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Aditya Roy Jul 2020
The sea is riled
Driven by hunger's embrace

Clasped arms
Like a seaweed's sewn lace

In the mirage of watery beings
A siren emerges without a trace

These are a thought of you
That I yearn

I still drown in your memory
And have a lot to learn
Why do I still think about your hunger and ravenous beauty engorging me in its depths?
Ayn Jun 2020
Brown seaweed
Sliding in the echo
Of a siren’s long lost lament.

Through the ocean
Not a sound shall break
The fragile fabric of silence;
It shall stand for an eternity.
Made the first stanza while talking to a wonderful person last night. Thank you ——.
Cherry May 2020
A shriek. Her song.
The way she sways as her mouth opens ever so slightly to release its cursed vocals.
A familiar tune, I used to hum.
In the tub, while looking at the crumbling roof.
Always whispered, never spoken loud.
Always shy, never proud.
Soaked in the water's silky grasps, floating.
Sinking.
Drowning.
In her gentle embrace.
Tempting, tempting.
It's cold.
She's warm.
No air, no heart.
Isabella May 2020
I heard your name in the whispers of the waves
I heard you call in the whistles of the wind
So I ran through the water into your arms
I threw myself into your cold embrace
I watched your face as you kissed my lips
And pulled me into the water’s bed
My home is now silent, and I have taken to those haunting waves
To set forth upon new land, and to find you, the woman of maebh.*

We come from different worlds, locked together in constant motion,
But I'm determined to embrace you, even from across the western ocean.

I'll sail across the world for you, even if the journey sends me to Hell.
It merely took one glance and I was immediately under your spell.

Like a siren's call, you pulled me in from a world away.
To arrive at you safely, I can only hope and pray.

And someday soon, when this coffin ship meets the shore
Hand in hand, together, in this new life, we will explore.

Day after day of this journey, we long for our first embrace,
But until then, I will be guided by your enchanting grace.
*(may-v) Gaelic word for someone who is alluring.
FrostedMustang May 2020
Step into the pools that fill my heart
But do it with trepidation
Because you’ve drowned here before
In the voids left by other men
Brought in by my siren song
But always with a rope to guide them out

Where is your way home, darling
Why do you return to me
With hope in your eyes
And no fear in your heart

I am the monster here
In my own story
Not the damsel in yours
Serendipity Apr 2020
Stormy sea thunder
boasts with glorious tales
of men who've drowned,
and the sirens
who drowned them.
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
Floating
by Michael R. Burch

Memories flood the sand’s unfolding scroll;
they pour in with the long, cursive tides of night.

Memories of revenant blue eyes and wild lips
moist and frantic against my own.

Memories of ghostly white limbs ...
of soft sighs
heard once again in the surf’s strangled moans.

We meet in the scarred, fissured caves of old dreams,
green waves of algae billowing about you,
becoming your hair.

Suspended there,
where pale sunset discolors the sea,
I see all that you are
and all that you have become to me.

Your love is a sea,
and I am its trawler—
harbored in dreams,
I ride out night’s storms;
unanchored, I drift through the hours before morning,
dreaming the solace of your warm *******,
pondering your riddles, savoring the feel
of the explosions of your hot, saline breath.

And I rise sometimes
from the tropical darkness
to gaze once again out over the sea . . .
You watch in the moonlight
that brushes the water;

bright waves throw back your reflection at me.

This is a poem I wrote as a teenager. It has been published by Penny Dreadful, Romantics Quarterly, Boston Poetry Magazine, The Chained Muse and Poetry Life & Times. Keywords/Tags: love, romantic, romanticism, mermaid, siren, Lorelei, sea, night, dreams, eyes, lips, limbs, *******, breath, sunset, surf, waves, caves, moon, moonlight, seaweed, hair, storms
Zeena Miedema Apr 2020
You still miss her so much.
I feel it when I touch the keys of your laptop.
Wet from your teardrop.
Last night there was a birthday party.
For a boy that was a zombie.
He didn't exist, only his mother.
In a ghost home like no other.
Dark and brown.
In a ghost town.
I watched them from very far away.
I watched a mother and child that used to play.
You'll find ways.
You'll find ways and people and days.
It will be so hard, impossible and too much.
Like trying to sleep when there's nothing that feels right for your body to touch.
And it all falls apart again.
And you have to start again and again.
Always with too many things happening.
And no certainty and the world spinning.
On and and on.
How to go on? How to hold on?
Falling backwards again into the storm.
Uncomfortable and cold in every form.
The calm before and after the hit.
And the loving inside surrounding it...
You just hold me when everything falls.
When the siren calls...
19-01-20
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
Circe
by Michael R. Burch

She spoke
and her words
were like a ringing echo dying
or like smoke
rising and drifting
while the earth below is spinning.
She awoke
with a cry
from a dream that had no ending,
without hope
or strength to rise,
into hopelessness descending.
And an ache
in her heart
toward that dream, retreating,
left a wake
of small waves
in circles never completing.

Originally published by Romantics Quarterly

Keywords/Tags: Circe, enigma, enigmatic, enchantress, siren, enchanted, witch, goddess, magic, Ulysses, pigs, sty



Moon Lake
by Michael R. Burch

Starlit recorder of summer nights,
what magic spell bewitches you?
They say that all lovers love first in the dark...
Is it true?
Is it true?
Is it true?

Starry-eyed seer of all that appears
and all that has appeared—
What sights have you seen?
What dreams have you dreamed?
What rhetoric have you heard?

Is love an oration,
or is it a word?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?

I believe I wrote this poem in my late teens, during my “Romantic Period.”



Tomb Lake
by Michael R. Burch

Go down to the valley
  where mockingbirds cry,
  alone, ever lonely . . .
  yes, go down to die.
And dream in your dying
  you never shall wake.
  Go down to the valley;
  go down to Tomb Lake.
Tomb Lake is a cauldron
  of souls such as yours —
  mad souls without meaning,
  frail souls without force.
Tomb Lake is a graveyard
  reserved for the dead.
  They lie in her shallows
  and sleep in her bed.

I believe this poem and "Moon Lake" were companion poems, written around my senior year in high school, in 1976. In addition to having similar titles, they had similar "staircase" indention styles. According to my notes, I modified "Moon Lake" two years later in 1978, at which time the poem was substantially finished. I then modified "Tomb Lake" in 1981, but must have forgotten about it, because I don't show that I ever submitted the poem for publication or did anything with it for more than 40 years. Keywords/Tags: Moon, Lake, Lakes, Water, Reflection, Reflections, Image, Imagery, Mirror, Magic, Magician, Seer, Prophet, Shaman, Spell, Spells, Enchantment, Sorcery, Bewitchment, Bewilderment, Incantation, Rhapsody, Love Talk, Love Potion
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