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rayma Mar 2023
my body is a symphony of sounds
like the
                                of my bones as i stretch and climb the stairs,
                                                         ­                                        the
                     ­                                                                 ­ thud.
                                                           ­              thud.
                of my heart, frantic in its rest.
                a shrill ringing underpins it all
        when my ears ***** to a phantom sound,
            ­                                      sighing
                                                   ­                   keeps the beat of uncooperative lungs.

               my body, like an old house where teenagers throw a party,
                                 finding a way to keep it alive for one more night.
Now featured in the Spring 2023 issue of Collage: A Journal of Creative Expression!!
Pots, pans and plates
Pots, pans

And the larder
A ghost house

The larder
Stocked with oats and rice

And when it is time to cook
And then the gas stove is lit for
A feast

Pots, pans and plates
- Rows of jars line
The windowsill

Preserves, chutneys, jams
Preserves, chutneys
- and mango atchar

That reminds me
Of India
Oh! Lord Gandhi!
Sandy Mar 2021
Breaths taken
Midnight cold
Talking to myself

Countless outcries
Isolation and work
Later found me
Gazing dark nights
Dark nights
J Dec 2020
Candles are how we keep fires as pets.
we scoop the pyre into our palms
and dump it into pots
and expect it to stay lit on its own.
I keep getting worse at writing
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
by Michael R. Burch

There, in that sunny arbor,
in the aureate light
filtering through the waxy leaves
of a stunted banana tree,

I felt the sudden monsoon of your wrath,
the clattery implosions
and copper-bright bursts
of the bottoms of pots and pans.

I saw your swollen goddess’s belly
wobble and heave
in pregnant indignation,
turned tail, and ran.

Published by Chrysanthemum, Poetry Super Highway, Barbitos and Poetry Life & Times. Keywords/Tags: pregnancy, pregnant, goddess, belly, wrath, anger, storm, monsoon, hormones, pots, pans
E McNamara Jun 2018
i wish i could fall into
those pots and vessels
and shatter like ceramics
we are pieces of pottery
Cecelia Francis Jan 2015
Dribbling drops from above,
sunken in cieling
seal skin smooth
saltfish nicely

Floats and
sinks for
ocean floor

Can't stay too

Hey, I'm Mister
look at me!
Can you finish cooking?

Can't exist too

Simple tasks in
order to give
them a quick
and proper
heat death
Makenzie Marie Dec 2014
There's a war on
inside me
Raging on
And I'm fighting.

But I'm not free.
And never will be.
I battle my body...
So everyone can see
(Especially me)
that this war will not end in defeat
We're not in darkest Africa
and jungles don't adorn,
this little bit of overgrown
that wraps around our lawn,

Plants of pretty colors
sit comfortable in there bed,
and about two dozen footsteps
find us at the potting shed.

Our potting shed has seen better days,
some parts have been rebuilt
and it's suffering from subsidence
for it's slightly on a tilt.

The walls desperately need painting
because the wood has got some rot
but a boring place to come and sit
it definitely is not.

Odds and ends adorn the shelves
and the places spiders tread
where the dust has piled on the weight
and the woodworm may have spread.

Smells that we first come across
carry the scent of damp,
foul stinks from half empty sacks,
paint tins that have gone rank.

An old oil lamp expel the rust
like dandruff from my head
reigning down golden crumbs
that looks like toasted bread.

We think that we have found some proof
of what might linger around
footprints so large and evident
that a Tigers walked upon this ground.

So while we have been sleeping
and resting through the night
there's been a Tiger in our shed
but he keeps out of sight.

We've sorted through many boxes
we've moved some things aside,
looked into shadows with a torch
but we can't find where he hides.

Perhaps he's gone out hunting
for an evening meal,
eyeing up the neighbors dog
with energetic zeal.

Perhaps he's out sunbathing,
sitting somewhere in a tree
camouflaged with all those stripes,
that's the reason we can't see.

I don't know if he's Sumatran,
Siberian or Bengal
and he doesn't ever show himself
or come to me when I call.

I believe he stays outside all day
and only hides in here at night
but I won't come down here when its dark
only in the light.

He is a wild animal so
one must take the some care
for he could be stalking us as prey
he could spring from anywhere.

But we leave the door unlocked for him
and we've made a comfy bed,
and a sign that just reads "WELCOME"
to the Tiger in our shed
19th December 2014

edited on 04/01/17
I was the plant in your vast apartment. You gave me water and left me in the sunlight to grow. You did everything you could. You helped me prosper.

Eventually you grew out of your apartment and you no longer wanted mere plants to keep you company.

I watched you pack your boxes full of pictures and birthday cards and gifts and love. You continued to pack as the world grew colder and the sunlight began to shrink. Eventually my *** cracked and you couldn't notice because you were invested in things much more important than a simple plant.

In the middle of January you finally left and the blinds were closed and the sun was shut out. You wisely decided a dead plant with a broken *** wasn't worth the time, nor the space in your new apartment.

So now I'm sitting in the middle of your old apartment floor, still waiting for water and a glimpse of sunlight that everybody realizes couldn't resurrect me.
**** I love my symbolism.

— The End —