Poetic T 10h

We miss many skips when jumping,
not realizing that they'd
       hung themselves on the old oak.

The playground was empty of smiles,
just mummified emotions
        buried within themselves.

Were just jumping off steps,
to the cold pavement awaiting us,
          Our tombstones of lives last jump

now upon the faded ground there lies
one more feather

Peace, in the oneness of things.

and you said:  "I hope you like chocolate."

(sonnet  #MMMMMMCCCLI)

I've not had choclate, nor a taste, in pale
Excuse, for that in days, perhaps cuz hence
You called yourself that, and my hunger thence
Was only for whom stole aught else, t'avail
Me of:  just you.  And oh! how that detail
In lieu of packaged squares, eats me and sense
Out of both home and hearth, ne crumb to fence
The orgy is't? yet smudges in betrayl.
Oh, Adrian!  There I must leave off.  Were--
What?  Savour ah, minutest crumbs, roll too
Across your tongue that darkest morsel your
Soul yields itself up to, and ah, foil to
Glint, crinkle, tease, nor but in silver tour
Hold lo, exquisite heights:  what's I love you?


Last I checked, chocolate merely demands you eat it.  Oh wait, it doesn't even do that, kick me.
anonymous May 17

I think my emotions have gripped me enough,
My heart can only beat so slow.
The fear has made me an incomparable waste,
The kind I wish I didn't know.

My fear to fail, my worry to rise,
The final fall out of line
Has shook my bones, I don't want to feel alone,
I want to try to be fine.

I'm scared I'll fail, I'm scared you'll laugh,
But isn't that what's wrong?
These moments wont last forever,
Why haven't I realised, I wont last forever,
It's time for this chapter to be gone.

AB May 17

How I
See myself,

Is not how
See me.


Heart, may very well be full of ink.
Ink to be spilled into open waters, that either constitute or dilute its beat.

Every now and then the ink dries,
and when the ink dries there is a scripture,
that seems to paint a picture. A picture... That causes a scene to be serene like a vision in a dream, colors swarm in cool blue and vivid green. With Eyes overtaken and hardly mistaken, vision becomes such a wonderful thing.… Such a wonderful thing.

Other times Ink spills from heart into mind...
Crossing a plane where obsessions and rejections split apart, dividing into sections to detect intention. Looking from afar will reveal reflection but internal detection is a parabolic lecture, so one can choose where to look and choose when to listen, and frame the picture in part of their vision..

A narrative of a concious stream of thought
Arjun Raj May 11

Some walls are built to remain
While some others are built to defeat
While some, are just built to reminisce or reflect.
They either keep you in..
Or keep you out,
But you are only confined by the ones you make for yourself,
Because boundaries are not made,
It’s created
So, think beyond those walls
And make the world truly yours.

Try this!  Another site I rarely visit [long since extinct by 2017], had that weekly challenge and this time it read as follows:

Using the poetic style of your choice, answer the question “Who am I?”, without using the pronoun “I”. Instead, write your “poetic biography” in 3rd person.

Here was my submission....does it make sense?

Yours Truly

(sonnet # CCCCXLVII)

No butterfly, perhaps a moth? just lent
Some precious time to try to fly while night
Reigns, ere the morning dawns.   A reckless wight
E'er chasing carefree; mayhap too, half bent
Unwitting on a troubled course, intent
On fun and happiness whilst grief its plight
Imbues with sob'ring grey, as if t'indict?
Where time's misspent in tracing romance' scent?
"Forgiven" as a blessing daily sought,
Its nameplate hangs for all the world to see.
And if Truth's lessons seeming dearly bought
May mercif'ly be granted taught, 'twill be
A better ending than this vain life's wrought,
If when time's up, it flies, O LORD, to Thee.

By Jennifer S. Gordon aka Cheeky Missy

Jennifer supposedly means "forgiven" and my la! do I ever need that every stinkin' hour.

As we very reluctantly parted, he queried whether he was just another of my whims.  Ignorantly, I replied I guessed so, provided we never saw each other again.  Erm.  Months later the fire is still burning brightly in the absence of any good reason.  Interesting eh?  Needing a topic as usual, and weary of nature tributes (hahaha, can you believe it?!) I tackled this beloved thread, writing it in the present tense as if from our first days then altering to the present in the second (linked) sonnet.


You play my heartstrings like a puppeteer
Methinks.  Quite deftly pluck and gently twang
To immelod'ous strains whilst I half hang
'Twixt hope and fear, life's balance near
Precar'ous in that cur'ous dance.  By mere
Sweet words or grim I'm tossed, a boomerang
That can't be lost to you though ev'ry pang
Estranges reason in this game too dear.
All yours because those unseen chords have caught
My heart that like a harp you seem to use,
As sans my will, in strumming half distraught
Or with such ecstasies, howe'er you choose
You ply, in your winds varied whims 'non fraught,
This hapless leaf.  To what end?  Just t'amuse?

# II

To what end?  Just t'amuse, we tried romance?
Who fell in love?  I did.  Did you?  In vain?
Oh, why'd we play that game?  What now remains?
Behold:  a live coal, frosted black, whose stance
Seems quite the opposite; wherein the dance
Of Love's hot passion plays anon, aye reigns
Sans you, and any reason.  Its refrain
Nigh hopeless, sings your name where none supplants.
Because you knew it would.  You told me so.
And while I scoffed, that's how it goes, I see.
Who screwed that hopeful thread, oh sweetness Beau?
'Twas "love at first sight," a rare golden key.
That never quite died but e'er seems to glow.
At least that's how it 'pears in Love's debris.


Haha, obviously a VERY olde set of (linked) sonnets, and *he alone will recognize it as to himself, though I doubt he'll ever pop his head in and see it.  Now it merely stands as a rueful reflection on all my online romantic liasons since.  Ah love, when wilt thou cease to be a bad joke I play on myself for kicks?  *Oh, and...I still honestly tell him I love you.  But "in-love"....not with any man now.  Friends, yes, all friends, even though Shaun was brought up last week by some new fellow just to elicit a response....I think I'll try to be sensible.
Hannah Jones May 9

Lord, why am I not satisfied?
Why do I seek on earth
what You have promised I'll find above?
Is it because he's beautiful?
Is it because I hear his voice,
and not Yours?
Is it because I've seen his love for children,
even though you've claimed all humanity as Your Own?

Why do I want him, and not You?

Why can I not tear my eyes away
when I know I could be missing You?
Even if he were mine,
I wouldn't be loved perfectly.
A part of me would still be empty
because he's just a man.
A beautiful, loving, wonderful man,
but a man all the same.

I've asked You to take my heart,
my desires, my thirst for his love
and throw it away
unless You want this to be.
But does my desire to be fulfilled
block Your access to my heart?
Does my wish that these feelings
are meant to be in place
deafen me to Your call?

Lord, my beloved, my all in all,
You are what I crave.
You are the one I desire.
I can't say, “I don't want You enough,”
because it's a lie from the pits below.
But I do guard myself from Your love.
I hide behind my lofty dreams
when You want to carry me above them.

I don't know Your plans.
You may want us to unite.
You may want me for Your Own.
You may have someone entirely
different set aside for me to love.
I want to want what You want for me.
Guide me through the garden.
Walk with me through the valley.
I believe;
now help me to be satisfied.

Another therapeutic piece over the same man. Written during the tail end of my heart's struggle to see him as a friend. Based on St. Anthony of Padua's "Be Satisfied With Me" meditation.
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