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Ylzm May 5
A photon has no time.
Here and there, instantly.
No distance too, when in the light.
All is one, one is all,
Forever is the moment
The bedside clock strikes midnight
As the insomniac cries,
“How long will I stay awake?!”

Forever is the moment
Staring at the dead of night
Seeing the most starlit skies,
As our lasting Heaven’s sake.

Forever is the moment
Lonesome poets start to write
Words to memorialize
Constant and persistent ache.

Forever is the moment
When finally things feel right
And hopefulness fills the eyes,
And no hearts are left to break.
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parttimeboy Apr 2018
Aesthetically pleasing spiderwebs
Dogs fitting perfectly into each dorway
Books over Books over Books over Books
being dead wood covered by dead wood inside of dead wood
surrounded by stone
it´s what I call home
A small poem that came to my mind just like that which I had to write down immediately or else I'd forgotten it again
Pisceanesque Jan 2017
In waking sleep we all expire,
remote organics built to tire –
searching lusts for something more
to fill our souls beyond our core

We lay awake inside a dream,
asleep within a constant stream,
alone, in part, to wander, lost,
with passing time our only cost

We play as shadows holding hands
with eyes wide closed and few demands,
our every moment briefly clashing;
fast forgotten memories flashing

Here, we count down from our birth
with time a thief upon this earth –
purpose teased at every corner,
Chinese Whispers our informer

But all will realise when we’re gone
that we were dreaming every song –
that death becomes another story;
a painless world of allegory

I fear we write this book forever
as single pages bound together
to lay inside our reader’s minds
in passing paragraphs of time
© Tamara Natividad
Written 21 January, 2017
First light, and
a chill mist.
Low bird calls.
Small and quiet,
the eldest child
zips her way
out of the tent.

she sips a bit
of mountain
up, she  
her flowers
into the
crook of
a plain tree,
bowing down.
©Elisa Maria Argiro
Born to an Italian father
and a dreaming,
wide-eyed American,
travel was my fortune,
my life before I chose it.

One late September evening,
my wide-brimmed
velvet hat and I  
what it was to fly.

Surging through moving sculptures
of clouds,
riding the Pan Am night
flight to London,
I was nine, and I was hooked.

Peter Pan was my secret love then.

I had saved my loose tooth
for the English tooth fairy, wishing
and hoping for an English penny.

Scones and bridges from my books
were real now to taste and see.

I began to write then, mostly
in my mind.

That was how I lived then,
and still do.

Finding and forming
words within for everything.

A sacred artesian spring,
i Fonti del Clitunno.
Perfection at Paestum.
when one could still
walk among those holy stones.

The early church of Santa Sabina,
whose high windows
transmit light
through membranes of mica.

The abiding silence
of these ancient, sacred places
  held me transfixed.

Continuity of time flowed,
like invisible honey,
all around me.

I wanted to taste it with my mind.
Know it with all of my being.
And one day, find the right words.
©Elisa Maria Argiro
chris m Jul 2014
still hours in
still company
still sitting-- waiting
how long until
we break this
are these the hoursminutesseconds we regret?
is this where it all went when say- 80 and dying
you recall and all you have around you is
a familiar stillness
still it can’t all be that bad--
you were alive you were breathing you were still-
digesting and growing and learning and
you heart all the while was beating
you were never still at all
just a vessel for the motion of life
80 years of it
and then it’s all just a return to the good earth
to nurture the movement of life through
a blade of grass a dandelion an acorn
the beauty of your existence was how
you carried the torch of life so brilliantly
cradling it in your breast for so long
even as your youth crept away and your blood slowed down
and the memories faded and the thoughts all but stopped

but here we are
still here

— The End —