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Zoe Mei Apr 21
May the gods drink deep your blood
and may the crimson please their gaze
and may the iron scent whet their lust
that the taste may sate it
for you are my greatest offering.
For Iphigenia
Pasquino Dec 2020
I see the shores now,

but I can not feel the warmth. 

Was there warmth before?
Life's journey is hard for everyone,
but always try, as best as you can,
that it'd be a white-sailed ship
that will be awaiting you when
your odyssey comes to an end.

Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/25/2020
Martin Mikelberg Aug 2020
fire
redwood
odyssey
With the fires burning today, there is not too much known about the combs that fall to the floor of the forests where they reside.  Actually the seeds are released and free to regenerate because of the fires.   So the journey of the redwood tree will continue as mother nature has provided.
Cardboard-Jones Jan 2020
A stranger among familiar faces.
His return was celebrated by all.
Surface, he was the same.
None ever looked in his eyes.
Ignored the wounds from his travels.
He was distant.
Estranged from his former life.

What happened to my friend?
What did he see?
Did he leave something behind?
Or was it taken from him?
lila Sep 2019
Danger be the man who bleeds the plights
of men of myth.
Don't you know that even Troy fell?
I do not throw pebbles at
your window in the night.
My eyes: yellow, unclouded;
mead and flowers drip thick
from my words:
banal and intoxicating.
Poppies blooming wild on timeworn cheeks,
Wine-dark hair in disarray.
Perhaps I have read too much into
the man who has read it all.
And perhaps he is only sea-mist mirage
cursed to appear an Adonis.

I made the ocean so that you would cross it.
It is only in this forced distance that
I am allowed to transcend this plain world;
in which I am bound to book
and you are bound to her.
Because in a land of gods and monsters
it seems not so strange that I am the other woman.
Clever sorceress who loves and lets you leave,
and with whom you know you might have stayed
forever.

Sail far, far away from me.
sail far, far away from me, storied king, favored by the gods
lila Sep 2019
We stood at that crossroads,

bathed in lamplight,

blind,

he never even knew this was the end of us.

He pulled me close, closer

than I had ever been held

and I knew

we could never see each other again.

Under the wash of night,

I had finally found a ship calling out to me.

Someone had heard my call for help.

Someone had seen me.

For so long it was I who left them:

where they stood;

where I could still love them.

But I pushed him ahead of me.

I stood there and made him leave me

before my heart could chase after him.

He tried to turn back to me

with one last

dream-defying grin and I

squeezed my eyes shut.

I saw him once more after that,

I missed him by just a second,

I did not call out to him.

Our time together was over.

He told me to sail to him,

and the magic words to say;

I vowed for her sake to never utter them.
kenny Jul 2019
Chained and collared
By Mara’s daughters

No safe word Baby,
bound by
desire,
fulfillment,
regret

They put their
hands
on me

and they drew blood
In the symbol of currency

Then they sold my soul
Into *** slavery;

No one blinded the cyclops
Now we’re walking wounded
Fueled by hubris
We’re headed toward the rocks.

Caught up in some bad religion
We’re only gonna die
For this
Our own arrogance
And we’re running out of time

Some men wanna
watch the world burn
Some die before they rise the fire
History repeats
We don’t learn
Burn the forest into a funeral pyre
Tramel Griffith Apr 2019
Every single night as the body dies,

poetry percolates the mind,

and I find myself,

taking one of those dark odysseys into the soul  

with questions that swim into the infinity  

on what is poetry, what does it behold:

Is it the rivers that lead the birds back to the nest?

           Is it the waters, eroding the stones,

           smoothing the pebbles that build a home?

           Is it the crackling cinders, floating from the flames  

           of a wildfire to die upon its first breath in the saltine air?

           Is it the evergreen grass and the bark of an old oak tree,

           thirsty for rain to wet the insatiable soil

           that grows branches that speak with possibility?  

           Is it the milk & honey that drips off the dewy lips  

          of the sun to feed its golden nectar into our moribund souls? –

          still starving for more.

          Is it the reason that I am seduced by the moon  

          that undresses me with its iridescent light,

         baptizing me with its glow?  

         Is the constellation of stars, separated by space

         but connected by longing,

         by arms reaching for arms?

Or,

        is it the journey,  

       the walk through the wavering mountains,

       the climb ants take up into the elephant hills,

       the ships drifting upon the cerulean seas,

       guided by the bursting horizon  

       and the winds of a calming breeze?
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