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Man Mar 5
If it were mine-
I think of the past, time
Unpauses, and I'm brought back.
I'd never have;
Factors weigh too heavily, those
Strings that keep me attached.
Choose to come back.
Waters fall, the stream cascades
Flowing into itself
Over & over again
Mandii Morbid Nov 2023
I've painted over this canvas one too many times.
I'm running out of colors, I'm running out of ryhmes.

My brush is losing bristles, my hands are losing faith.
This wooden frame is shattered, splitting at the seams.
I don't know if I'll ever, reframe all my dreams.
In my mind they scatter, haunt me like a wraith.

I've painted over this canvas one too many times.
I'm running out of colors, I'm running out of ryhmes.

The paint layers are cracking, my heart is turned to stone.
That heavy burden peeling, again I'm all alone.
Man Jan 19
Forest floor, underbrush abound;
The light sprinklings of winter found.
Snow kissed scenery, that
Whether cold be dreary
Still seems the more dreamy, than
Tracing each step.
These frigid months of death-
Before life springs back
Bringing fresh greenery
Man Jan 15
The eye sees-
Singular, as I am only,
In corporeal, in tangible form;
We are 1 out of many.

When our cup runneth empty,
Many welcomes back the one;
As a droplet joins a water's body-
Like tides taken back by the sea

As dawn & Sun meet

We are as day,
The slim slivers of light that separate
Night, from next night; the fleeting life
In the darkness that permeates.
George Krokos Oct 2023
The phoenix is a bird said to rise from its own ashes
being a symbol of immortality and spiritual rebirth.
So life in this world undergoes many similar flashes
which determine the degree and quality of our mirth.
_______
From 'The Quatrains' ongoing writings since the early 90's.
Josephine Wild Sep 2023
I feel like writing again.
I feel like riding again.

I'm scared to be loving again,
to have my heart broken again.

But a breakthrough requires
being broken again.

I've gone through the fire, my friend.
Red hot, I'll embed my brand again.

I'll stand on the start line again.
I'll run the race again.

Life is a race that never ends.
Once one is over, it begins again.

It feels good
to feel new again.

Life goes on, my friend.
It feels good to live good again.
First poem after a while.
Megan Pasnik Aug 2023
Life force awakens
And forces its way
Through the hard dirt
Cracking through the density
Of all the life that once was
Now, beneath the surface
Ready to become
Something new

My breath deepens
My rib cage expanding
My stomach fills with butterflies
My heart surging with electricity

Something new is moving through me
Pregnant with life
But not with child
My being begs to
Release
Surrender
And allow
The birth of
Something new
Poem from my book "Call The Light"
My hair is a mess of antennae-
Each piece picks up static of days
dead and gone.

I run through the noise with unmanned hands- feeling the weight of each lock.

Where’s the golden child?
The girl with a head full of health?
Of ringlets
yet to be devoured by time, sweat and dissonance.

As I drift I hear the voice of my mother fading- her chord was cut and motioned off-air in the wake of new administration.

Memories trapped in the roots of straightened strands. Her signal comes through as a muffled cry:

“These ends may be swept away,
but my music will still play
through your stereo.”
missanthrope Jun 2023
mumbles, jumbles, into the night
my baby phoenix stumbles into its plight
a better life was merely imagined
but my dove, my dear, bitterly determined

huddled witnesses
there! in the square
a drove of fireflies, watching
her rebirth in fire, laid bare.

her tuckered tail, dead-centered --
shaking off crimson pearls of lunar lunacy,
henceforth, bleeding on her own time, her own tenancy.

her talons look at us.
we look at fiery lips that lash and scorch her.
never more before his penetrating gaze,
as her wings form a column of blaze.

she soars, she screams:
but to nothing but scorn --
the square-goers think she is just forlorn.  

my dove, my dear, for your ****** death --
I pray it greets not a dragon's breath.
Francie Lynch May 2023
Beulah gave out
Blossoms this spring
As big as sunflower heads.
They entwined the branches
Like the ribbon enclosing an expectant shower gift.
It's fragrance was the extract
Of an unbottled aroma
That is the Magnolia tree.
I rooted her in the yard
Four years ago.
She is iridescent for a brief time
Past mid Spring.
She has many Springs to go
Above the green growth below;
Many seasons beneth
The blue Summer skies above;
During the Autums ahead,
When I am dead,
And colder than Winter snows
Below her;
She will be there.
Rooted with care.
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