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Carlo C Gomez Nov 2022
I see you looking back at me,
but I have no memory of you,
no name or event to link us
as kindred soul.

There's a sun playing
expressionless games
about to fall from the shelf,
my feet may burn, but never my heart.

My mirror is a broken window,
the broken window, a city,
and a man and woman
are crossing into it,
—crossing my mind,
fused together.

Their laughter like
claps of thunder,
bursting forth in a sky
devoid of any signs of me...
I am not the homeless madman
the lunatic on a boat to nowhere
what do I do with the information I have gathered?
the numbers
the dreams
the sky drops into bed
I'm living a dmt trip
without the dmt
I can tell you what I see
but you can't see
I can tell you what I hear
but you can't hear
I can tell you that a spirit
lives with me
but you will never meet him

I saw it in a movie once
an explanation
I noticed them and they noticed
that I noticed them
so many ways
they reveal themselves
if you could see what I see
perhaps I could find solace
in the knowing
I once had doubts about what I witnessed. This is no longer the case
Betty May 2020
A rare and rather precious bloom

The shining light in a darkened room

Someone special

Now and then

Gets closest to a perfect ten

The rest of us live in their shade

They never last

All flowers fade

Phenomenons are born not made
I can see it
right there at the edge of sanity
hovering like a giant black stone
against the early morning Sun
I notice because I always notice when they appear
my attention drawn to that one spot
in the vast open sky
it moves slowly as I reference it's location
just to the left of a jet's vapor trail
I reach for my phone to get a photo as I'm driving
slow down as I take a ramp
point in it's direction and snap off a pic
I attempt to take another
but it is gone
I wonder if I caught it before disappearing
five minutes later I park
check my phone
and there it is
quite small
but there it is
I got you my friend
extraterrestrial hide and seek
I've been playing this game since I was a kid
this just happened on the way to work this morning which is very close to Dulles Airport. I tend to see unusual aircraft or whatever in this area quite often
Love is the hunger that only one heart can satiate,
The thirst that only one soul can quench..

Love creates a balance.. Not a deficiency,

It is between two opposites,
For only two opposite sides make a balance.
Only two opposite sides can come into one and make a complete piece..
Two hearts beating into one,
Souls lighting up in sync.
Love is not what we see. It is beyond what we feel.
Love is that which we can't help but watch unfold.
It is a phenomenon.
Ylzm Apr 2019
ordinary morning, late, bright and clear
weekend, no hurries, lets stay on in bed

in a flash, thunderous roar from above
mountainuous rock crashing, my mind saw

the skies echoed, rumbling in agony
rumbled and rumbled, on and on and on

strange sinister sound, trapped constant droning
UFO? baby superman landed?

rushed outside: no crash, just clouds in clear sky
rumble, rumble, rumble, man-made or what?

thundering, faint and far, near and muffled
none thunderous as the first rock that fell

then it rained: heavy; a soothing warm rush
droning masked, but strangeness etched, and lingered.
K Balachandran Jan 2019
In flow I’m yet still,
Present here, but eternal;
A mystery clear!
something brushes my cheek as I sleep
tiny footsteps perhaps
and I awake in the vaguely lit room
somewhat startled
for this is the second time in two nights
but on this night I do not simply turn over
the dreams, these nightmares of sorts
are beginning to extend
well past the moment of being awake

now propped on one arm
I focus my eyes and sweep
first across my pillow
slowly to the edge
of the mattress
which is inches from the floor
I see it
not scampering
but walking away at a normal gate
this bright neon red spider  
large and life like
moving away towards the corner

I'm fully awake and I'm seeing this,
the thought occurred
my every nerve twitching in icewater
it's legs cartoonishly long and thin
I watched in stark silence
as it bent low and weaved its way through the space between my slippers
then behind a box of videos
I sat in disbelief
again asking myself if I were awake
but I knew
there was no need to slap myself this time

I slowly leaned towards the box and pulled it quickly
towards me
it was gone
and I was still awake
still in some place between disbelief and shock

how does one escape their nightmares
when they cross from dream to reality
oldie - true story - slightly revised
Arlene Corwin Apr 2018
I'm always trying to figure out why I go back time and again to writing poetry.  It's such a strange phenomenon.  Sometimes, like now, I'm allowed a glint.

      Poetry Is My Means

Poetry is my means:
To thinking out a thought;
To finding more about myself;
To analyzing good and bad:
To making tail or head
Of circumstance.

Poetry helps me define,
Become a finer person,                
Binding my persona.

So many things I did not know
Of which I had not one iota
Of ability to see:
The ****, silly, plus the *****-nilly
Miracle of mind,
Its mysteries revealing hints
And hinting at the revelations
Which belong to geniuses
And saints:
Everything I ain’t.

In learning and forgiving            
Poetry is everything a giving gift
Can give.

Poetry Is My Means 4.15.2018 The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative III; Revelations Big & Small; Arlene Corwin
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