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Corey Boiko Sep 29
I've been wondering
How to want what i need,
Pondering how to
Say what I mean,
How to not plant trees,
Instead, to sow a seed.

How I could listen
Instead of talk.
How i could show
A bean, a beanstock.
How we might one day grow
From raindrops to mighty oaks.

So why is it
That I've taken us here?

And how is it
that 'us' has little to do
with you and me?
And What marks the cycles
Of an Acorn to a tree?

So why is it
That I've taken us here?

And how is it
That 'where i've taken us'
Has little to do with 
You and i
Going somewhere,
Side by side. 

No strings attach
My moon to your tide,
And the ground is softer
On the other side,
So let the wind,
A breath, a sigh
Sweep you up,
Be brave more than shy.
The world is much brighter
If you fall far from my side.
KM Hanslik Sep 20
It's 9:20 and my money
is on the fact that you don't give a ****,
guess I saw it coming but I'm tired of running
from everything that passes your lips
Fight-or-flight keeping me awake half the night
pay up or get out,
living in a state of constant drought
& listening to whatever ******* you're on about
slow work, waiting for grass to sprout,
but I guess we've had it handed to us, gotta reap what our ancestors have planted for us,
even if the seed is bad
can't be much worse than the days I've had.
Phoenix Jul 13
we grow.
Like flowers, we sprout and wither.
Love doesn't live like flora and fauna do
Though we are what makes it dim or glitter.
A short rhyming poem I wrote a few weeks back. Since then, this poem has been revised.

            The                             arrival            
        of                          monsoon,
sprouting        begins
on parched,
deserted
land
and
on the
heart
too......

♂♀
Shape of sprout roughly made
Bellissima May 13
Lump

The news came in blows–bashes
to the heart, a butcher
beating a pound of meat.

The doctor said it was your breast,
that sack of fat that hung
so peacefully along your torso.
That soft small pouch which carried a secret,
a coin purse hiding stolen money.

It was that round raisin spout
that oozed liquid love,
what had once nurtured life
only now, to take it away.

Root

The chemo was cold,
naked branches
in the midst of winter.

The doctor said your hair would go,
that those sun brushed locks would fall,
an autumn tree flaking its leaves.

Your nurtured garden,
to be plucked and uprooted,
picking carrots, bare and bald.


Spread

The disease crept up– multiplied,
a bomb of ants
ravishing a crumb of bread.

The doctor said that it had spread
to the cauliflowerd bumps between your hips,
to the heart shaped tubes that cradled
the unwanted mass, a *******
born without a father.

It was an attack your womanhood,
the predator, a ghostly outline
that lingered faintly in the scan.

Carve

The surgery took hours–heartbeats,
the wife of a soldier
waiting to hear of survival.

The doctor said they cut you open,
scraped it out, a pumpkin
scooped and carved on Halloween night.
Your gooey insides probed and poked,
until the rest of it was gone.

He said they shut you with staples,
a spine–like trailed railroad track,
that the skin around turned yellow,
while you looked sore and dead.

Sprout

The healing happened slowly,
an infected wound
spewing pus then scabbing over.

The doctor said that you were clear,
like fresh water, clean and pure.
He said your hair would start to grow,
spring up like tulips
from beneath your scalp.

and you smiled so warmly–
the sun had baked your mouth.
Not only had your body healed,
but your soul.
*n a k e d* branches
A *b a s t a r d* born without a father
Glenn Currier Jul 2018
I am here in the hazy light of a new dawn
writing to you.
You and I here alone
is like floating in a soft piano nocturne.
Gliding over the keys with natural finesse
is a taste of heaven.

Here in this muted light
with you in mind
a privilege no less
than being in the majestic presence
of loving and friendly royalty.

Writing to you
from the inner reaches of my heart
is a journey
more precious
than the emerald landscape
I can see
to the far horizon
of this new day.

The freshness of this moment
basking in our love
is a tiny sprout
greeting blessed light
thrilled with the sticky twining
of its new life.

It is good being here
alive with you.

Written 7-19-18
K Balachandran Jun 2018
sky, benign cry
for life,that roots ever for,
interstellar sprouts!
K Balachandran Aug 2017
I am that fragrant thought, still alive,
as a seed,one of nature's wonder
that sprout in a season not expected,
in your mind in a blue moon night.
Though we loved and lost without
knowing reasons and sans any regret,
as it would be just probing for errors,
in the book of accounts love never can keep.

You were left alone for long, yet moved
by love that caressed your heart
with such intensity, only once that
made possible many flights together
with moon beams as wings of fantasy.
But that was before the tsunami hit,
just a memory now,but would last long!

Now, here the magic happens again,
as musky fragrance hovered
in the west wind,stirring passions,
I can't understand the dynamics of this:
somehow a beam of light hit,
my being telling me about,
your plight in a flash and
our hearts melted together,beating
making shrink the distance between us!
We touched each other's heart,felt
love traveling at the  speed of light.
The world suddenly looks a place brighter,
What if we wouldn't meet even once, hereafter.
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