfort,
in the small battlefield.
with rows of paper flowers,
all blue, lavender and crimson.
once alive with our laughter.

squares of paper,
left strewn across the floor.
torn, ripped and split.
now burnt with hate,
burnt with ruined passion.
leaving a charred memory,
scattered among the ashes,
drifting away, gently.

Like the swans you used to fold.
My first poem!!!!!!!!
Sophie Chen Mar 25
Bright spring
But a pale shadow flicks
Behind my
Back

It reaches for
my hand

Grasps tightly,
like memory
Whispers,
sweet nothings

“Oh, \my beloved,
how I-
miss you”

Delusion, only a breeze,
Yet pitched so familiar
In tone

And my heart’s resolve
Falls through
like water
And I cannot help but

recall past summer’
Ever walk past a familiar place and recall a memory? Or hear a voice in the wind and think, thats them.
Jonathan Moya Mar 23
I feel at home at Taco Bell, as the cuisine
echoes the worst of my mom’s cooking:
cheese that tastes like beans,
beans that taste like rice,  
rice that tastes like flour.

It’s where I go when I am missing someone,
usually near their Jesus’ hour, between
the last sip of a lunch hour Pepsi
and the first after school Cinnabon
Delights clutched and munched
in little fingers.

I'll lean in whenever a raven haired Circe
at a corner table, resembling Sabrena—
that witch who first broke my heart—
casts a disdainful glance my way.

They’ll tug at the corners of their
bad girl leather jacket, gather
their familiar charms, and
shoot me a bird as
they vanish in
the smoke of
memory.

And then, on some evenings, customers
with my mother’s laugh will walk in
and then out, their arms cradling
grease-slicked terracotta bags,
sacred relics in the
fluorescence.

The smell of cheap tacos in brittle shells
filled with Hamburger Helper,
gummy cheese, old lettuce,
canned diced tomatoes-
that heavenly mess
masquerading as
a meal would
pull me back  
to her
cocina.    

In the haze of the Taco Bell fryers, the grease
sings of her failures and resilience.  Like her,
I would smile through it all—always
apologizing yet always trying—
in the end,  scraping meat
off chipped plates

remembering my mother’s taco shells and
refusing to wipe away the grease,
letting it linger an echo of
loves imperfect folds.
Dorian Mar 29
A sensation far gone
An act already done
All that's left is grief, so i'll make this brief

I'll stain the fading colours with ink
Then set them ablaze with flint
I'll see the memories flash, then look down on the ash

I won't leave any marks
Erasing all these scars
Getting rid of every piece, rewarding me with peace
AE Mar 23
I feel that same Sunday chaos
in the kitchen, fingers digging
into orange skin

a trailing scent of spring
citrus blooms into the air

here, in this moment
with one hand
and terrible penmanship
I write my name

and with the other
I hold the feeling
of missing things
Jonathan Moya Mar 23
This is the first time I've been in this mango grove,
hearing the iguaca sing, since my parents left this island

It is mid-July and I am wearing my dad’s old hat palm pava    
square and jaunty on my balding crown


quietly stealing this fleshy passion fruit, its skin warm on my palm, eager to be ******, before the jibaro with their cutting poles awaken—


these violently soft things who delight in the rude noises
made in the slush of their kissing—


their fibers glad to be forever stuck in my teeth
pretending beginnings on new beginnings.                                            

“This year, the mangoes are abundant,” my father used to say to me, his voice blending with the birdsong.

He takes a bite and hands me its yellow-red splendor
to try.  Instantly, I am heartbroken—pierced and open.

I realize, this will be my last time here in this shifting, slow heat  
and I will struggle to remember and feel what it was like  

                                            to touch and eat-- abundant mangoes.
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