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For a second,
suspended by the beam
of a street lamp,
a snowflake
sputters to the ground.
Ruchira Apr 9
She's a snowflake so frail
Beautifully fallen , without any trail ...
Juliana Mar 18
You are a snowflake.
Beautiful,
but I wish you’d melt
just a little faster.
Snowbird in the snow
Two unique creations

Part 1

White  owl white and pure
Sits and watches .....
falling snow. Quietly.
Snowflakes created uniquely
White, light and heavenly.
Falling down in winter frequently
It was then.....
Snowowl was born silently

Beautifully unique,
don’t know what to say.....
Both Precious creations
Natures art all the way

Part2

Spread your wings
white bird and fly
high into the night and thrive
fly up while snowflakes are  falling down , falling down, falling down!
sky’s own created diamonds .

Majestic bird of wonder
Created so devine
Wings like from  an angel
White as snow so fine

Part 3

When you look up into
night
and  watch skies  falling diamonds.
While Snowowl  flying winter high
You’ll see a precious painting,
on this  blue canvas called the sky
And God our holy painter .

Shell
🐚✨
Nature is like art, no is art!!!
pink snowflakes
litter my front lawn

they will melt away
under the watchful eye
of a summer sun

leaving only a stone
surrounded by fruit
Ken Pepiton Nov 2020
We hold these truths,
there is a Zebra tree on a tiny island
in Lake Wanaka on the relatively large island
called New Zealand.

Nation is not a valid variable to sort on.

So here, we sort worth on agreeing
we are equally
Natives of Earth. First yes.

More yeses follow.

Learn what you have done.
Know what you are doing.
Be good,
let the bruised flesh not rise in hot pride,

see we all are involved in evolving into ever
better,

so we think, perhaps,
others aboard my ark also think.

We are equal in this realm, each mind joined

junction branch root, not from
billions and billions of
Jahre zuvor,
წლების წინ
ts’lebis ts’in { Georgian script looks magic, eh}

Secrets in tongues died with the last word,
spoken toward unhearing ears,

… is it reality interrupting or
knocking needs gumming up the works…

--------


Field-wide signal, crisp and clear, some fell on idle minds,

that's fine  , signal how are you.

You say, responsibly, My side is winning.
No one ever asks what that means.

The field the world,
war is the only story, Walt imagined,
he was infected, Whitman,
with a known' opinion
-- some wise and well-known
-- being arisen from behind the ivied walls
- I heard this in passing,
- anonymous did not say this:
the function for the sublime is to free us from the slavery
of pleasure
- on another vector, I heard this:
the need to heal violence, forces life into idle words
used maliciously, in tests of conscience-useness.

Poverty never hears the highest minded reasons
for the states of mind attempted by the
most curious among us

--- empty of the wy. ha… I don' know I glanced away
stat tic… what's missing?
--- its like any other day, it ends with me entranced
by the play of winds with dust and smoke and water
droplets too light to fall,

I take instant HDR images as the time passes and the art
appears, as if for me alone,
I am the only mental
being seeing this,
I have proof,
I'll show you, someday, maybe…
but today,
I got took t' school, behind the gated mental institution,

geni-used magi-like instinct-gut spirit-vapor
-- rumor has it, I went mad
caused
by you or me, I can't say.

But just the other day, I was thinking, you may remember
my sunsets,
you would have noticed them
when you stole my weedeater.

--------

No school of the prophets foresaw my death,
so far as I may know,
I am by chance, bon chance,
living in lines of consequential events.
And my birth was a quirk of circumstances.

As special as any multi cellular creature,
if the statisticians are aiming at
the proper means of measuring.

There remain professors who teach man is the measure
of all things, wrong, in my opinion.

Ha. I said that. Like to Cambridge, it's image in my immaterial
realm where all things men agreed to use for ever after,

are similar in effect to the Ghostbusters Marshmallow role.

My fingerprint is less than nine points similar
to your fingerprint, no matter who you are.
We are equals in that regard,
our self is commonly unique, as we are.
Our kind.
We, the people of Earth. The native species,
Whumo Sapient Sapiens is us.
Knowers that know.
Thinkers that think we know. There is no
they
behind the curtain
knowing anything that  you may not know
as much
as you can swallow,
a bit per quantasec, after chewing fifty years.

In this medium,
it's me and you, object, subject, reject defect
if then or else
find that more perfect
union,
that knot that binds our minds in agreement,
this is that
which has no religious name, save good and plenty…

not the candy, but that's cool, I thought that, too.

We, me and you, since we think alike,
we could make up a mind and invite others

to take parts in grand epic dramas of ever
learning,
war never has arisen on a reason that reasons
rationally valanced toward life,
and that,
more abundantly…

Now, see those greedy folks,
look real
close,
see. You never see such a one, with a satisfied mind,
ever learning, never knowing everything,
happy as hell from a Sisyphean POV
_ Changed my entire environment, by movin' three rods north.
Summer Aug 2020
The snow collapses on top of each other,
the crystalline flakes stacking up prettily;
winter is the season when
beauty falls in disarray
Coleen Mzarriz May 2020
You are the snowflake —
In the buoyant afternoon
Where you fade away — still, when I look at you,
Pure like a waterfall.

It crashes
The sound — the continuous wave
Where the water's steep falls
And down
And deep
And beneath.

You are the snowflake —
In the crisp of December
Where you,
turns into
A delicate sixfold symmetry.

Where you were as remarkable
As white
And bright — just like the brisk — where the coldness,
Can be the warmth.

In every season
There's you — different from time to time;
Still, when I look at you,
You are as graceful,
For the weather — forecasted — bluer than the usual;

And when I look at you,
You will always be,
The snowflake that melts
In the sunny afternoon — and a delicate sixfold symmetry
In the winter of December.
...and when I look at you, you will always be the snowflake that melts, that transforms, as white, as clearest among the rest.
ryn Apr 2020
I’ve had this snowflake.

Something so delicate,
pure and unique,
resting upon my open palm.

Such preciousness,
I’d never want
to lose it to the passing gale
or the spiteful sun.

So I held it in a clench.
And I’ve held it like that
ever since.

In my fist,
forever it will live.

Never again
will I hold it
in an open hand.

Because I’m afraid.
I’m afraid if I did,
then I would know,
for sure that it had gone.

That it had melted
by the warmth
of my grip
and slipped away quietly
through my fingers,
and into the night.
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