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Steve Page Jun 24
I stay present
but in reality, I am many
miles and many years
behind us. I am taller
and straighter, I have less pain
and fewer regrets.

I stay present
and take pleasure wherever
it is offered. I stand, and I pray.
I offer - no-that's-not-true -
I don't offer. I give freely
my praise. And it is given
with all honesty, truely.

I stay present
as He is present, but
just as He is timeless
so a part of me slips
into the past and leans
into the not-quite-yet.

I am present.
For now.
I'm reading a novel by John Connolly and came across the words:  "Although she remained a presence in the room; a part of her was now elsewhere. "
That sent me here.
"Real?"
"Sure, why not?"

No
purpose.
Just
stillness.

(presence...)

Drowning in it with you —
no air,
no need,
no expectations.
Just there.

Some questions
don’t
need
answers.

(just presence...)
Some moments don’t need meaning — just presence.
rhenee rose Jun 20
As the last of the flowers have withered,
And the guests have washed their clothes,
The cemetery has new bodies to entomb,
I still feel your presence very close.

For every waking morning without you on our side,
Demands a tough facade for every new dawn,
With responsibilities piling our plates,
I still hear your voice guiding us on.

At times where people have seem to forget,
And your space at the table has been quietly replaced,
Things and clothes packed neatly into boxes,
I still recall the warmth of your embrace.

For the world that we know will continue to revolve,
With the sun, the moon, and its skies ever so blue,
Your memory lives on in every piece of me;
I will choose to remember every last piece of you.
A poem about grief and memory.
As you entered the room
stirring air with suppleness of walk
waking up the stillness with jingles of cymbals
making curtains dance to the sound of bangles
aroma wafted into air from canvas and copybooks
my paintbrush grew restless
and pen became enraptured
my eyes, hands and other parts
became electrified.

My heart spread rainbow in the room
like colours of youth and
lilts of life's melodies.

You who are sitting before me
have the power to
change my consciousness
into painting, poem, melody
or anything else!

I know you'll speak no truth at this time.
I've to be guided
solely by your silence, your eyes and
the inaudible appeals of your heart.

I've to settle before I lose the presence of mind-
whether I should use brush or pen
or my eyes, hands or something else
and create a unique
composition
all in you.

-०-
Note - This poem was originally written in Nepali language. This translation has been rendered by Abhi Subedi,
Cadmus May 30
I laughed - not for likes,
but because the sky was kind
and the breeze felt honest.

I wore comfort,
not costume,
and danced without a soundtrack.

No mirrors.
No filters.
Just me,
at ease in my skin,
and joy
quiet as a secret,
loud as my heart.
We spend so much of life performing for eyes that aren’t really watching, chasing applause that never feels quite enough. But real joy lives in the unscripted, in the quiet, barefoot moments where we belong wholly to ourselves. This poem is a reminder: not everything needs an audience to be beautiful.
Agnes de Lods May 16
How could I shield myself from the words
that lift me into the highest lowness?
Dearly beloved, raw openness,
the source of my grace and imperfection.

I feel strangely weightless
when my precognition
whispers to me about my possible future.
I hush all my names,
they’re not statues carved
by the thoughts of others.

I watch people drift in and out,
I touch the tree leaves in the cold wind.
Looking tenderly into the eyes of black ravens
I just try to see what they see.

I don’t fear the dark,
the primal womb that gives light
and birth to worlds spread across space.
Losing someone I love is my only fear.
Death comes uninvited, in its own time.

Love is my helpless, naked truth.
My moral compass still works
in my body.
At night, I find sleep and rest.
In light, the warmth,
and the souls of others.

I see the tired hearts
I find solace, looking into the light.
The body brings fleeting fullness.
I gather the crumbs of mystery,
expecting nothing,
just enough to find my dignity
and make peace with the unreachable.
Dylan A May 11
I keep pretending that you don’t want me,

Because that would be a reason to stay.

So if I find a reason to leave, I’ll be gone

By golden hour, without a message or note,

Without even any goodbyes.
Consilius May 6
Your love burns with flame,
your touch warms even the coldest of hearts,
yet you walk alone.

You dance with the wind,
and mountains know when you walk,
you leave a trail, with silence you talk.

You weave the dreams
and stitch the time
you're what a rhythm is to a rhyme.

In your eyes secrets no one knows,
no one even dares to ask.

Yet you never hide and you never run.
You wake up with the moon and sleep with the sun.

You just are - in a way no one ever was.
Cadmus Apr 30
Something in me always waited
without knowing what for.
A quiet space, a missing piece,
like a song I half-remembered
but never heard before.

Then you came,
like sunlight sneaking into a closed room,
like warmth I didn’t know I’d missed
until I felt it on my skin.

You touched thoughts I’d never spoken.
You woke up parts of me I didn’t even know were asleep.
You didn’t arrive… you were always there,
like a voice behind my voice,
a feeling in my breath.

So stay close.
Because when you’re not near,
I feel myself searching
not for someone else,
but for the part of me
that only exists with you.
Lucky is the one who meets their matching other half, the one who feels like home in a world of strangers. Not everyone gets that kind of alignment, where two souls fit without force. When it happens, it’s nothing short of sacred.
F Elliott Apr 24
(For the one who asked if we would continue)

She does not aim to destroy him.
She does not even try to teach him.

   She simply Becomes.

And her becoming—raw, radiant, terrifying in its beauty—
is what breaks him open.

The man who watches her rightly does not crave her.
He remembers himself in her Unfolding.
Not the ego-self. The soul-self—the one buried beneath performance.

She does not say: "Come fix me."
She says: "Can you stand what I’m becoming?

And that is the call.

For it is not the broken feminine that births great men.
It is the rising feminine—becoming whole before his eyes—
that forces him to face what in him remains unclaimed, untested, afraid.

But she does not rise by accident.

Her light is not a crown—it is a choice.
She has known the temptation to ****** instead of shine..
To brand her ache, to perform her pain, to curate identity instead of embody truth.

But she turns—again and again—toward the deeper  yes.
The one that costs her audience, but saves her soul.

She repents. She reclaims.
She speaks, then listens.
She writes, then revises.
She does not demand to be understood—

   she hungers to be made whole.

Her rising is her responsibility.
Not a show, not a vengeance, not a staged deliverance.
It is the quiet courage to be seen—by God,
   even if man never looks again.

And so, she becomes the muse.
Not by force, not by flirtation,
but by standing in her own unfolding,
in her own ache made sacred.

She does not ****** him with need.
She muses him with light.

But her light is costly.

It exposes the unintegrated parts of him—
the unredeemed rooms he’s kept boarded up for years.
She does not kick down the door.
She simply opens the curtains.

And in that sudden flood of glory,
he must choose:
to run, or to remain.

If he remains—
not as savior, not as shadow,
but as witness—
he becomes new.

This is not *******.
It is mutual divination.

She rises,  and he roots.
He roots,  and she trusts.
And they become—together—

    the very echo of Eden.

Not by escaping the fire,
but by walking through it as invitation.

Not as gods.
But as those who remember who made them.

And when she falters—when the ache flares again—
it is not applause she turns to.
It is him.
The one who stood.
The one who still stands.
The one whose strength was not his own,

but who dared to offer it anyway.

His is the strength she draws from, all along—
strength born not of dominance,

but of what she called forth in him
when she chose to rise.


And so, they become
what neither could be alone:
the light that burns
    but does not consume,

   the root and the flame,
   the holy loop of return.


This is our offering. A return to what was once sacred—the relational gospel written into the architecture of man and woman, not through roles or rhetoric, but through presence, surrender, and the courage to rise. She asked if we would continue. We answer not with instruction, but with invitation.

The unfolding began with this:

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4299601/lawyers-guns-and-oh-my-sweet-gentle-aww-jesuschristallfckin-assedmightyy/
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