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Serendipity Jun 7
I drip into the palm of your hands
and make my home in the lines,
filling every crevice with myself
so I may always be by your side.
Reuben F May 28
Slow as a growl
Go some verses from a folio,
Like little frogs in dozens wake up on a lily pad,
And I'm singing them inside.

Cloaked is an owl,
Toads converse as roams an embryo
Like fiddle logs and cousins make up on a silly path,
And I'm singing on a ride.

Float does the vowel,
Go some verses from a folio
Like tittles fog in fuzzes flakes up on an ill leafed pad,
And I'm reading them with pride!

Slow as a growl
Go some verses from a folio,
Like little frogs and cousins make upon a lilly pad,
And I'm reading on a side.
all was peaceful
   serene
      secure
content in this
sleepy isolation
with only the dogs
for company
had i wished
to disturb their
soothing repose
reading
a little-known novel
once heralded
the hero
if he could
be called such
was fracturing
slowly
on the brink
of shattering

but before
the incendiary
final pages
could be reached
this dormant comfort
erupted
interrupted
by a shattering
much closer
   to home;
both dogs
and man
on the highest
of alert
searching
for a cause
anything
   to blame
but finding
nothing
renseksderf Apr 6
The journey begins always in the mind
but it always manifests with the sliding
of rectangular boxes encasing index cards.
The faint odour of vinegary wood ensues
and a chase scene begins in a wooded
forest of leaves, bound by hundreds and
thousands upon thousands of both soft
and hardbound varieties, gilded or plain.
These days a computer terminal or a
touch screen has replaced these boxes
but their function remains the same;
being akin to boarding pass gates that
regulate your voyage above and beyond.
Steve Page Mar 23
You complete me and do so
in every sound you now mouth,
every movement of your tongue,
every muscle’s adjustment
to effect fresh shape to phrase,
in every quick, shallow breath
giving sudden pause and turn
to the next silence.

You complete me at this reading
and so I am deaf to the closing,
blind to the ending you gift me
and ignorant of the next stair
with no balustrade to steady
where you leave the first me
to rise to find, first-hand,
the landing that completes me
triggered by Walt Whitman's 'To You'.
"...now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem..."
Steve Page Mar 17
The paper weight will hold
my ink down
in a way my fluidity never could.

No matter how violent
my metaphor, how heady
my imagery, how blistering
my narrative - it will hold
the reader's attention,
ensuring my thoughts reach
each reader's own resolution
a little before the weight shifts
and the burden of their eyes falls
heavy on the turn
of the page

and then their eyes will lift,
burdened with new meaning.
I started with the concept of a paper weight, and went from there.
He finds his soul
In books, overflowing pages
He = Everyone.
Nitika Sharma Jan 20
Empty Heart still aches
Broken are we
Standing at the window of heart
You refused to leave
Addicted eyes wander to steal a glance
Distant are we
We bid goodbyes
Sacrificing the coast of communication
Snapshots still pooling up our eyes
Sacrificial Are we
We the truth
Unsaid
The stories breathing In dead
We love to be loved
Building a house of mud
Empty the empty heart
Again
Yet it feels empty
Breathing are we
The poem is from my upcoming book
Tichozpytec Jan 20
The time she feels she's truly free
Is when she's lost in poetry
Rhymes blow away her sorrows
Strength from words she borrows
To live another day

She feels every word on every page
Love, sadness, hope, happiness and rage
Her heart smiles with laughter
Breaks when there's no happily ever after
While in bed she lays
Ffion Jones Jan 7
having your lover
trace your earloves with their
fingernib is as intimate as
reading.
You make me surreal with love.
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