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Seanathon Sep 1
So you think my storm is done at last?
Just watch and wait till summers end.
When, with a quiet rumble I return.
As a single jar of lightning left.
To speak the words of thankfulness.
And to spark one more glorious storm to pass.
Nothing lasts forever. But for one more year. I'm just a notherner bringing one final southern storm to pass. God give me the strength and focus to do my best.
Jesse stillwater Dec 2018
In a distance an emptiness echoes,
another lonesome dove's sigh
is carried away with the leaves

silence annulled by tempest gusts
as late autumn winds
belatedly lay bare the trees;

the sad song in the wind
repined for golden days
bowing sun ripened amber fields
dancing with the moment's sway

now windswept wild feathers  
chase after the waning sunlight
bucking prevailing headwinds
just beneath heaven's glow

sail away! — sail away!
way up on high!
O' birds of a feather
sail away!

begone — bygones — begone
homeward bound
from north and south
on  an algid heavenward flight

Jesse Stillwater ... winter solstice ... 2018
Slei Robs Oct 2018
It is in the middle of the year
when everyday seems like a marathon of rain
He sits in his chair, starts writing his affair
And every beat of his heart, turns into a song of art
He makes music that can make a soul be brought back into life
He can even make a song that can turn a woman into a wife

In every song he makes, every music he creates
A piece of his soul was added, the secret ingredient was padded
How I love how he holds his guitar, he does look like an action star
how he sings with his six strings, slow dancing, my body swings
to the beat of his heart and now I can't depart
how do I start when you already have my heart

Passionately I pray to hear you sing every day,
I know you don't feel the same way
With or without your guitar, you will always be my Northern star

S.J Robs
Slei Robs Oct 2018
You are my Northern star, my constant
My calm before the storm
Your voice reminds me of heaven
Where love abounds, a peaceful siren

Your smile, my love, it is satisfying
Your cute little dimple makes me weak yet gratifying
The curves of your lips are engrave in my heart
Did I see a smirk, yeah that's a work of art

Your eyes, oh boy, your eyes
The way it squints whenever you grin
The way it closes when you sing
Leaves me in awe and at the same time it sting

It hurts to know that we can't be together
Whenever I see you, I see the word "forever"
Loving you from afar, admiring your beautiful soul
And all I can do right now, is write you a poem

-S.J Robs
Meadow Sep 2018
White water meets white sky.

No escape from this fog bubble we call paradise.

Eyes blinded by white blankets of smoke.

We wonder what is beyond.

A white canvas to project one's desires of a far-off dream.

Anything is better than this, right?
astraea Aug 2018
hey moon,
you look like my girl.

but you fell, even when a soft not-so-country singer begged,
begged you to stay in the sky.

the only falling i’ll ever do,
it’s for you.

i fell for you,
as fast as a stone,
a jewel thrown into the sea.

glittering along those most beautiful things in the world.

i fell for you,
like rain from the north.

relaxed, slow,
then all at once.

northern downpour sends love,
i’d sing sardonically.

but with love?
based on northern downpour (panic! at the disco)
Chris Neilson Aug 2018
Along the bus filled corridor
from the south of the city
through the Victorian architecture
of Withington and Fallowfield
to the world food of Rusholme
with its plethora of barber shops
shoe shops, shisha bars, cafes
Philips Park and the eye hospital
then the university quarter
students like woolly hatted ants
a human tide of books and backpacks
our future professional generation
of doctors, scientists and philosophers
part time poets and musicians

Into the city centre bustle 
of hipsters and hustlers
high flyers and homeless
rough sleepers and penthouses
side by side in a sea of incongruity
The roman settlement of Castlefield
now sky scraping soulless concrete
in this original city of industry
where workers downed tools 
in cotton mills for anti-slavery 
American Civil War brethren
built on old world immigration
integrated into a working class
of blue collars, graft and toil
bones of its makers in its soil

Images of the lost industries
now decorate ornate beautiful bees
scattered in and around the urban sprawl
timely reminders of our heritage
of Northern grit in all its colours
of invention, science, sport, music and art
of protest, achievement and inspiration
a city that's historical
a city for the here and now
a city for future nascent talent
a city that's changed the world
Manchester, a city for all ages
I wrote most of this after returning from a hospital appointment earlier this year but have now added to it to bring it up to date
the jersey breeze
cultivates her curls,
as they bounce in the crisp air.

she’s the reason you can’t sleep at night.

the day breaks
into song when you meet her gaze;
she hums along, her voice
soft - like red velvet.

against the green
wallpaper in her room
she looks so beautiful

you wonder if she can sleep at night.

the night falls, and
in your rest she grows a foot taller,
becoming wise, like the book of poetry
you leave by your nightstand.

her friends know
that is she the one
who spreads herself thin to block the sun when it’s too hot.

she sleeps without closing her eyes.

her moments blend into the next ones:
she is so refreshing - even when she is thirsty;
and the acorns fall from her pockets;
and the deer come running;

and we all sleep soundly.
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