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Mark Wanless May 2021
understanding the
shape of a mountain not an
unknowable task
Karijinbba Apr 2021
And my twin flame wrote;
"So, it's either too soon
or too late for love?"
Later realizing
who had sent that poem
I gave my true conscious reply
But it was too late
I missed my mark in poem
and sadly before
without meaning to do so.

An ancient script on stage
at the Hilton resurfaced from
that glorious Sunday.
Mother's Day missing the mark,
fame and great fortune!
I so adored you beloved.
You changed my world
Yes everything had meaning!

"True love is timeless
without beginning or end"
PRECIOUS LOVE
It's never too soon, nor too late.
In spirit in the beginning
and from that Hilton labby
Glued together twin flame lover
I wished with you to be.
My darling!
Timeless is true love.
~~~~~
By: karijinbba
All rights Reserved-74-95.
1974-present-Rddbba.
REVISED April 2021.
Winnalynn Wood Apr 2021
Internal battles meant to be discounted
And anxieties rumored as dismounted
While nothing could have amounted
To the tales within those mountains
Regarded and enabled as fountains
Of flowing wisdom which hasn’t counted
The melody of life yet to be sounded
A treasure seemed and well-rounded
Singular rhyming sequence based on my ruminating about worries and fears.
Sammi Yamashiro Apr 2021
5D
I am
the highway tunnels drilled in your gums
from when your baby teeth plucked themselves out.

I am
the **** rotting on the bed,
whose gelatin you flayed off with your rusted spoon.

I am
the accused with his bounty price
plastered across the billboard sign.

I am
the dying fetus
jutting her head outside the womb.

I am these tributaries — these waves that thirst — which, at first glance, don’t connect. In time, they will prove

that humanity has claimed territory in them.
I am the mouth, drooling forth my mountain water.

This larger lake! I shall never see beyond it.
I am not the fifth dimension, where the sky hangs its hook.

So what?
I have its might. I am the colonizer in its territory,
and I claim it.
M Solav Mar 2021
All of those past events
The mountain climb, and the descent
They're scrolling past to lay my
Destruction.

And once I'd gone to the other side
Despite all that I had left behind
They've started hunting for my
Salvation.

And they're gone,
Yes they're gone,
While I'm torn
In the maze of my
Contortions.

And they're gone,
Yes they're gone,
While I'm tearing
The fabric of my
Illusions.
Written on July 22, 2020.


— Copyright © M. Solav —
www.msolav.com

This work may not be used in entirety or in part without the prior approval of its author. Please contact marsolav@outlook.com for usage requests. Thank you.
Mark Wanless Mar 2021
went to see a wise
man on the mountain saw a
poor man on the street
Rachel Rae Mar 2021
Whistle once on the mountaintop
Hear nothing
Whistle twice, inhale
See something
Breathed of wine and birthed from sky
It was the hand, stretched out
And I, could barely contain
The tear, a sigh
pt.1
Robert Ronnow Mar 2021
Carrying a sleeping baby.
Cleaning after a successful party.

Camping beyond mountains more mountains.
Playing trumpet on the streets of New York City.

Eating although the food supply is deeply compromised.
Flying with Democrats and Republicans, evangelicals and atheists.

Flying like a fruit fly that won’t quit mating.
Cool as a hummingbird in a stream’s wet spray.

Abstaining wholly, absent from worldly life.
Two dogs fighting but not biting hard.

Chanting as if the planet were mending.
Gourmet dining, devout prayer, loving Mary.

Evenings watching tv. Scotch and Star Trek.
Taking off Emily Dickinson’s clothes.

Meeting in the meeting house, arguing and praying.
Planning a legacy as if you knew enough to control events.

Pursuing happiness as a naturalist or humanist.
Spinning with the planet, performing the history that surrounds us.

Killing many Germans, saving many Jews.
Doing less until one thing’s done well.

Fainting from staring at candles through stained glass windows.
Morning, a billion trillion nuclear detonations per second warming your
        bones.

Manipulating symbols, solving equations.
Disregarding tweets and facebook persuasions.

Sitting with a tiny Buddha near a rushing stream cutting a gorge.
Running, disciplining myself, making myself healthy.

Ingesting drugs, throwing die, drinking sludge.
Growing varicolored corn.

Participating in the cause because it’s impossible not to participate in
      the effect.
Running over a chipmunk, groundhog or a skunk.

Lying face down in the emergency room facing doom.
Waking up Monday thinking Sweet Saturday! but soon remembering
      your trick knee.

Turning the towering young thunder of my anger against my sons.
Regretting the callow dispassion with which I met my parents’ quietus.

Lawn mowing, leaf blowing, yapping dogs, napping old people.
No jets but a rooster mornings, cows and goats.

Al is painting an apartment. Sirma is cleaning the floors. Felix is taking
      out the garbage.
Deciding tentatively I slightly prefer Heifetz’ to Oistrakh’s Sibelius.

No cedar waxwings, no chickadees, but beautiful moon!
If you’re alone as you get, why are you crying?
—Collins, Billy, “Taking Off Emily Dickinson’s Clothes”, Sailing Alone Around the Room: New and Selected Poems, Random House, 2002.
Svetoslav Feb 2021
Walking down a peaceful mountain,
where shiny snowflakes fall beautifully and elegantly.
A nuance of white floats in the air,
painting the ground, coloring our vision.
Each one is unique, but all have the same structures,
yet are pretty similar despite their differences:

They are like you and me.
Some disappear and some appear.
The cycle of life we all center ourselves and move forward.
The new year is there to offer us something different.
We can make the difference like we ended all past years, in inference.
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