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Like mist, sparse,

becoming water,
and then a river,
and going forever

(and strong and fast and turbulent
growing life and joy and colors)

Our purpose is,
and was never.
Very concise poem on existential nihilism

Heidi Franke Mar 15
This wasn't the train. It scooped you up to a different destination. Birds of splendor followed along
Out the window
Winding in your path of grief. Be ready for the station waiting
To greet your sorrow.

The platform is not clear. The mist hides the light then becomes a flow of water you can reach and touch. Become aware of the grief but don't move towards it. See it instead in the palm of your hand. Dip into the water cupped in your hands to cleanse your sorrow.

You will have times of freedom. Embrace all feelings. Let them fall into the stream of water. You will lighten. You will see more color as the mist dissappears.

You will see the light between the leaves of the trees. The sounds of song birds lifting you up with messages for you alone.
The Unbearable Winter’s mist

The winter’s mist,
the sky augurs
blue and sun mellow,
but clouded vision
begets and besets,
my own and owned
melancholy vision is
a consequential
snake like blurry speckled band,
of my own drawing,
covering my eyes,
when I read Márai‘s
wit, write, legal writ,
but with my corrected
of the
and my own self assigned
grade is a bright red

eye of the beholder

Life becomes unbearable
”when one has come to
terms with who one is,
both in one's own eyes
and in the eyes of the world.
We all of us must come to terms
with what and who we are, and
recognize that this wisdom is not
going to earn us any praise, that
life is not going to pin a medal on
us for recognizing and enduring
our own vanity or egoism or
baldness or our potbelly. No, the
secret is that there's no reward
and we have to endure our characters
and our natures as best we can, because
no amount of experience or insight is
going to rectify our deficiencies, our
self-regard, or our cupidity. We have
to learn that our desires do not find
any real echo in the world. We have
to accept that the people we love
do not love us, or not in the way
we hope. We have to accept betrayal
and disloyalty, and, hardest of all,
that someone is finer
than we are in
character or intelligence.”

Sándor Márai
trying my hand at  more traditional poetry,
yes, still self absorbed; but when I read
Marai’s wods ,was struck that by adding un to bearable
the words had equal validity
Hadrian Veska Oct 2023
A cool and close mist
Hangs over the highland shrubs and trees
Wild and tall grasses bend heavy
Laden with the chill dew
of a perpetually hidden dawn
10 lifetimes of experiences
Have I gathered since I entered here
I feel it was but a few hours ago
Though I have not seen the sun
Nor has the darkness of night
Yet begun to creep into these woods
Maybe from a dream or perhaps
I passed it earlier this strange house
A ***** place with slanted roof and chimney
Sticking out of the earth in such a way
That it appeared to be a natural growth
I feel as though it is so very familiar
Though I cannot say why
Or why no matter the direction I turn
Or for how long I walk
I come unto its doorstep again and again
In my mind it has replaced my own home
If ever I did have another
And whoever might have been waiting there
I have long since forgotten
Yet when I reach this house
Time and time again
I cannot muster the courage to reach out
To take hold of the handle and turn it
To enter in to that abode
And here I come again
I see it emerge out of the gentle fog
Comfortably nestled on a hillside
I stand for a moment at the gate
The walk through it and a long a path
Interspersed with a step or two here and there
As it turned inwards and outwards
Ascending the hill into the homes entrance
In a moment I stood at the door yet again
Hand half outstretched towards the ****
I placed my hand upon
Feeling the cool of brass
Yet the warmth of something else
Something half remembered from youth
From years long since entwined with dreams
I turned the **** gently
Not yet feeling the click of the lock
I felt a fresh wind at my back
And I rather spontaneously
Wrenched my hand and wrist
All the way to the right
I could feel the weight I’ll the door
Unhindered by any lock or stop
And I pushed through the humble
Yet mighty wooden thing open
And was greeted by a deepening night
Full of countless radiant stars.
Grief arrives like a mist across the fields.
Bees brave the morning chill to work the last of the marjoram.
The suprise swallow nest, above the shop door, is empty.
There's a metal taste in my mouth.
It's like the tea I used to get from the Friends stall at my local hospital.
Late Summer throws her gifts at us with outrageous generosity.
Plenty beyond reason
Harvest beyond measure.
In the Oriental medicine tradition, Autumn is the season most associated with the element if Metal. Late Summer is associated with the element of Earth.
Zywa Feb 2023
Mist, with some shadows

of animals in the side --

of the road, hit, dead.
"Het Bureau - Het A.P. Beerta-Instituut" ("The Office - The A.P. Beerta-Institute", 1998, Han Voskuil), page 870

Collection "Not too bad [1974-1989]"
Zywa Nov 2022
The treetops shake off

the mist, they're getting colour --

with mass, and a trunk.
"Fuga in C" (2022, Samuel Vriezen) for harmonium, performed by Samuel Vriezen in the Organpark on October 30th, 2022

Collection "org anp ark" #242
Himani Dhaka Apr 2022
Through the eyes of mine
that glitter and shine
into the fog of nothing
I see arcane paths and a frantic heart

I run away to feel safe and sound
Still the tail follows me around
Frenetic efforts and sleepless nights
Go into the fog of nothing…

When I look around
I see a imperfect past that surround
A flickering that guides
Into the fog of nothing

The pathless woods are eerie
This chanciness so weary
Yet the flickering star would guide
Through the fog of nothing…
LC Apr 2022
My body is sixty percent water,
and I attempt to float with the oil,
coasting with closed eyes and mind.
But I am sinking to the bottom of the glass,
where cold, hard rocks bruise with the truth,
and I press my hands to the glass to keep myself standing.

Although the rocks ground me,
the submersion chokes my throat.
If I crack the glass with my bare hands,
the acid-laced arrows will lacerate my back,
and I will be a trembling target fading into mist.
but the gentle breeze will greet me with open arms.
Day 2 of Escapril! The prompt was "separation." I hope you enjoy it!
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