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Lostling Jan 31
Lost and lonely I drift

Wandering through hazy days

Looking for the chubby little fingers

That used to tug me around with laughter
Short poem. I was sad.
As I take a stroll every evening
There in those woods so green
I watch come to me from afar
A yellow tram with a red scar

The tram comes from a future
I conceived in the past
A world with a ****** culture
I once designed to last

Now as I board the tram
I journey to my end
For my future is a sham
My death’s a trend

But the tram changed course
And travels back in time
For my past’s the true source
Of each and every crime

The tram moves fast
And the woods go brown
As I reached my past
I got down with a frown

It took me some time
I righted my past
I cremated my crime
Returned at last

As I strolled the after evening
Within my mind ever so green
I perceived a thought afar
Yellow, but without a scar.
In the compile of words
We have lost our favourite poems
It's hard to remember
Probably we have forgotten
You might find the same poem
After a decade
In the dust of old papers
I know you'll remove all the dust
To read your favourite poem one more time
If you read it carefully you haven't forgotten your poem
It got lost in the compile of new pages.
What if we get the chance to read again
Zac Shawhan Jan 25
The years and tasks have taken their toll
Now gray in my beard and shine on my skull
But the nicotine hits, and helps pass the time
Still feel something missing, like I'm out of a rhyme

The friends and music that once filled the air
Now silent, replaced by the burdens we bear
But I've come to accept what the years have unfurled
The past may be gone, but I've got my own world

For in their small hands, I see a love so true
Their future is bright and it makes mine too
Saman Badam Jan 1
I play in fields, those often forgotten,
Among blowing winds, from far begotten,
Dancing in wild daisies, as spring lingers,
Dueling shadows like swift gunslingers.

On the wind, I smell my mom's gingerbread,
And come racing home for a piece ahead,
Spice in her chiding, sugar in her voice,
Like her gingerbread, my favourite choice.

From the rooftop, I gaze at stars each night,
Listening to Dad's stories with eyes bright,
As he gently holds me in his hands rough,
Telling me those tales and making me tough.

And like passing clouds, those little days flew,
Reliving games, as woods from daisies grew,
Revisiting smells, from baked bread I buy,
Recalling tales, I gaze at the night sky.
M Solav Jan 23
Paved roads of cars that roam
Are sure to grow weary on my bones.
And there’s a high hill close to home
Onto which I seldom venture alone.
How I recall those many days of yore
When we’d go fresh out in the morn;
And up that hill now far across the globe
Would stare for short eons into the fog.
Written on February 9th, 2022.


— 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 info@msolav.com for usage requests. Thank you.
A space-age fortress of glitzy build
stands empty. It had once been filled
with shining futures of tinsel, milled
of bronze for a time that all would thrill.

How empty the future past now seems
behind the glass of wasted dreams:
Once polished steel now dimly gleams
and old high tech lies there unredeemed.

Its giant clock now standing still,
the hands unmoving, like hopes that will
remain as frozen in amber that’s filled
with flies of dreams: placebo pills.
Inspired by this photo I took of the (long unused) International Congress Center in Berlin: https://bsky.app/profile/jackgroundhog.bsky.social/post/3lgdsydllb22l
Jay Lewis Jan 18
In the golden hour,
we held hands through the grass as we roamed through the fields of flowers.
We blew dandelions and chased their tails,
hearing the birds sing and share their tales.

I remember
I plucked pretty yellows clovers,
and placed them under your chin.
I checked the data and analysed,
to see if you liked butter
in your sandwiches.
And of course
the results are in.
- You did.

Do you know how many little buds we wasted before they were in their full bloom?
Pulling off each petal,
to reveal the stem,
alone in the gloom.
One-by-one,
one afternoon,
as the petals fell,
we asked the fairies too,
if the boys we liked
loved us or not.
And we didn’t like the answer
we’d tell them to go and rot.
We were too young to have any clue.
Pulling flowers seemed like such an innocent thing to do.

But don’t you miss those days?
When we would
make those dainty
little daisy chains.

This now seems like a distant memory.
But we’ll forever be known as
The Meadow Queens,
dancing in the fields,
before the stars would come out
and lull us to sleep.
What a sweet
Lavender Dream.
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