Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Denel Kessler May 2016
The thaw begins with a drip,
builds to a roar, subsides to sunlight
prisms playing over every surface

illuminating still-wet velvet wings
maroon and yellow, neon blue
pseudo-bark underneath.

In the clear-cut, pink fireweed
pierces a sky alive with souls
reveling in their last year on earth

sampling nectar with newly curled
tongues while summer degrades
to fall, burrowing in the cool

damp cord of fir put up for winter
awakening in spring, tasting summer
before the reprieve, too soon over

time come to fold
battered wings, to slip free
of this mourning cloak and rise.
Sweeping all the dust and waste.
Before; before you go.
Leave it clean and spotless.
Before;before you go.

What was it before it was new?
You clean all away,
so you cannot answer.

Close the door and lock it shut.
Just as; just as you leave.
Pocket the ice cold key.
Just as;just as you leave.

What did you keep behind the door?
You don't reply.
Because you've no need to any more.
Julia Quizon Mar 2016
Today, I am beginning
Only to end.
This body has blossomed in a field of green;
Has bled shades of red;
Stared at a horizon ablaze with yellow;
And now, this body will face
The bluest of skies.

Whether my skies are clear or
Consumed with droplets of rain,
I will always end up seeing
Nothing but blue.

Nothing but 10 shades of blue,
Until I see another sun set
Until a palette of colours are
Painted on the horizon
Until stars are forced to form constellations
Until a beginning of
A new morning.

But one day, my new mornings
Will not consist of
The bluest of skies.
There may be a hint of pink,
a touch of purple,
or a sliver of orange.

And that's okay.

Because weather forecasts were not meant
To only be clear blue skies and
Colours were not meant to have
Only one shade.

Blue possesses a fading beauty
Now unappealing
But never forgotten
It is THE last set of my own primary colours -
green, red, and yellow.
Once I set down this
Familiar brush dipped in
blue paint,
I will start anew with a
Fresh set of colours.

A clean canvas once again.

Today, I am ending
Only to begin.
thank you to my two best friends for pushing me to write again.
#smole
Thomas EG Feb 2016
I am changing with the weather
Transitioning with hopeful eyes
Yearning for a positive outcome
This time

Sometimes with the sun on my back
Others with the wind in my hair
But this thunder forever remains
In my chest

Sunshine won't change how I feel
Cloudy thoughts still steam up inside
What a way to go through life, eh?
All alone

Seasons mean nothing in Ireland
It rains more in summer than not
Colour me pink but I'll still be blue
Deep down
(Small talk)
ahmo Jan 2016
, and so weather patterns are not correlated with (mis)trust because there is collusion.

V. Conlusions:
Any meaningful exclusion will compensate restitution.

Material, though, wears thin as your heart wears my skin like your favorite shadow.

Plants don't operate like this because they have common sense.
IV. Weather patterns
Ram B Dec 2015
There's a space
Inside
that's empty

In that space
Inside
I'm lonely

Reach out to me.
Jamie Parry Nov 2015
I didn't expect to be writing this right now.
I really didn't.
This comes right from my transition.
I'm saying goodbye to the boy/man inside me that remained.
Eibhlin always said she'd have a funeral for the old me if I made the change, well, I'm holding it now.
Looking at what's ahead, I welcome my new life as a woman.  I'm not scared.
This is right and what I always wanted and I know I will be ok.
But there is some part I have to let go, to say goodbye.
It's a little-death I cannot avoid.
The boy inside that tried so hard.  He has to go.
To be put to sleep forever. So alone.
There's no turning back now for me.
With hot salty tears, sobs, and a lump in my throat I am killing part of me - a real, dear part,
so that I can live as my real self.  This is so sad to me.  Maybe no one can understand.  I actually LIKED that version of me, but he wasn't ME.
I never asked for this ******* contradiction.
Four decades gone. Ciao.
Ok, that's it. Out of my system? Maybe.
****.
This was an unexpected product of one of those difficult days that they warned me about.
112615

Sa kwadradong hawla
Doon nagsipagtirapa ang bawat paslit
Sila'y mistulang sabik sa yakap ng Ina,
Pagkat kalinga'y hindi maupos-upos na kandila.

Minsan sila'y naging malaya,
Si Inay nga pala, siyang nagpaubaya
Tila martir ang minsang naging paslit,
Pag-asa nila'y sa alikabok na sinisipa.

Bagkus ang Inang siyang nagsaplot sa kanila,
Nilisan at hinayaang maibigkis, walang kasarinlan.
At doon sa iisang hawla'y magtatagpo muli,
Sa bentelasyon, sila'y may kakaunting sandali.

Tunay ngang ang paslit ay magiging Ina rin,
Oras niya ngayong kabiyak sa salamin.
Iniwang Ina'y may ikalawang henerasyon,
Sa kanila nama'y may namutawing leksyon.
(Sabi ng Engineer namin, lahat ng sisiw, iiwan din ang nanay nila. Sa una, sunud-sunuran, pero tama nga siya. At matira matibay pa ang labanan.)

7:36 AM
Next page