Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Kayden Oct 2024
In the quiet green of a sunlit vine,  
Where dewdrops rest and shadows twine,  
Lies a melon round, with a heavy sigh,  
In fields where days drift idly by.  

Soft and sweet, its flesh inside,  
A tender heart it tries to hide,  
Yet weighed with seeds of fleeting cheer,  
Its sweetness tinged with hints of fear.  

It’s summer’s child with autumn’s gaze,  
Golden light in shorter days,  
Both ripe and raw, it knows too well  
The taste of joy on the edge of farewell.  

And as the fields turn bare and cold,  
The melon dreams of days of old,  
Of laughter, warmth, and skies so high—  
A sweetness meant to say goodbye.
Theme and Tone:
"Meloncoly" explores the bittersweet nature of endings, using the metaphor of a melon to evoke themes of nostalgia, ripeness, and the passage of time. The poem's title, a play on "melancholy," suggests a feeling of gentle sadness associated with change and loss, reflecting the subtle beauty of natural cycles.

Imagery and Symbolism:
The melon represents fleeting happiness and the inevitable approach of loss. Its “tender heart” and “heavy sigh” imply an emotional weight hidden within its sweet surface, much like how joy often conceals sadness. The contrasting images of “golden light” and “bare and cold” fields symbolize the shift from abundance to emptiness, from summer to autumn, emphasizing the idea that all things pass.

Structure and Language:
The four quatrains are simple yet rhythmic, much like traditional pastoral poetry. This steady form mirrors the natural, predictable changes of seasons. Phrases like “fleeting cheer,” “tender heart,” and “sunlit vine” evoke softness and gentleness, while lines like “both ripe and raw” hint at the complexity of emotions that ripen with time.

Tone of Farewell:
The poem ends with a sense of departure and reflection, suggesting that sweetness and joy are always, in a sense, fleeting. It leaves the reader with a contemplative, somewhat wistful feeling, as the melon “dreams of days of old,” encapsulating the essence of "meloncoly."
Kayden Oct 2024
We climb through days of broken stone,
hands raw from clutching all we own;
a weight unseen, a silent yoke,
and words that leave us choked and soaked.

Against the odds, we stand and fight,
in shadows thick as endless night,
our dreams like embers flickering low,
yet stoked by fires we barely know.

We wear our scars like secret steel,
a testament to wounds that heal;
for every fall, for every scar,
a piece of who we truly are.

In tangled paths, through storms that sing,
we feel the ache, the sharpened sting,
but somewhere in the howl and blur,
we find the strength to rise, endure.

So here we stand, though battered, worn,
from battles lost, from places torn—
a human heart, relentless, fierce,
with light enough to break and pierce.
This poem speaks to the resilience within each of us, capturing the quiet heroism of pushing through life’s hardest challenges.
knit Oct 2024
Shadows of the light and solace by early demons
Veins cutting through leaves as the flowers shrink and bleed
Time ticking backwards as the future reveals itself
Past, making it's grand entrance in our minds when the present feels overwhelming enough
Mind, whirling in monsters, as the heart's burdened by its own tissues.
Erwinism Oct 2024
From the swing;
the playground,
when the mind is clear
as honeyed water,
there,
ever on the road goes,
slithering into the shadows
of the sleeping horizon,
and
when my feet
were big enough to fill
the muddied shoes,
I sauntered,
then walked,
then trudged,
until my toes were nailed
to the asphalt,
until I came upon
where the road has crumbled,
its debris scattered.

And stood this body,
two sizes too big for this tiny soul,
swathed in layers of expectations,
dragging sagging lumps of age around
past this old carnival.

Forsaken years in the rear view mirror
once painted with life,
proud stallions
here, stand still and gray,
golden poles tarnished,
Their hand crafted eyes
wide-open,
staring through the smudged glass mirror at the lives they missed.  
while the music box wheezes—
a slowing tune,
a dying sound,
as shadows lengthen
on this fairground.

Deep in my pocket,
my fingers exhume
yesterday’s cold corpses
no longer jingling,
just grating tired,
clutched a handful of
these tokens—forgotten currencies,
now just pieces of obol for the eyes,
obsolete,
for games whose booths have long since shattered.

The Ferris wheel creaks,
half-dismantled,
Its empty seats
Swinging
in the twilight’s breeze,
crying tears
of rusted nuts and bolts,
groans high above my head,  
emitting light
a weaker pulse
against the night.  
As if they were embers
holding on to their glow,
if for a moment until the breeze snatches their soul out of their ashy bed.

I stand beneath it,
feel the wind brush past  
And wonder if I’ll ever climb again,  
or if this ride has ended with the spark  
of something breaking,
and like with most
it is something I can’t fix.
Bardo Oct 2024
One Friday evening working from home I was tired
I hadn't been sleeping too well of late
So I said I'm going to finish up now and go to bed for a few hours, get some rest
So, I get a few hours sleep and then I awake at about half eleven/ twelve a clock, around midnight
I get myself something to eat, then I start watching some movie
When the movie's over I say I better go off to bed again, maybe read for awhile
It's well after two  
So I unplug all the plugs, brush my teeth, turn off all the lights
Then I remember there's a small window, a high up window out front that needs to be closed, I always leave it open to air the room
So I go out to the front porch to close the window
Now there's a hotel across the road from me, it holds dances and weddings and other functions on Fridays and Saturdays
Sometimes late at night you can hear voices and laughter on the road
So when I go out to my porch to close the window I suddenly stop dead in my tracks
There's a shadowy figure walking around at the front of my house
A prowler
I can see him walking up to my garage door to see if it's open
Luckily I have it tied...it's closed
Then he walks over to the other side of the house, there's a side door there
He tries the side door but it too is locked, so he can't get around the back of the house
So he starts going back and forth across the front of the house, it's almost like as if he's trying to think of another way of breaking in
And I'm just...I'm just standing there watching him, in the dark, betwixt the shadows and the moonlight
Just a face in the dark...like a disembodied face staring back at him, watching him
Y'know there's nothing more creepy than watching someone trying to find a way to break into your own house
Now I'm a bit concerned 'cos my car is parked at the front of the house
I'd left it out 'cos I needed to go somewhere the next day
I'm afraid he might start interfering with my car
In which case I know I'll have to intervene, I'll have to confront him
Tell him to '**** off'
Suddenly as he's going back and forth, suddenly just then he stops and I'll never forget it
His head it just turns real real slow like, almost unnatural
And he looks in the window... looks in directly at me, it's like he's seen me for the first time
And it's like he can hardly believe it
He moves a step forward just to make sure
Then it's like...it's like he realises he's been caught
Whereas he thought he was looking into some dark dead looking house
Suddenly now there's...there's this face looking right back at him...watching him
As if its reading his thoughts...as if...as if it already knows his thoughts.

And I'm half afraid, 'cos it's like I've been discovered too

Thankfully...thankfully he takes off.
True story, it happened a few weeks ago (must get some lights for the front of my house), I wondered if I could put it into writing. Happy Halloween 👻🎃
Coleen Mzarriz Oct 2024
I'm not as soft as a swan gliding into the poet's lake. I'm not as graceful as a ballerina waltzing in the arena. I am not as calm as the trees attending to your whimsical needs. I am built on ruins; I am something that has been running for decades, and I still think about the house keys I abandoned near the forest; they open the portal to your house. It was my favorite.

I am full of words,
Rotten poetry,
Full of work,
Empty memory.

"I don't know what to write anymore," I whispered. I was a romantic maniac. In me were growing daisies and burnt coffees, orange juices and promised salvation.

It's a funny little detail; now, it's all mishaps and mishandled poetry.

Through the shallows and the shadows, I screamed in horror, and then I felt the mockery of longing.
as I age, I spend less and less reading books that will keep me at night until dawn. I am slowly forgetting how to form words, and my love for writing is nothing but a fond memory kept inside my favorite box. now, every poem that I write is just as empty as me; it’s lacking. it’s boring and awkward. it’s a dream I keep repeating on and on. it was once my favorite escapade, a heaven; now, it’s all nothing but frugal chaos.
butterfly Oct 2024
You get away, we are becoming shadows,
everything we said is now nothing.
I wanna see the sunlight,
remember the blue in your eyes,
I wanna see the marks on your face,
right before I said goodbye.

Now the feelings had faded,
the pain I felt is gone,
I look your eyes and I feel nothing,
the marks on your face have changed.

I said everything but it meant nothing,
the kind of life with no regrets,
I wanna see but all I see is shadows,
I wanna remember how I felt.
Ariannah Oct 2024
I know my friends don't like you
But they will never know
That I'm actually dating you
In my own love show

I hate to stick to hiding
Hiding in the shadows of
My one and only, my fake love

Cause it's all in my head
When my mind is asleep
You're like a useless secret
That I'm willing to keep
Just me being delusional:))
Heidi Franke Sep 2024
The autumn moon was receeding
At 5 AM this morning
Riding the wave of seasons
Wind stirring in a constant dance with the leaves

My cold mug of milk set upon the wire table outside
Under the Serviceberry
So I can pet the dog.

Kinetic shadows on the table
Wisped and whipped over the mug
Laying upon the white liquid
Thicker than the reflected light and dark. Boundaries that can't be bought.

Did the shadows, could the shadows, penetrate the surface of the milk?
Going deeper in where I can not see
To a place furrowed low
Perceived, yet not seen.

Is it a place with a soul
Creamy and still
Unmatched like time, marching or halting, that
which we can not ever hold?
Shadows on milk do not sink.
Next page