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I start to ponder the grim
On particularly slow days
That if I can't be here to stay

Just thinking with a simple whim
That the sun will still shine it's rays
Life would go on If I were to die today
Cherish this miracle that you are breathing
M Solav Jul 2019
There is form. And there is force.
Lightning blazes the sky with frightening might
Which bursts and dissipates in arteries of light
How it animates the living,
With its thundering displays!
How it penetrates us with awe,
And fills darkness with stories
And that is what we call the Force.

There is form. And there is force.
Gushes of wind brush the once austere surface
Which rises and resonates in hills that interlace
How it fuels our imagination
With its frenetic waltz!
How hypnotic its furious motion
And the flow of its assaults
And that is what we call the Force.

There is form. And there is force.
Mountains spring from seas and glide down the coast
Which is where we have crawled and now thrive the most
How it shapes the current world
With us barely noticing!
How volatile all our endeavors
And at the mercy of its whim.
And that is what we call the Force.
Written in June 2019 - for an exhibition in Peking.


— Copyright © M. Solav —
This work may not be used in entirety or in part without the prior approval of its author. Please contact marsolav@outlook.com for usage requests. Thank you.
__________
Jon Thenes Jan 2019
Hold heart and clean sink
It is the please for good travel

Bellow your pets into a confusion
Rid them of comfort
Rile them of the dwellings familiarity

Approach the teller
the coach
the salter of plans
and undo it
part the tissue of its apparition
a feature no more

Finally
with nowt packed
sleeve the threshold
with a tipsy
and easy whim
elle Dec 2018
She discriminates none, no story unread,
Tales of magic and creation and death,
Some inspire her with happiness, others with dread.

She reads Shakespeare's Macbeth,
Fairy tales from the brothers Grimm,
Luxurious stories stealing her breath.

When at last her mind is filled to the brim,
She takes up her pen,
And writes on a whim.

The words spill out, again and again,
She tries her hand at jokes,
A skilled comedienne.

She writes of a forest of oaks,
Waiting for the spring,
Shivering under their snowy cloaks.

She tells a tales of a king,
Of a child alone,
She writes of a bird with only one wing.

As the years fly by she sits on her throne,
Made up of hopes and dreams and words
The number of stories she’s written is unknown.

She says goodbye twice, then comes back for thirds,
Her body is worn, but her mind is sharp,
She lets go, and flies with the birds.

She swims with the carp,
She fights with the knights,
She listens to the ethereal sound of the harp.

Her spirit lives on, she soars to new heights.
Constantly busy,
Forever seeing the sights.
Anya Oct 2018
Upon the clouds
The whimsical thought
Plops down
Falls straight through
The gaseous H2O
Into my head
Causing it to be penned
Which you have now read
Anya Oct 2018
The sweetest thing in the morning
Is a fresh dose of joy
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