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The geese
Form a procession
in their northern formal dress.
Single file they march down
The hill
Coming from deep out of
the tree line and through
A courtyard of grass and sedge,
Their solemn walk
An act of unison metered by
webbed feet.
And an overdone elegance.

At shore of the pond
They prostrate themselves,
Head bowed to the water.
As if encountering an old
priestess among the
church pews.
Solemnly they shake their
Necks like human hands-
A time honored ritual.
Then, an unknown cue,
Their heads
turn up to the blue sky
launching themselves Into
the water
splash-less, like
Floating clouds blown on
The breeze.
Now moving independently,
leaving ripple paths
across the pond.
The ritual has ended.
A vision of fairy life along a rural woods with a pond.
Carlo C Gomez Sep 28
Wintersun
entered the upstairs library,

In shifts,
heads bowed.

The flickers of remembrance
softly stroked her hair,

Until the dousing of
the final candle

Summoned nightfall
to dance at her funeral party.
Chris Saitta Aug 17
The horse breathes in the city, the world of unrelenting pistons
And steam from the jingling harness, and the jangling windows
That reflect the bolting sparrows like fire arrows in the coming night,
Viennese darkness is like the smell of the chocolatier mixed with snow,
Sealed in a sachertorte with the alley-crack of the riding whip on coach,
Viennese sunshine is like the baker’s soul, rising on flashing coppers and tins.
Sachertorte is the famed dark chocolate Viennese cake.
AditiKo May 27
The ornate rosewood clock
Chimed 12 midnight;
Tick tock tick tock...
Echoed back lavish papered walls.

Only the soft candlelight
Bore witness to the scarlet stained walls;

The anguished muffled cry
Drowned by the midnight chime.

It knew when to strike.

At midnight.
The moon shines over some blood every night.


I'm usually not this creepy kay.
Aramitz J Durant Sep 2019
It all happened
Once Upon A Time, like in the fairy tales, but
it went backwards
and backwards
and
backwards,
opposite and upside down
like he was in Alice in Wonderland

and the wicked stepmother was not a stepmother at all;
with no pointed chin or sharp daggers for eyes.
Instead she looked like a princess
with a gentle face and round, brown eyes
like a mother.

She was good at goodness
at being kind
at loving him in front of everybody’s eyes
and making him think
it wasn’t so bad, after all.

But she was also good at
shouting
and yelling
and hitting and smacking,
at giving him the belt
and the switch
and sometimes the slipper.

And in his fairy tale
there was no kind, gentle father.
There was no father.
“Gone,” she’d say of him, “drunk somewhere.
With a *****.
Dying, hopefully.
If he was here
he’d **** you.”

Sometimes he
wished,
hoped
his father would come back and
live up to his promise
and ****
and ****
and ****
and ****

and ****
until there was nobody left to ****
because they were all dead and destroyed
and dead
and destroyed
and their clothes mopped up their own blood
and when he was sobered enough to realise what he’d done
he’d stand over them,
mournfully,
and weep
over his drunken mistakes
over just who he had
murdered
with his own knife, who he had cut
cut
cut
jagged shapes into their flesh,
torn pieces of them away
like he had drunk away pieces of himself;
an eye for an eye;
an equal pound of their fair flesh,
cut off and taken,
stolen,
like a jewel in the night.

But no father came,
and he stayed dissatisfied and alive
and his mother came
and belted him
whenever she pleased.

He grew up dissatisfied,
lived dissatisfied,
and anger grew in his bloodied heart,
furious,
bleeding with the pain of it
growing to despise his father’s ******
even more than he despised his father
and his mother
and himself.

He learnt all their names:
Nichols
and Chapman
and Stride and Eddowes

and Kelly.
And he stalked the streets,
searching
searching
searching
searching

searching,
for they had lain with his father
and had wronged him
by leaving him
alone with his mother
and the belt
and the switches,
and if they wronged him,
should he not revenge?
I wrote this one back in 2017 so it's probably not my greatest work. I'm fond of it though, in the same way a parent's fond of their child's paintings.
Chris Saitta Jul 2019
Death has pluck, you know, the like to sever love,
Then to show unannounced after the ruckus,
Even after so many no-shows at the theatre or club.
Death, indeed, is a tough sport, I am told,
Who plays cricket or some the sort,
Though no one really knows or asks,
“Wicket” does seem a word of choice.
But, for certain, a devil’s ouija hand
Of bridge whist, as sure as lives off
Pall Mall or Regent, as pipes a walk
In the London fog, here and there.
Yes, indeed, I would call him a chum
If he wasn’t such a cad.
For slide video:  https://www.instagram.com/p/BzwQo2zlqNz/?igshid=1vt7piqu9lefb
Realeboga M Sep 2018
Shall I compare thee to a winders breeze?
Thou art more cool and clement
Thou art more shinier than the nights stars.
Tis the day they know
The day that they realise how it is you that I cannot fathom.

You have always whispered to me the true nature of the world.
Your energy radiating a voice so pure,
A voice so humbly harmonized
A voiced groomed to perfection,
A sound so perfectly aligned, moved by the hands that have orchestrated.
A sound that has raised my soul through its perfect symphonies.

Shall I say that the winds have whispered to me?
Shakespeare has driven me to an era so old.
An era so new.
An era for hope.

Travel with me.
Let us move to the Victorian lifestyle
Let us challenge Science, philosophy and the wonders of what is now.
Dive into this lifestyle.
And let us compare then to now.
Shakespearean to Victorian.

Travel with me.
To Sonnet 18.1
Katy Jun 2018
Good bye! Awful love, goodbye!
You vile ******, annoying fly
I’ve had it with your awful lies
Be gone, forever, our love is dry

Your vile thoughts ***** my brain
The happy hum that replaced your name
Lowly, you sit in despair, for shame!
You awful love, your name is in vain

Goodbye! You awful love indeed;
So lucky was I to be your need
So silly to think I’d follow your lead
Goodbye awful love, don’t remember me.
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