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Bobby Dodds Jul 26
Everyone always expects a butterfly,
When they find that fearless cocoon;
Hanging over certain death,
And inviting a birth from a new womb.
They expect a sunrise to arise,
To dry out their wings and take flight.
Glittering generalities caught in icarus's wings.
People expect the best from your worst,
And you'll expect that that's best.
Yet this expectation leaves us cursed.
Like the monarchs, who dance under the sun;
When moths are birthed, they dance under a dead one.

I reject the notion of expected beauty,
I reject this reality that-
I need to dance in the sun,
Shine bright beneath the trees,
And fly high to melt my wings,
I despise this idea
Because like the moths,
I will dance among the stars
Between the moons of Jupiter,
And sing with selene in the night.

I will burst from my cocoon
Not in your beauty,
But in mine
Hello everyone, I'm still alive after a tad bit of inactivity, went to Colorado for awhile for camp counseling teaching medicine for BSA.
Going to Florida to sail around the Keyes for a week in two days, we'll see how that works....

(Hmmmm specialize in internal medicine, maybe???? Nahhhhh neurology is too cool not to go into...)
Payton Mar 1
Night flower blossoming
Beneath the summer sky
Petal parasols unfurling
Throughout June and July

She was born under the moon
Nocturnal butterfly
Pollinated by pale moths
To live one day then die

Moonflower blooms in warmth
Her short season’s end nigh
Shriveling once the frost sets in
And conceding to the ice

Moonblossom rich in scent
A true pleasure to stand by
Her short-lived sweet fragrance
Would all surely vivify
This poem was written in 2020.
Sarah Pavlak Nov 2020
Our home is burning.
Moths and lilies are breaking the woodwork.
They are fluttering closer to our fumbling feet.
Your grandmother’s wallpaper has never looked so beautiful.

I used to spend my nights in the silence between the sofa cushions,
Trying to organize the history of anarchism,
Wondering why the persimmons had been bitter to us,
And why you could not distinguish stones from bread.

On the day God decided to forsake virgins,
I went off to the market, closing the door behind me softly.
Our foundation disappeared behind me.
Somewhere, I believe, you are still dancing.
MK Garne Nov 2020
sometimes I want to scream,
to open my throat and let raw, audial emotion pour out of my mouth

in unlikely and inappropriate places:

I want to be louder than the grate of iron against iron on the metro,
than the sharp whine of subway against tracks
than the hum of electricity
and the noise that makes up this city
and the noise that makes up the world.
I want to be louder than the noises that reverberate from other people's lives,
and louder than bureaucracy,
and louder than the din of policies and senseless complaints.

but then I think about the summer lockdown,
the humidity of western Tennessee,
the chorus of cicadas in the forests,
devoid of human noise and interaction.

I think about the luna moth I found on my doorstep one morning,
Sheltered from sun, cicada, and wasp.
They stand for luck, you know, and all good fortune.

They don't have mouths.
Jackson Bussey Sep 2020
The Moon is home to those lost in the night
We are drawn to her like moths
In the glow of her pale light
The world feels soft
And welcoming
Suddenly I understand
Details that daylight cannot expose
Only Moonlight.
I wonder why so many people write poems and songs about the moon.
k e i Aug 2020
“so, did you say it?”

“what?”

“you know what.”

“......”

“the butterflies in my stomach; they flutter when i attempt to.”

“so don’t let them turn into moths. they’d only swarm and rattle more cages.”
Echo Jul 2020
i wandered in the forest, as so many hopeless do
despite the warnings of the wise
and found myself tracing the world
fingers ghosting over leaves and foxglove blossoms
as the woods grew dark around me
and the moon seemed to shy away from my path

when i stood still to search for it, what i found instead was her
standing tall enough to choke the light
and yet almost like a flame
bloodied flowers growing from her chest and covering her ribs
and antlers stretching from her amber hair

"i am", she spoke, "the patron of dreams just barely forgotten
the echo of a memory straying further away
the more you strive to keep it close"

a flutter between us in the silence
a moth
landing on her skin
and attempting to draw blood
where it sat, a new flower spread
swallowing it whole

my head felt heavy as i swayed
slick sickening warmth coating my teeth
i fell to my knees and as i did
my eyes met the leaves and dirt below
but where before there had been sticks and wood
i saw bones littering the earth

"it is a shame", she said
over the sound of the forest stirring
twisting with displeasure at my discovery
"you were as beautiful as you were lost"
Once again, no moths were harmed in the making of this poem. I think.
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