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mark soltero Apr 30
wtw
streamy nights here
your heart beats so fast
we sweat
it doesn't matter when it's us
so much for you
the pulse of me
life in me defined
can be felt inside from within
i can finally see clearly here together
take me when i'm with you
and come with me wherever you'll go
here we lay down in the dark
moonlight cleanses our love
what i would do for our son
Corona is taking
Its toll
It's now air borne
Don't panick
Act bravely
Stay at home
As far as you can
Inhale steam 3-4 times
Corona seriously infecting you
Chances you reduce
Don't dispense with masks
Make difficult corona's task
God helps those
Who help themselves
Keep it in mind
Give power to your will
Chanting God's name
Victorious you would emerge
Ending corona surge!
Svetoslav Mar 2
Beginning like a little egg, soon to hatch into a butterfly
we search for the way of the butterfly,
starting from the lowest phase slowly reaching the skies.

Butterflies are like us, they cannot see the elegance in their wings,
but everyone else sees their glorious emergence
in the likeness of winter to spring.

Like a bridge connecting two energies,
one is water and the other is fire.
Both form a steam,
two in one are gathered to roam around,
with the sun above drowning them in a stream of unity.

Rainbow arises, butterflies absorb its colors
spreading its waves across in every life,
foaming the surface in flowers.

We search for the way of the butterfly
that reaches the dawn of another day.
by Svetli
Follow Svetli Photography here: https://www.facebook.com/SvetliOfficial
Payton Feb 24
She sang with a beauty that made the sun shine brighter with every tune that floated up to the sky.
But one day she stopped singing.
A strange little boy told her, that no one gave a single **** about her little ditties.

She didn't cry.

She simply stopped singing, and went on about her life.
She kept to herself and the world began to wonder why everything seemed so quiet.
Then the sun stopped shining.
He couldn't go on, making the world a brighter place, if she couldn't sing her songs to him each day.
One night, the moon visited the girl.

"My child, you know that the Sun longs to hear your voice again. Do not worry what little boys tell you, they cannot make the music that you can. This night will last for many years if you do not raise your voice. Go on, summon the Sun."

Reluctantly, she stepped outside, and with a rusty voice,  she sang as loudly and as honestly as she could.

And as tears rolled down her cheeks, the Sun rose in the east, with tears that evaporated into steam as quickly as they came.

And the strange boy fell in love with the way she looked
to him when she sang to the sky.
This poem was written in 2016. It's inspired by the Legend of Zelda. :)
Bhill Oct 2020
it is time to stand
it is time to let off steam
make time for yourself

Brian Hill - 2020 # 272
Bhill Apr 2020
mysterious curiosity of the runaway train
it has no direction, just a need to maintain
around all the corners, up all the hills
down through the valley creating more thrills
what does one do with a runaway train
how do you stop it from achieving more gain
do you leave it running till it runs out of track
do you try to derail it with a full-on attack
it's quite the conundrum, that runaway train
decisions, decisions, are straining the brain
really not sure, what to do with this dream
I think I'll just let it, run out of steam...

Brian Hill - 2020 # 96
What to do?
Silver May 2019
the steam of the shower holds your face
like a pillow.

pushing out the smog, clutter in your head
billowing around you and thawing out
the raw thoughts that you try to freeze over.

the endless patter of hot rain that
cleanses, but also
hurts
in that it's one of the only
honest sounds you'll ever hear
(outside of love.)

the moment you step out into the humid, mediated
atmosphere of a cooling room
the water dripping off your arms,
your hair,
your face,
making you anew.

but as everyone does, you wipe the mirror clear
to see your face, and know that despite life,
it's still you.

it changes you, yet proves your you-ness more than anything else.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
I suppose we never are.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLVII)


As steam wafts up in whitish tendrils' pale
Dance, likeas figures which cavort from hence
In ghostly silence til the ether thence
Half swallows them--as spirits in betrayl
Taen into heaven ist?  Look past, t'avail
Me of the world beyond this window, whence
See how fir boughs nod to chill breaths for sense
While lo, the Maple's naked yet, calm frail.
This first cup black, we're being good Swedes I'm sure,
And savour all the more what Daddy'd brew
Upon that note.  Remember too as twere
My sister'n'law who'd drink joe like I knew
Old seasoned captains would:  black.  And in poor
Still voiceless naught, the radio chatters too.

09Mar19a
Having been told that good Swedes drink their coffee black, I cringed.  And my first sister-in-law was not at all Swedish either.  I prefer cream, NO sugar, though.
kk Feb 2019
On days where salty tears lick my cheeks,
or they hide just behind the cages of my eyelids,
I feel full, not hollow.
Preferable, perhaps, to the emptiness found
in staring blankly at life and seeing
the still run down like paint and the moving brake like cars
all around, helpless to stop it
as a mind crumbles into broken acceptance.
But a cup can only hold so much.
A *** can rumble angrily on the stove for only
so long before its contents spill out,
slipping and darkening down the sides
before dying away against the heat below.
Sure, we're contained, maybe like tea kettles. But
all of us have holes that whistle,
a call to what stirs inside, and I
am no different.
Every day,
my small heart shivers and shakes,
petrified by even the idea of my own steam escaping.
It rattles at the threat of an exponential scream
of evaporated failures and aborted thought
wrapping itself around my tongue and teeth
before spilling out to float in the present air,
only to hang itself
like a fog over everyone's perceptions.
I guess that's the difference between us and tea kettles,
or cups or pots.
Water moves forever in its cycle,
falling down as rain, or snow, or sleet, or hail, or
rising up into the air to mesh with it seamlessly,
adapting beautifully to the pressures of its natural peers.
But water is not sentient. It does not remember its past,
does not consider its present or future.
Water speaks a language of unquestioned togetherness and
a blissful absence of mind.
Maybe our folly is memory.
Our puffs of commentary marinate on the brains of others,
and, maybe for the worse,
ourselves.
They float around in a haze of the brain,
eroding at our integrities,
some fogs never cycling out until we rattle
for the last time.
Unlike steam, unlike water, we ponder our past forms
and our personal sins sometimes forever
until we sizzle against time's heat,
burning out at the mercy of nature
and our own kettled minds.
Shadow Dragon Sep 2018
Glaring light
and white
bathtubs.
Steam and
high pitched
melodies.
Running water
spreading warmth
spreading legs.
Silky cloths
for the freshly
bathed human.
Confusion and
worried faces
all washed away
by lukewarm
bathtub water.
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