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step to the threshold
love is pulled away with the door
       into the ice night
replaced with mewling horror
exposure   invites my death
..tanka style

Original Version -

threshold
step
     into the night
and love is pulled away with the door
replaced
       with a mewling wall of horror
step out and meet winter
  exposure    invites my death
                                with a snarl
Piotr Balkus Mar 10
Still cold outside,
so why are the birds singing
so joyfully, so loud?

Still freezing out there,
so why are the flowers blooming?
I don't understand.

The hope is still cursed,
so why am I writing this poem,
like it was my first?
Jeremie Feb 24
Loves of my December,
frozen from the beginning
of my endings,
and the fall of my anguish.



In the winter of my solitude,

I trace the wrinkles
of fainting memories.
Breathing out a sigh of surrender
for the unspoken, the paths
unwalked, the doors unopened,
and the ghosts of love that remain
draped in the painful cloak of longing.

Yet, amidst the cold, I find grief
blooming like a flower in the snow.

For in the mirror of my December
I have found not just
the echo of what was lost,
But the prayers of April—
the goddess of renewal,
the angels of spring,
and the dawn of new beginnings.

How can I not rejoice?
For in this darkness,
there is light…
anthony Feb 24
sunrise:
watch the owls take their
last flight,
say goodbye to the
night time;
morning’s begun.
fog hangs
a little longer on
the window pane,
chicks are chirping with
their hunger pangs;
here comes the sun.
Anais Vionet Feb 23
Saint Tropez is a summer town.
Smaller than it ought to be, really.
Like when you realize the French quarter,
in New Orleans, is just three blocks wide and long.

In the fall, there’s a feeling of disuse in Saint Tropez.
A turquoise bike leans haggard against a stone pine,
and summer leaves gather in gutters like trash.

Your appearance in a bar is treated like a surprise.
The wait staff gathers, like they might take your picture
and not your order - one brings napkins another the menu.

Summer memories are indistinct now, from disuse.
You aren’t sedated by sunlight and warm ocean airs.

Was summer some French, romantic, cinematic fantasy,
like "La Belle et la Bête" or "And God Created Woman"?
Or was it deliciously bright, seductive and real.

You find yourself saying, “In the summer, when the thyme,
lavender, rosemary, citrus and jasmine bloom, the aromas
are strong, actually physical, like going into an Ulta store,
where a thousand delicate perfumes vie for attention.”

But it’s like describing ghosts or deserts under glass.
You search for the words, like a poet or an actress, unable
to remember her lines - lines that would make it real,
invoke it, precious and immediate - like a spell.

The Saint Tropez of summer.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Haggard: tired, disheveled and abandoned
neth jones Feb 22
stuffed with importance
my five year old is trailed home
                              by the full moon
haiku style version
neth jones Feb 22
. clean giddy winter day
  my five year old ;
“The moon’s following me !”
  ally with the world surround
  when did i unlearn this bond ?
tanka style version

notes :

'the moon's following me'
my five year olds delight
a clear winter day
an only child  stalked by the moon
the importance he feels
AE Feb 20
The presence of words spoken
weighs heavily on these trembling hands
I wish to take the clocks that overtook me
and inscribe in them all the lessons and stories
gifted to me by loved ones
back when I was too preoccupied with tomorrow
and everything I wanted to be
When this world was all, I thought about
and this life was all I could see
Occasionally, I find a hollow breath
and sometimes, it’s enough to fill these lungs
as I soak this anxiety in remembrance
Befriending grief and hiding from time
walking home in a new day’s cold
Shivers and chills, pulling apart my steps
With aching bones and a desire to rest
but forward and forward I go this time
knowing, wholeheartedly,
that seasons never last
The springs of Autumn give way to the wings of Winter.
Yeah, short one.
AE Feb 17
All these weighted apologies spill
from my hands onto the wintered ground
There are moments in the day
when all the quiet burns
and the smoke inhabits these walls
but the possession of this rain
is never enough to wash out these lungs
or dilute this volatile pain
I was never good at speaking
always shied away from crowds
you were never one to stay quiet
always ran toward the loud
A cycle of oscillating seasons
I'm too in love with hating the cold
and far too familiar with the sound of rain but these birds, they're always calling
to new mornings and a sky of gold
and you sit here, waiting to hear your name as I clean up all the spills
from these weighted apologies
and pails of winter rain
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