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Zywa May 27
Something sings beneath

reality, there's the beat --

of a heart, loudly.
"Underneath" (2022, Jasna Velickovic), composition for hyperorgan, part 1 of a chain composition by ten composers, performed by her in the Organpark on May 20th, 2022

Collection "org anp ark" #208
Zywa Mar 15
Glimmering beauty,

clear and upside down, doubled --

in the little pond.
Old Chinese poem about friends in a porcelain pavillon in a pond: "Of youth", 1908, Gustav Mahler, based on the free version "Der Pavillon aus Porzellan" by Hans Bethge from 1907, after "Yan tao jia tingzi" by Li Bai [701-762])

Collection "Thinkles Lusionless"
Amanda Kay Burke Apr 2020
Death would make a dark valentine
I'll join your hand with mine
Midnight strikes
Our skin will meet
Over a road made with sheets

Together we will take it slow
Taken by shadows that are forever kept
Water's slowly rising
Instead I'm learning to swim
In our beliefs
Treading with limbs

Splinters thoughts
Negative energy
Scattered about too many places to see
Pressure wracks my consciousness with unuttered questions
Mix of doubt and adoration broken into sections

Ruins moment with cold insecurity
Fights desperation
Winning barely
Aroma of chocolate wafts through the air
Breathe clarity and briefly my senses are thankfully aware

I slowly blend surroundings until it's all a blur
Table decked with items you prefer
To show you how much your love means to me
All that shows is the success we'll never be
Written 2-7-20
Nica Monet Nov 2019
Toast to the guinea pigs
for extinguishing my fear of being alone

Toast to the moon
for being the substitute of street lamps

Toast to the car parked on the driveway
for indicating the presence of my family

Toast to the guitars
for remembering the way they tune

Toast to the fridge in the kitchen
for keeping our food fresh

Toast to the walls of the house
for absorbing the noises I rather not hear

Toast to the paintings
for reminding me of what I’m artistically capable of

Toast to the bed in the room
for keeping my body comfortable at night

Toast to the lights
for providing my room personality

Toast to the tapestries hanging on the ceiling
for maintaining my privacy

Toast to the dreamcatchers
for giving me hope of a good night's dream

Toast to the pictures on the wall
for reminding me of who I am with people I love
Inspired by Clint Smith's poem of Shout Out.
Simon Oct 2019
Logical doesn’t have taste. It has circumstance. Only to be tasteful, is to be surrounded by a taste of what gradually makes a self importance greater to yourself. Proudly underestimating yourself at first. Giving closure to the surrounding areas. Taste has no boundaries here. A made-up friction. A made-up functionality. A dripping faucet without clarity. Dripping one social taste at any given time. Clarity giving rise to the surrounding areas with logical ingredients. Logical ingredients slapping taste buds without concern for logical praise. Logical praise that doubts it’s understanding of taste buds giving praise to ingredients without concern for how praise will affect it’s priorities. Priorities finishing the diversity of something logical with a taste. The taste buds feeling the diversities finalizing ingredients in their rightful places. Like shiny white plates on display for the crowd of praises effecting one’s own priorities. Teeth whitening the taste buds for greater effect. Praises finally giving the logical praise the taste it deserves. More surrounding areas include a broader crowd. A newer logical taste starts to emerge in the practice of ingredients giving logical praise to the logical priorities that govern it so. Praise from newer surroundings influencing more ingredients in the form of logical taste. More taste buds start feeling the diversities in the praise which salivates the practice of logical assessments. A reverse act giving rise to a simplified logical taste without boundaries.
Taste doesn’t come with ordinary pleasure. It's when it's dosed with the logical arts onto taste buds, will it truly shine brighter!
Matterhorn Apr 2019
A lone plastic bag
Of unknown, mysterious origin,
Now floats, heaven-bound.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Shantala Kothare Nov 2018
Time can never stay
The ticking of the clock
Takes timely stock
Of the days that roll to years
And of what occurs
And of what stays or disappears.
Twixt the angle of paradigm
That sweeps through ticking time.
When old friends meet
Time is the healing retreat.
Slipping into different zones,
Completely oblivious of cell-phones!
And the time that is the present-now
Seems too short; somehow
For a grander celebration -
And a fuller exchange of conversation.
But grateful, still for the exchanges between
The now and when we were fifteen.
Anya Oct 2018
It was a sad thing
To realize
How limited my topics
Of poetry are

Either some embodyment
Or my overflowing

Or a strange
Out of the box
Analogy to something I
Learn in school

Simply a reflection
On the people
Around me
Something I’ve
In my sheltered

One of the above
Coupled with
Some fantastical
Of my imagination

But apart from that...

Politics, issues, society
Beyond that which I have
Been exposed to
There’s absolutely
Plenty to write about

Rather than
Focusing on my
Little bubble
winter sakuras Feb 2018
As I developed, they shaped me,
as if I had been a block of clay
sitting there on the jagged concrete of
unpaved streets and endless roads.

My future form dependent on
the timing of passing strangers'
beginnings and endings,
their risings in the mornings
like the blue and orange horizon
spreading in preparation for the sun's presence,

And their settling back in the evenings,
like cool salty clouds of white sea foam
collapsing back into the ocean's
gray waves.

In each moment passing by
like a kid riding a bicycle, speeding down
the cracked pavement and
turning the corner out of site,

I was shaped by
the flurry of life that surrounded
every person's presence.

Picked up, tossed into the air,
and kicked by small children with bright eyes
and tongues that stuck out when
adults were unfair,

Colored, spray painted and scribbled on
by teenagers with messy dark curls,
wild laughing eyes,
and rapidly budding senses,

Observed, analyzed, discussed, and compared
by businessmen in jet black suits
and smooth red ties,
who pondered cutting me evenly
into perfect pieces for sale on the market,

Rolled, polished, scrubbed clean,
and spiced by rapid tongued mothers
wearing aprons and holding long
wooden cooking spoons,

Eroded, left to absorb a vast amount of salt
from teary eyes and bleeding wounds,

Caught on blazing, fiery fumes
of a man's raging anger,

Soaring high in the sky, resting on clouds
of someone's love and faith,

Trapped low in the ground,
sleeping in a bed of dried dirt filled with
people's sorrows and dreariness,

Drowning in purple satin
of one's longing
and unsatiated desires,

Chained to a planet
spiraling out of control in a universe
that couldn't bear to let go.
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