As sands flow through
The glass this hour
My will
Stays free
And filled with power

Now is
the time
To act and choose
To plant and sow
No sand -
to lose

Creation comes
As no surprise
For all my
Thoughts
Get crystallized

Done, ends stitched in a seam—set
to be worn over yourself.
A stain so bright, you sparkle.
Too far forward to flip. The sipper,
the straw, the soda. Bleeding ink
every blink, but still brimming.
Ripped apart like a rainbow.
A love letter to life still
in the works.

So dead you’re divine.
Only visible in the love-light.
Weird as a plant that bites
the bully, as a phlox
sprouting through sand.
Wingless like wind, fin-less
like a fluid. Lost but
listening to your own heart.
Found.

on the slop of rain
a cotton prunes
a sandwich

tentacle prune
on a haze muscle
a cabbage roar

Still, I rise from the ashes
And pieces unknown.
Moments and memories,
Dreams and mourns.
Still, I rise like a plant
That first pushes away the dirt
Growing towards the sun
In joy and mirth.
And for the grass to seem greener,
It has to constantly rain.
And while it may seem duller,
It washes away my pain.
And I’ll rise from my remains
Like a Phoenix from its ashes,
A winner born out of
Broken dreams, hopes, and wishes.

shevaun stonem

In the midst of sorrow and tears,
Embrace your pain,
Craft it into a sweet wine,
Imbibe it's positive energy!

In the midst of sorrow and tears,
Make room for a smile and laughter,
Intertwine agony with a kind deed,
And color it with a rainbow of humanity!

In the midst of sorrow and tears,
Derive strength from God with a little prayer.
Plant a garden of hope in your heart, dreaming
Of a new dawn, a beautiful day, and enduring sunshine!

Hussein Dekmak

I wish plants could speak
They’d tell me of  horrid things they’d seen
Above them and next to them
Left and right
They’d speak of the rain that came after drought
And the joy they would have at that
They’d tell me about the loss when a flower got picked
and the fuss of it if anyone cared enough to get it fixed
for a new plant in its place
a new life replacing the old
a decade of silver instead of gold
With new existential questions (some are very bold)
would the sky get angry then and start raining coal?
for how dare a simple plant question the mighty clouds?
and have a voice to speak and make sounds?
while it is inferior, sickle, stuck in the same old grounds,
as it’s quiet predecessors

I wish plants could speak
they’d be full of wisdom I’d reckon
They’d be melancholy
they’d seldom speak
and sometimes,
Of hope a beacon

you’d think they might know the most of this earth
as their roots are intertwined with it
I’d say It unravels it’s secrets to them
For it knows for sure
That plants never speak.

The autumn winds ***** her mercilessly,
as idle hands lunge for delicate petticoats.
Their ugly, pockmarked howls pinch her deeply
with each new limb they expose,
until her tears drop like leaves, unheard
and become soiled.

By the winter, she’s left leaning awkwardly
like a slapper against a lamp post.
Her body but scattered, bent baguettes,
freeze-set with the frigid, nightly chills,
which preserve her stark immodesty
and her malign revenge.

Yet spring adorns her with tentative protruding buds,
glazed like freshly shellacked fingernails,
as her body itches with the swellings of youth
and foliage fastens frills around her chest,
summoning the dewy-peach lustre of virginity.
Now she basks in our wanton, forgiving glares.

As the summer teases, she writhes ******-like
in a raincoat that clings to her, just so.
Her barely concealed fruits spilling out,
as the sun caresses her skin hotly, until she ****
with that cacophony of lilac bells gawping, grape-like,
ringing out the sweet moans of her petite-mort.