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sitting pretty
awaiting their steeping tea,
whilst Ophelia hugged the trees
near the crystal clear resting rivers.
everyone loves a good cup of tea, even when someone left the earth.
Luna Feb 18
Madness like a red coat
Around her throat
Drowning in the ruins
Of her own misery
Own sorrow
O’ dear child,
You should have stayed
In that garden of yours
Among the myriads of
Growing daises
Gifting each of us a violet
For centuries to keep
But how long can
Leaves shade you
From the
Many faces of fate—
The cruelest ones always name after us,

Dwell in the many layers of rosemary and pansies;
Look how is ironic history just became
With its indelible smell of
Fennel and Columbius ;

Drawn towards the many
Spun webs of the
Golden singing spiders—
She floats amongst the
Water lilies
From here on.
Celeste Briefs Dec 2018
What is your name, sweet lady?
drips of river rain from your fingertips
fall upon my warm face
fragrance of potent blossoms sorrow
follow when you leave this place

Here to watch over me in sleep,
protectress of young girls' dreams
I felt you in the stories I tell my daughters
unborn and ever ascending
from some dark place of deep despair

Illusion proclaims your presence
night and day hold you in their hands
songs of warmth and water cold
alight upon your tongue like snow
from the stone faces of drowned angels

What is your name, sweet lady?
I burned to know since I saw your face

She speaks,
I am Ophelia,
the dream that you cannot escape
Celeste Briefs Dec 2018
darkness seeps into my deepest bones
shadows drown the light within my eyes
sorrow falls like rain over my hollow body
snowflakes whisper secrets of my sleeping soul

what have I become, where have I gone
wilting flowers floating in the river
where my dreams were wont to swim
but I can't feel them as they brush against
my cold fingers

time is frozen as I sink below the waves
empty hands release me, I am not afraid
something comes to claim me as I slip away
the deep is now my home, my body here to stay
Celeste Briefs Dec 2018
Swimming home
I catch my breath below the cold surface
call my name
help me pretend I'm not insane
feeling high
even as the water drags me low
coming home
so far away from all I've ever known
Celeste Briefs Dec 2018
there's nothing like the shock of sudden cold
rushing through your blood
stealing your breath away
white flowers at my fingertips
light as feathers on the wind
rippling waves of soundless melodies
fill the spaces between body and world
Jade Sep 2018
VI. I, Ophelia

­{The Drowning}

It was her--
Flower Child.
Weeping Woman.
Crazed Ophelia--
who taught me that the
drowning is in the letting go
and not in the doing.

Ophelia did not flee to the riverside
with the intention of
drowning herself, no--
it was merely a promise of bouquets--
daisies, violet, rosemary,  rue--
of wild, velveteen petals nestled softly
against tear-stained cheekbones;
pine needles--
beneath raw feet
(do you recall how The Little Mermaid
danced upon knives
in the name of true love?);
and the train of her nightgown
a focal point for dewy leaves
and frayed bird feathers.

For it was flying she thought of
as she climbed the scarred willow
and cradled herself atop its highest bough,
severed blossoms in hand,
legs dangling precariously over
blustering currents.

when the bough
b r o k e ,
the cradle did   f
                               ­   l
and down came
mad girl
cradle and all.

But you must understand--
the dismemberment of the
willow's flailing limbs
was not her doing;
when the rapids dragged her down
to the belly of the murky river bed,
she merely gave no struggle
as death lapped at her ribs--
she merely submitted,
allowed the snivelling maw of the river
to swallow her whole.

I think it suiting
that I ponder the demise of the
Flower Child
(wilted in her ruin);
Weeping Woman
(tears reunited
with the eye of
the water lily);
Crazed Ophelia
and all she has taught me
of drowning
as I let myself
fall asleep in the bathtub
at three o clock in the morning,
all the while a little drunk
and so very sad.
(You'd might have even thought
I wanted to drown myself. )
{Th­e Resurrection}

Doused in the pallid wash
of blue stage light,
and the clamour
of imaginary tides
growling in my ears,
I metamorphosize into
Hamlet's Ophelia
and all the other Ophelias
who came before me--

Women who were never
capable of quieting
the sea trembling
in their veins;
the barbaric deluge festering
within their souls;
the siren songs
musing to the cavernous twists
of their hearts,
piercing through artery
with stalagmite precision.

These women succumbed,  
not to the water,
but to the burden of their own

None of them survived.

Except for me,
of course.

And, I must admit,
it took my
writing this poem
to finally understand
why that is--
I have managed
to stay alive,
despite dreaming of that
same siren song
that lured my foremothers
to their destructions.

Ophelia could not weather  
the tempest seething over her.

But I different--
I am not alone.

Because I carry with me the spirits
of all the Ophelias
who came before me,
the fragments of their beings
melding together to create
a brilliant gossamer of hope.

And that is why,
we can breathe underwater.

Ophelia Bows,
her performance immortalized
through the remembrance
of a standing ovation.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

(P.S. Use a computer for optimal experience)
Angela Liyanto Sep 2018

As she lay dying there in the sleeping water under vigil skies,
Her paleness and poised hair drooped as her soft ankles thinned.
On this dying night, weeping violets and lonely daffodils sweep beneath her
Under the damsel skies, where the stars were bright, with rose tinted spectres above.

What innocence! Where soft eyed men pour their souls in foaming despair
Floating in dew time; Flowers shake beneath her quiet memories
Only in a dream, she felt, that the rivers let her go with no sweet pain,
Away from the foggy embrace of soft manes, called ample to sleep!

Within her sighs, pathetic Nature vile her against the Fumes of men
Yes - there she drowned! Twice the burden on the crazed self, her poor mind!
Although it seems as it were too lonely, the desolation and stillness, soft as muses
For twice she died! For the scatterings of a Man's heart, and bruised voices pouring forth

It is not plain to see the Spring turn to dreary sounds of woe in ember
She died with a Love, like a pale knight of many dying conquests!
What soft kisses fill her body's breath; polished gentle hands float
In the abyss of roaring sounds of freedom, as sweet as a White butterfly!


And with her handsome self, her garments flow deep as winter's face, to the bottom!
Ploughing ceaselessly against the bitterness of Denmark's treasures, darkling we listen
To her angelic voice that melts her own hair, preserve what's left of her!
The Tender innocence! The forlorn child! As we stood in tears against our land, dreary!

Yes- You have died! The breath of the disastrous wind played a part in you passing.
And we wake in incandescence, Is this a dream or a bitter awakening?
That your little lips won't touch the cheeks of your lovers,
Nor your several hells fail to come terms with the love you have cherished

What can April flowers do to your begone body? What shall I dream now?
A curse to valour and nobility?  What beauty lies beyond her?
The pale voice of Love bestows you, the distant cheers of men at sea
With your twisted hair curl towards the seasonable thickets of death

It is in much grace and passing style you have made the saddest heart bleed
That your weariness leans yourself towards perilous seas, heavy once more
We remember with pompous caution the fragile heartstrings of man
The poor madness, leading Men to bow the knee to preserve your infinite virginity.


And the poet, comes seeking for flowers in the garden for her passing,
Where she picked a great Lily, poor Ophelia, will be for all, everlasting.
Inspired by the Shakespeare's Hamlet
lillies and nettles! red roses and white!
i'm fresh as a daisy and rotten from spite!
you see, my lord, i've half a mind--
but it won't let me speak my mind --
my molars grind
and tense and bleed
- that's why my hands are red, you see! -
i tried to tear my tongue from my mouth
and found i'd ruined all my teeth.

few cared for my coherent word,
yet now that i can not be heard
there is a window in my door
they lean in close and wait for sure
signs of undisputed sanity
since my vital signs of life are not what they would like to be.
do you hear how they speak of me?

"hark! reapers sing in rapture, composing 'Ode To Void':
gaze upon the patron saint of self-obliteration.
this roadkill incarnate with inferno-coloured hair:
neck-deep in bloodied rivers of throttling despair."
re-write of an old poem
Jade Feb 2018
Lotus petals woven into her hair and

wrists bound with reeds,

she descends into the murky

warmth of the river bed,

where the minnows and tadpoles

nestle against her

***** affectionately–


at last you

have returned

to us.”
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