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They appear in the twilight
These green fairies that glow so bright
Buzzing into the hands of children,
Keeping their midday identities hidden
"When the sun rises, where do they go?"
Little ones asks me like I know
"I believe they fly to the sky,"
I say in reply,
"They stay in the clouds
Until the moon comes out."
They like what I say
But how do I know? I just pray
That I am right.
The Owls are Watching

In memory of Helen Martins
'The Owl House'
Nieu Bethesda, South Africa

In sculpture and rock rested your art
Cement faces that speak volumes
Of emotions and tales untold
As mysterious as your life itself
Glittering walls of crushed glass
That shone by candlelight
Outside of art you were branded
Though remembered as unique and ahead of your time
With big glass eyes the owls watch the world
What was once your sanctuary
Now a showcase to the world
Recognized at last
Unspeakable loneliness of a soul misunderstood
Now your handwritten letters are framed and displayed for all to read
But you don't mind the curiosity of mankind
With cement hands raised to the heavens facing the east
You drank your chosen cup
Your Mecca now complete

Written by Sean Achilleos
28 March 2016©

How this poem came about:

I was a visitor to the Owl House Nieu-Bethesda South Africa in 2015. Approximately, one year later I was inspired to write a poem about the late great Helen Martins. I was intrigued by the eccentricity of this woman.

One evening while in my living room and enjoying a glass of wine, my eye caught the cement owl in my windowsill which I had purchased outside the Owl House from a vendor. I saw its big blue glass eyes glaring at me. At the time I was listening to a Jennifer Ferguson record, and decided to write while the music was playing. Once I had completed the poem I felt exhausted. Then a very strange phenomena occurred, the lights went off for a few seconds and came back on, unlike a power surge. It reoccurred a second time that same evening, and never since. It felt like a supernatural intervention. As far fetched as it may sound, it seemed like Mrs. Martins had personally given her approval of the poem. I then decided to email it to the official Owl House website. I didn't think much would come of it. However, they embraced the poem and were generous enough to display it on their official Website for a number of years under a section titled "A Visitor's Perspective".
there are only two genders
trans is not real
are you a boy now?
i would be open to experiment, though
you need to have your brain checked
what are you?

i am unsolved.

an unsolved puzzle,
rubik's cube,
the horizon.

everything you can't figure out at first glance,
something you have to squint at to understand.

but i don't need solving,
i don't need understanding,
i don't need to keep explaining.

i am me,
i am unsolved,
and i am happy.
national poetry writing month day 4 - unsolved
Debanjana Saha Aug 2018
People walking out
I walk out too
I seeked other people
Few to talk to
Few just to comfort
And another wanted me
May be my body.

But none were 'You'
I missed you
I seeked you
And no replies
from you!

What are you made up of?
You show your extreme care for me
But never tell me I love you
I waited for seasons
Still do, thinking whether it's just
A friendship or something beyond that.
The best is to write and be here. I stopped writing as I was in lot of dilemma remaining unsolved. Thank you all for being there for me. I hope to be here more now.
Garry Aug 2018
What did you do?
What did you see?
How did you end up
inside a tree?

Were you a spy?
A harlot? A witch?
Or the victim of a mad-man
scratching an itch?

Tell me lady,
what was your story?
Who was after
your Hand of Glory?

Why were you taken,
from this mortal realm?
Who put Bella
in the Wych-Elm?
Inspired by a local legend.
Seema Feb 2018
Into the dark alley
It lures its prey
By acting dead
Laying on the sideway

Recent news alerts
Of missing people lately
But none found alive
While they disappeared secretly

No signs of blood spurts
Yet rumors spread up quickly
No signs of decap bodies
But the atmosphere turned sickly

A homunculus out in the night
Feeding on people as it's prey  
Visible in the nights shadow
While hiding from the suns ray

Or maybe a chupacabra sneaking
From those mythical histories
Creatures of the dark
Unsolved mysteries...

A Fictional write. Spilling 3am imagination.
Alex Dec 2017
In the beginning, everything was normal.
He picked me up, wearing a suit and bow tie,
We drove through town in his red car.
His dark blue eyes reminding me of the night sky
When the light shown into them making stars.

I think I am in love. We keep driving.
Down the interstate ramp, going at least ninety.
Into the night we fly, town after town.
Finally, he takes an exit into a small town.

He took me to a motel, threw me on the bed.
Cut my arms open, and did the same
To what lay under my flower dress.
He stuffed me like a doll, with pieces of himself.
We stained the sheets with *** and blood.

"I'll take care of you forever," he said.
My head goes soft. I know what's coming.
He flips me to my stomach, hand around my throat,
I feel his body pressed against mine.

I claw at his arm, trying to get him to let go.
His grip tightens, my breath is nearly gone.
All goes black. As I awake I notice a red light.
And motion. He's taking me somewhere.
The motion stops, the red lights turn off.

The trunk opens, I look up into his face.
I try to speak, to ask why, but no sound comes out.
He lifts my body from the trunk, crazy in his eyes.
He whispers, "We're the same, no control."
My head lolls back, too exhausted to hold it up.

He sets me in a bed of pine needles and mud.
I watch him walk away, close my eyes.
I hear the footsteps return, open my eyes.
I am squinting into the barrel of a gun.

I feel the life drain from my body.
My soul is floating, my mind drifting into the black.
I relax into the earth.
He waits until my breathing slows to a stop.

I have lain here for days,
The sun quickening the rotting of my flesh.
My ribcage holds dirt and weeds,
My limbs are dead and dried.

No one has come to listen to my story,
But I know without a doubt, someone will come.
They will hear me. They will help me.
They will search for answers.
I know someday justice will be served.

I will be found.
And so will he.
Just got back into writing poetry after not writing anything for months.
Julian Caleb Oct 2017
why would someone
fit the same old piece
again and again
at the wrong place
without knowing
how huge the puzzle is
Jesica Mar 2016
No weapon found,
Not an evidence around,
It is a ****** surely,
Done out of unknown fury.
The case becomes history,
But still remains a mystery.
The statue of limitations is in a few days,
And thus it will become a cold case.
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