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Poems flow in a stream
That winds through me
As I guide them,
Through meandering, uneven
Places in my life,
Or once in a while,
The smooth runs
Where fishing seems easy.
And I collect the pretty stones
That come to rest,
Water-washed, shining,
Along the river’s bank.
And often, there is a pool,
Green-blue, with clear water
And trout shadows, swift
And still, making a brief home,
Suspended above the sand.
Those are the ones I choose,
The surface touched only
By tree-filtered sunbeams
And beckoning on summer days.
It seems sometimes to me
That poets travel backward
Up to the source of beauty,
Where the water is still pure,
After struggling up through
Rapids and waterfalls,
Or wading through swamps
Down where the stream ends
And a wide river opens up.
Giant rivers can be majestic
But they often bury the gems
Brought down from the
From mountain caves and highlands
Swallowing them to swirl,
Mixed-up with the jewels
Of other poets’ streams.
And from remembrance
We gather our dreams.
Does sorrow fill the traveler
Who reaches the dark places
Where springs emerge
From some place we cannot see?
My country meanders like a stream
Guided by impartial terrain
In search of open sea

My country reaches like a vine
For a source of warm light
Having survived winter

My country thirsts like a lily
Laid over a burning pyre
White petals wrinkling into ash

My country crumbles like a sandcastle
Fastened by childlike fantasy
Oblivious to the nearing tide
M Solav Mar 28
Here is just another thought
Going down the stream,
Just another thought.

Leaking from a tap
Labeled with "purity"
Just another trap

  The obsessive mind gullibly bites the lure,
  Obscured by clouds connections,
  Concealing the large picture.

    How every blast creates a reaction!
    Panic attacks to draw the attention.
    Where’s the crack in the grand ****’s wall,
    So we can strike down the reservoir?

Diverting the river that must belong to all
Before our eyes - wider worlds shrink small;
Cradled by the uniformity of lies that appease,
Those grazing in the dunes still tarry at ease.

It’s no wonder!

Insecurity has grown into a most lucrative market
As danger becomes the currency on which to place the bet;
Release the flow from the control that profits hold fast,
Question the junk food that's become the pasture of our mass.

  Continuous diversions
  Feeding everyone’s greed
  Fulfilling false concerns -
  So easily believed!

    How every blast creates a reaction!
    Panic attacks to draw the attention.
    Will the facts in knowledge’s downfall
    Let us unshackle the repertoire?
Written on August 9th, 2017 — as lyrics for a song yet to be released.
Water gushing down a stream
Reflecting the sky like a dream
Nurturing the plants around
Making a calming sound
Leafs floating on the surface like a boat
Shivering in the wind as it stays afloat
Minnow darting away in the current
Shiny wet pebbles gleaming in the playful light
The suns ribbons making the sand look bright
Tall trees showing off their height
Squirrels over an acorn, they fight
Birds learning their way to flight
While I look on at natures might
~21/3/21
Happy poetry day! :)
Henry Feb 5
verily as i sit here
an exercise in automatic writing
in the vain of all those dada artists before me
i sit
and compose
and i wonder
oh how lucky i am
that amongst the marvel of the present
amidst the bone and sinew of my hand
i possess still the ability to type
and to see the beauty
in the real and in the unreal
like those many in my past
oh how lucky i am
and i wonder
just how many before me have loved
in that same way that only i
have loved
loved the feeling of fingers and keyboards
and of cookies in my mouth
and of music in my ears
oh how lucky i am
to be in love
with a woman
a woman as real as me and you
and although she is not here
with me
in this moment
she exists as i imagine her
like the fleeting image of a siren in the sea spray
and i write
oh how lucky i am
and i gaze past my bare legs onto the floor
the floor of my room and i wonder
oh how lucky i am
oh how lucky i am
in love with the image of a coke can
like so many andy warhols before me
and i stare into his sunglasses
on the poster next to my bed
that i got at the art institute of chicago
and i wonder
oh how lucky i am
2/4/21
this is an automatic poem
Am i the water
Drifting, flowing within the mass
Sometimes rushing rapidly
At times stagnant

Or am I a rock
Slowly being eroded by constant pressure
Or a leaf
Cascading wildly until saturated
There was nowhere
left for her to turn,
after the rains
came and washed him away.

So she lay down
upon the softened meadow,
lost in a stream
of consciousness.

She tucked herself in
between the sheets of Ulysses
and dreamt with both eyes open,
eating lotus fruit and flowers
as the river widened its mouth.
Aazaad Jan 4
It breaks like waves against the cranium
Again and again the syncopated beat of my heart
Is it magic? Is it a miracle?
Is there madness behind such a glowing word?
Ramblings of a madman, I'd rather me insane than comprehending extreme sanity.
What sanity is there in a world that holds no bounds?
What gods can there be when man in turn becomes his own god?
I have no answers, I am all but questions.

Urgent and bursting, it is a sweet fruit that ripens until juice trickles out,
Turgid and thick, quivering and throbbing like breath itself,
Not solid or liquid but a state inbetwixt.

Maybe this is mania, maybe this is something above what I am?
Who am I if not for my breath and my breaking?
It is the gaps that make the solid thing whole.
Dylan McFadden Nov 2020
O’ Flowing Stream, smooth and calm,
How gentle are your waves

Oh, how refreshing is your taste;
Like crystal glass, your gaze

I came a long and weary way –
Walked through the deserts dry

And in the moment that my eye
Beheld your view I cried

---

I cried because my eyes then traced
Your course up to the Spring

The Source beyond the mountain top,
Where blessings flow and bring

I saw a bright and lovely sight:
A plan in the Grand Scheme

Providence…it brought me here,
To drink – to sing – to dream

---

O’ Stream, now that I’m here with you,
I’m here with you to stay

I’ll make my home and plant a tree
Beside your waters way

I’ll watch it close and give it all
I can to help it grow

And trust the Source to ever-pour
That you may overflow

.
A poem about my wife
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