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Payton Feb 24
I'll wear your
    bones like jewelry
in my ears, like

trophies, and
like pins in
my hair.

I love you so much that
                   I wish nothing more
than for
                   you to be
with me

Check out the other poems in the "Bones" series.
This poem was written in 2016.
Savio Fonseca Dec 2020
My Woman and Her Treasures,
finally ended My Drouth.
When Her pink Lips created,
a Wild Storm in My Mouth.
She drove My Desires,
on a Hell of a Ride
and washed My Ego
by taking away some Pride.
Each Kiss She rendered,
aroused the Lion in Me.
Coz Her Lips were Sweeter,
than the Nectar from a Bee.
On Weekends Our Mood is set,
for Our Passions to Flow.
With each stroke I Serve,
Her Face begins to Glow.

king without a kingdom’s
ranked without a general
lost in the dusks, shattered, and bleed
yet, captivated by Thy, light….

stupid at sometimes, but not a fool’s
not a soldiers, but with an army’s
a country boy, with no boundary’s

O ~ Faith.
an ancient of unfinished~ .., yet, useful
Nothing’s, but Have’s!
annh May 2020
'Actually, my friend in Taranaki makes the stars. I combine them with my own elements and string them into garlands,' wrote Makery. There was an element of apology about her words. As if she’d been rumbled. As if someone had confirmed the voice of self-doubt that whispered in her ear, 'Who do you think you are, calling yourself an artisan?'

Stringing things together is applied artistry - whether it be words, Scandi-style stars, or fairytale mushrooms threaded on candy coloured twine. We are all hunter-gatherers who construct our creations from discovered elements. Some transmute received knowledge into constructed knowledge. Others beachcomb lexica for found syncretic treasures. All aspire to contribute to the infinite compendium of human self-expression, to create something which says, 'This is who I am.' With the silent addendum, 'I hope you like it.'

'Creating is living doubly. The groping, anxious quest of a Proust, his meticulous collecting of flowers, of wallpapers, and of anxieties, signifies nothing else.'
- Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays
Francie Lynch Mar 2020
I would find the rainbow's end
To reclaim lost treasures
That went missing over my many years.

Some, mere sparkle a crow might crave;
Others, minor shadows in Plato's cave.
In some kind of after life,
Will I find my gold penknife?

I lost it on Easter Sunday:
Jake flashed it on John's jacket;
From nape to back bottom *****,
He sliced the new dress coat in half.
My penknife vanished,
Like the invisible mend.

I miss my pubescent chums,
When imagination was all the fun.
But really, we would look askance,
Not actually sure of a come-by-chance.

Youth got lost, slipped off my face;
I got distracted, it got replaced.

Friends and family have gone,
And with them took
Their share of treasures.

Should you, my dears,
Be lost, I will find you,
In albums, jewelry boxes,
Closets and cushions.
I'll search the last place first.
My two older brothers. The three of us got the knives for delivering papers.
Hussein Dekmak Feb 2020
A kind little chat, it can
Save someone’s life,
Plant a smile on their face,
Brighten up their day,
Show them the way,
Soothe their pain,
Erase malice ideas,
Consume their thoughts with inspiration,
Color them with aspirations,
Draw their soul to a great purpose,
Unleash creativity,
Discover hidden treasures,
Caress their heart with kindness,
Awaken their soul to the call of humanity,
Open their senses to the whisper of love.

Hussein Dekmak
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