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Raven Feels Jul 2021
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, and she dreams:?

expired sunset
a multicolored sky fired and met
wings of flee burnt rain
dawns of lasts in unseen flames

the table dines
lions chase forests of mine
like when the first sip shadowed
of the water green in lakes shallow

hands shot eyes intake
tremble ripped canvas of french fake
ashes unknown no name
to reach out faces or claim

polished the twenty third
out of the bathing bird
a Sunday morning motions
a faze of a dark table believed bad omen


                                                                               -----ravenfeels
Raven Feels Jun 2021
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, just an old a family memory on a dinner table--sorry no rhymes :>


to the no one who is not recognizing......
when I stopped for a long stare for me

I stopped and looked around me searching for something that
I don't know stashed deep into the picture I view

I smiled for the happiness that invades those hearts
for the gratitude that my soul is permeated
I crowned the thrones of blood in pure joy
I stole the sounds of laughter

I screened that shot that is bottled into the core of my memories that shot the reason I am on ground in this life
the reason that I believe in the reason that I hang on to the reason

that I long on my stormy nights and deprived alones
I locked them on that table of love and warm clouds attached
when I stopped for a long stare for me

                                                             ­                              ------ravenfeels
Celestial Nov 2020
Quaint, small and overall,
Infatuating.
With the forest green.

Closest thing he has seen,
For a place to invite.
Those who lift the kites.

Beings who draw veins on leaves.
To whom believes,
In tiny things with wings.

He sings!
Chairs armless for their spread.
While exchanging the sweet bread.

Only three seats.
"One always open" he beats,
For an uncertain one.

Never to be filled it seems,
He still beams
Because he knows can see.
🧚
Amanda Hawk Jul 2020
Sip
I will sip

This life slowly

Remember you

By Friday

With each carbonated hiccup

Your face reminds me

Of brightly colored wrapping paper

Always loud with a mouth ready to be opened

So I will collect this life

Into a chipped tea cup

Slightly jagged edge that nips my lips

With every sip

Like our conversations

Gathering up tidbits

Of current events, laughter, and insults

Pour them across the table

Come Friday

So I will sip

This life slowly
Sanek May 2020
A glorious sight befell my eyes
A pristine untouched bearer of supplies
Made of wood, of steel, or anything buildable
The Table

Possessing an essence unlike anything else
Hearkening to an unalterable purpose and tableness
Providing unending sustenance on a platform that's stable
The Table

Though the lingering presence in this perceptual world is illusory
The unchanging, uncleft presence is perfection conceptually
Artisanal glyphs adorn its sides unmatchable
The Table

While strife and pandemonium reign in this material domain
There remains a bastion of stability man cannot attain
Indeed, this mystical countenance attains a fable
The Table

Weathered and wizened through inummerable epochs
Joyous outpourings bestow praise not enough
Remaining of unmatchable nature even with the made-in-China label
The Table
rowdy lee May 2020
I'm dying by hunger
he said
and I remembered about
all these ruined places
and its children
and their mothers
no
you're not dying

you just still don't have enough capacity
to realize
that you don't need a new jacket
and shoes
you own muddy ones in the hallway
and the others you don't like
*******
give me
a better reason

and try
to swallow your dreams
and keep them
in a digestive tract
to the last second
of not giving a ****

as the ones who are trying to fall asleep now
on the pillow of tomorrow's death
Maybe there is a grammar/meaning mistakes in my poems as English is my second language. Glad if you'll warn me. Thank you.
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
The Last Enchantment
by Michael R. Burch

Oh, Lancelot, my truest friend,
how time has thinned your ragged mane
and pinched your features; still you seem
though, much, much changed—somehow unchanged.

Your sword hand is, as ever, ready,
although the time for swords has passed.
Your eyes are fierce, and yet so steady
meeting mine ... you must not ask.

The time is not, nor ever shall be,
for Merlyn’s words were only words;
and now his last enchantment wanes,
and we must put aside our swords ...

Originally published by Trinacria. Keywords/Tags: Lancelot, King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, last enchantment, round table, knights, sword, swords, England, stone, Excalibur, chivalry, Camelot, loyalty, friendship, magic, prophecy, Once and future King, Celtic, Anglo-Saxon



Sun Poem
by Michael R. Burch

I have suffused myself in poetry
as a lizard basks, soaking up sun,
scales nakedly glinting; its glorious light
he understands—when it comes, it comes.

A flood of light leaches down to his bones,
his feral eye blinks—bold, curious, bright.

Now night and soon winter lie brooding, damp, chilling;
here shadows foretell the great darkness ahead.
Yet he stretches in rapture, his hot blood thrilling,
simple yet fierce on his hard stone bed,

his tongue flicking rhythms,
the sun—throbbing, spilling.
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
Morgause’s Song
by Michael R. Burch

Before he was my brother,
he was my lover,
though certainly not the best.

I found no joy
in that addled boy,
nor he at my breast.

Why him? Why him?
The years grow dim.
Now it’s harder and harder to say ...

Perhaps girls and boys
are the god’s toys
when the skies are gray.

Published by Celtic Twilight

Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Morgause, Merlin, round table, knights, England, stone, Excalibur, chivalry, Camelot, Uther Pendragon, Colgrim, Saxon
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
It Is Not the Sword!
by Michael R. Burch

This poem illustrates the strong correlation between the names that appear in Welsh and Irish mythology. Much of this lore predates the Arthurian legends, and was assimilated as Arthur’s fame (and hyperbole) grew. Caladbolg is the name of a mythical Irish sword, while Caladvwlch is its Welsh equivalent. Caliburn and Excalibur are later variants.

“It is not the sword,
but the man,”
said Merlyn.
But the people demanded a sign—
the sword of Macsen Wledig,
Caladbolg, the “lightning-shard.”

“It is not the sword,
but the words men follow.”
Still, he set it in the stone
—Caladvwlch, the sword of kings—
and many a man did strive, and swore,
and many a man did moan.

But none could budge it from the stone.

“It is not the sword
or the strength,”
said Merlyn,
“that makes a man a king,
but the truth and the conviction
that ring in his iron word.”

“It is NOT the sword!”
cried Merlyn,
crowd-jostled, marveling
as Arthur drew forth Caliburn
with never a gasp,
with never a word,

and so became their king.

Published by Songs of Innocence, Neovictorian/Cochlea, Romantics Quarterly and Celtic Twilight. Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, round table, knights, stone, sword, Excalibur, chivalry, Camelot, Uther Pendragon, England
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