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glass Oct 23

drinking air like flame
a moth inside a lantern
the passion in pain

burning desire
the rapture of heat
self immolation

acutely consumed
and terminally alive
chronic thoughts of love

perhaps the moth
simply doesn't know
the strength of
its own wings
but the way it flutters
seemingly erratic
        in its choices
never straight forward
        in its direction
can be infuriating at times
as those silken sails
appear to force it
where none expect it to be
in disjointed circles
often far off course
only occasionally
will it find itself
exactly where it should be
whether accidentally
         or by design
its every path is filled
with calculated corrections
revisions and redress
in order to reach
its intended
that source of light
one way or another
Zywa Jul 17
It is late, bedtime,

there's a waft around the lamp --

a cloud of white moths.
Novel "The Good Apprentice" (1985, Iris Murdoch), chapter 2, part 5

Collection "Unspoken"
I S A A C Apr 2022
you attract more flies with honey
like moths, to a flame, you bug me
ready for hot humid summer days
ready to have my picnics by the lake
my family I have crafted, my kin in essence
my family I have drafted, my purest expression
truest of true, brightest of blues,
chatter filled dinners, loved filled rooms
I prayed for times like this, the flowers in bloom
Bobby Dodds Jul 2021
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 2021
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.
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