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Paul Butters Jul 11
The miracle –
To see, to feel, to touch, to hear, to smell
To be
To know I’m me.

A miracle repeated centillions of times over:
From the tiniest bug to the tallest tree.
So many sentient beings
Brimming with thoughts and feelings
Powerful emotion
And boundless imagination.

Evolution is but a continuation
From some timeless beginning
That could have created time itself.

Particles still wink in and out of existence –
Endless miracles beyond our vision.
All animals are just like us,
Seeing, feeling, thinking, wondering.

We take all this for granted
Rushing about
With our petty concerns –
Seldom taking the time
To stop
And look
At the sheer wonder
That is

Paul Butters

© PB 11\7\2021.
In the beginning.....
How’s this happening of me holding a pen again?
Trapped in the wit and bound by each vein.
My vision is blurred but my mind is clear;
I’ll take a paper but there’s something I fear.
Combination of thoughts made up inside my head;
The part of life simultaneously alive and dead.
The stars and the moon just one glance away;
Nobody knows how much these eyes weigh!
The eyelids are lift up to feel alive;
Emotions hit and put out the main five.
The dark isn’t enough to devastate;
Oh it's already midnight and the following date!
I can hear my name called out by the adjacent river;
Winds and waves leaving me to shiver.
This world is numb and cold;
My soul is drifting apart and it needs to be hold.
Look I am still breathing;
But my hands are freezing.
Yet I complete the poem and put a full stop of done;
Miracles do happen, I’ve recently experienced one.
Now I keep my pen & paper aside;
This happens all the time and I’m always abide.
Twenty-four hours of exertion and sound;
It requires some peace to be found.
This is an unending chain;
How’s this happening of me holding a pen again?
-Aishwarya Kulkarni
Anais Vionet Jan 1
This is the viral solstice and I am liberty’s gambler.
What would I give to taste the fresh air of freedom?


Thaw-out that space-cold hope and puncture me – please.
God blesses the poets to write of such miracles.
is it gambling if you know you're going to win?
Amanda Kay Burke Dec 2020
Write a poem to get off my chest
All my thoughts into a pile
And boring soap opera lines
Lighter for a little while

I see familiar metaphors
See the recycled rhymes
See the same old stories
Shared countless times

I see piece of a greater puzzle
Existence of chapters not written yet
Entire ocean of future to chart
Only gotten the tip of my pen wet

I see the history shaping my universe
Joy and sorrow imprinted
See the creation made from my transformation
Artwork I sloppily printed

I see natural progression
See soul spread out on display
See what's hidden in the spaces between words
I'm too scared to say

I see truths of the galaxy I've learned
Leave traces of my essence in each mark of ink
See miracles
Writing combines my spirit with things I think
I am pretty honest with my poetry but sometimes it's hard to get out exactly what is going on in my life without sounding stupid so I leave some parts out
Count your age by friends not by years,

Count me together with them.

Count your happy memories  and leave behind the sad,

Count together those who loathe you but their hate results into goodness.

Count those who pretty calm you down when mad.

Count them that thinks you are mad at them but you're actually not.

Now count and know you not just your age but more.

Count families;

Friends all are part of your age.

Wishing you the best life can offer...
       Inspiredpoet ✍️
Adeyi gracious mayomikun.
To every being born to this earth; ohh the miracles
Sillo Anderson Sep 2020
A picture framed from pain
Brightened from negativity in a tin
Forced to be sold for more than its worth
That's the life she lives
Abstained from hope, forcefully on hold
With sweet lies to hold, but yet its cold
That's the life she lives
And with prayers grown in every word
No kingdom above has claimed her call
While many serpents shed new lives
She's stagnant in what may be right
That's the life she lives
And for the many souls she turns to for love
A profit they want from the little she owns
But at the end of it all
That's the life she lives
Without need for hope concealed by dormant love
Neither Ghost
nor Father
nor a Sun
But still a 3-in-1,
with a flash of lightning
scarred between
them eyes
All together
yet always alone
Standing behind a dais
on Zoom
invoking with the one good 20/20 between them,
broadcasting words into being,
manifesting Hitlerian spells
to bewitch and
to squander
the True Tales
of a Plummeting Icarus Struck Down
(but not forgotten)
by some transcendental debasement.
Admire as 'They yet She' reel a bit,
employing a well-worn
tactical maneuver,
now, getting steady,
holding on ever tighter
to the wood.
These my w.c.fieldsian barkers
who share a predestined
and enflambed
yet glorious
third eye,
with little specks of gold,
'They yet She' look to be pinning it down
This very specific Message
from the Heavens,
'They yet She' are converging
and this should be
your takeaway
So kind of pay attention,
"'The Lord sayeth unto me
that all Men are Fools,
given to wanton callowness'
To which i reply:
'If only they would look
into the cavity,
and reach deeply and far-flung
to grasp, or rather,
to treasure
just one of a myriad of
divine possibilities
For within the obscurity
The Glory
of All
or Nothing
and back again
for Eternity;
the Eight laying down
to rest,
And so ends The Lesson.'
To which the Lord replied
'Well done U!'
and better still,
'They yet She' intoned,
with a sly, flyaway wink
'I know!'"
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