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Svetoslav May 4
Absorbing Sun's caring embrace
and the water's life,
the trees mix them into oxygen for the man,
for he has planted the seeds
which marked their beginning — organisms vital for wildlife and shelter.

The man now receives their appreciation
with the maturing of the fruit.
To eat it is honoring its purpose and time,
for it grew only for you, as a gift.
Earth's hospitality was never meant for granted,
but be returned to the cycle.

It spins like our planet in space,
around a warm core and a cold shell.
Stars there align to the call of energy
designed to dance in gray,
and to portray protons and electrons
in a chemical reaction,
beginning of the first light — pressed lighter igniting candles.
Summer May 2
The dragonfly
that perches on your finger,
on the wall, at the doorstep,
like still life human history,
on the page, close to the vines,
balancing atop that blue teacup,
fanning steam

as time slips, whistles, rips
like stitches twisted, which
unravelled, like a wish
you made last summer
when horses snickered, reined by
steel knights sweating and kissing
gloved hands, ladies laughing
over earl grey tea and shipped silk,
the dragonfly danced upon
melancholic waters

what is skulking in the moist darkness
must come forth and answer
how one equates infinite and none,
vain, like history, snow, and gold,
before sung poetry from the old —
to live one’s life for something, you say,
is to live one’s life alone for something

what is repeated,
wars and manipulation,
mutual destruction, human reproduction,
drilling and penetrating,
with rhythm and with force,
Is intrinsically obscene,
the mechanics ancient and ******,
beastly brutal and brutally simple –
the human wheel of time

dawn broke
over churning waters, a cycle of
chalky, foamed flowers grew and died,
quivering is the white fish washed ashore
twitching, pulsating, then stilled

the dragonfly, sensing death,
skitters away
Norman Crane May 1
when the last wear has withered
and the wardrobe echoes
cold memories of empty metal hangers
like falling rain
know you are not poor
undignified or old
rejoice! in the bareness of your porous skin
not hidden by the dead folds
of material—
your soul is a prism
splitting light into threads respun
by God;
every dawn you are rewoven
as the rays of a new sun
jigyasa Apr 30
life is an equation.

not a simple y = mx + b curve

rather one with countless variables
leading to one solution with each combination

think about it.

what I call variables, philosophers would call free will
and albeit a select number of variables are within our control
hundreds of others are not

if you find yourself stuck
with a conclusion you deem incorrect
or a development you know can't be the answer
always remember that your input controls the output

change the variables within your control
mikhaltsov Mar 2
noone picked me off the sidewalk
noone led me from a gutter
to a raindrop shower near driftings on by-streets

climbed the sunny spring hills
and spied how the snow died
then I saw you in a drying pool
and switched over to another tide

dancing when tied
by a tight rope
winds murmur me "grower"

gambler with a tongue
is showing bared teeth
you shout at me "slower"

as I spoke in quick movements
spring rain licked my fur clean.
sopping wet
I'm just a chilly kitten
with a lion's roar and a man's grip

as from the outsides of evening districts
sash windows echo
my hiss and sizzles
theatrical attempts are just white noises
that soiled my initials
on a golden collar
Man Jan 30
we speak on what we know
when we only know nothing
but from nothing where do we go

it is, from whence we came
so fitting it is we know it
and yet, think of it
can you?

deaden your thoughts
let the stimuli
pass you on by
and breathe in
newfound freedom
Annie Jan 10
This could’ve been me.

I could’ve been a consciousness
trapped inside a tree.

Instead, I have a body,
these bones, this blood, my flesh.

Why would I ask for more
when I could’ve had much less?
Rushing all of it
Most valuable yet wasted
Running out
Going to end and then there will be nothing what the **** am I doing?

Hey sweety,
Let's not write about it.
Do not narrow it down.
You will squeeze it to death.
Set it free and let it be
what it is.
It is love.

If you can write,
what is love,
then it can be anything,
but love.
The moment you give love your words, you corrupt it.
You only touch it and you ****** it.

It is alive when untouched.
It is pure until unsaid!
You always feel it and never talk about it.
That's it.
That's love.
Isn't it the only part
that survived all our fights
and stayed with us?
So I ask you
to keep it away from your words.

Listen, sweety,
Do you want to capture it like you captured a bunny rabbit with honeyed eyes?
Or you want to put a leash on it as you put it on your boi after so many of tries ?
Do not cuddle it like you always do with your pooh, it will die.
It's too fragile.
Try not to hook it like you hooked the goldfish.
Let it be what it is.

It's meant to be free,
and always free.

But not free like a dove.
Someday you will catch it too,
somebody else will ****** it from you.
Then how can you call it Love?

It will become a thing of catching and snatching, then eventual hating.
You will hate it.
Yes, you will hate your Love.
And will cry over it and it will never be yours.
Once you lose it, it's not yours to claim.
Do you really think love is that kind of hunting game?

Let's think of it as an ocean.
That demands not your loyalty,
but devotion.
It is holly and you are not.
Admit it,
without further questions.
You can behold it
But, You cannot hold it.
You can touch it,
You cannot drink it.
As long as you want, you can linger.
Move stars, stir your finger.
Splash it. Play with it.
Get wet. Get *****.
And smile, watching yourself dripping.
But don't think about stone skipping.
You can do only little things to it
But, in return, it will do greater and fatal things to you.
You don't know what it is.
I don't know what it is.
Let it be unknown.
And you are mean to swim through
and never step out.
When you are dry enough, it will drown you,
That's all it is about.
You can call it **** and hate it.
like you hate the end of titanic.
But that's it.
That's love,Sweety.

And it's not a fish-love
or a dove-love.
Do not try to hook it
or cage it in your words.
All of your efforts will go in vain.
But I think, you think you can...
Because you possess the power of poetry?
Do you want me to laugh at you,
dear sweety? Ha-ha!
Poor you.
Poor poetry.
**** the art.
**** the history of literature.
Nobody ever could.
Nothing ever could!

So stay silent and let it do whatever it wants to do with you.
If it wants you to write about it, then pick a pen and write about it.

Write your verses.
Fill your pages.
Sell poetry.
Get rich.
But do not think,
you can ever write about it.
The poet is frustrated because of his own incapabilities of loving and writing so he preaches against love and writing love to his love interest who is also a poet. This poem also explores the idea of love which is too vast to be captured in words or any type of art. Love is eternal and unexplainable.
Jessica Jan 3
The sound of a match alight
Lit by my younger hands
In years gone by
between my older breaths
I ponder upon
The existential aching in my heart
That has been omnipresent
from the moment I opened my eyes
In the view of years gone in a flash
Just as the match with the light
In the dance of the night
Snuffed out with ponderous little smoke
left behind
My heart aches to be free
From the tortuous truth
of existence
An awkward and profound
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