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irinia 1d
When I am with you
I wanna lose my center
he would say to you gently
without words

he would translate you into his own language
of groove, longing, shouting, fluid desires
for the sake of  finding his own tracks
his eager mutable depths

he is looking for harbours
for his solitude turned into offerings
for devotion
for the secret wisdom that fills the cracks of night
he doesn't deny the intensity
of the sweet conversations between the hearing
and the touch
he hides his violence in sealed wells,
in clear visions, in the decimals of knowledge

he was a lonely boy
full of wonder
Ken Pepiton Oct 19
If otherwise we were, we might,
if otherwise we were, we might

answer boldly all the common conundrums
whying one way and ifing another,
howing all things,

indoing each as must be done, otherwise,
undoing first cause ifing any reason
authorizes our use of may, as well
we may, if we can make believe.
Good morning subperson, that
street cat's slow closed eyes otherwise said.
snipes Oct 16
if forever really never happens
and never nothing is happening
then isn’t there really always
a forever that happened
Isaace Oct 13
From echoing points that scrape the skies
Above the streams of Wonder City;
On the streets below men shift through time,
Watched on by ancient concrete.
In the steaming sewers strewn beneath
The streets of Wonder City,
Rats run the labyrinth of the tunnels
To find the traces of a world
Before the streets of Wonder City.
irinia Sep 24
Poetry is the weeping eye
it is the weeping shoulder
the weeping eye of the shoulder
it is the weeping hand
the weeping eye of the hand
it is the weeping soul
the weeping eye of the heel.
Oh, you friends,
poetry is not a tear
it is the weeping itself
the weeping of an uninvented eye
the tear of the eye
of the one who must be beautiful
of the one who must be happy.

by Nichita Stanescu, translated by Thomas Carlson and Vasile Poenaru
irinia Sep 24
Distance is the cog wheel
on the haunted axle of my hearing,
grinding fine the deadened mind
of that unborn god
waiting to be caught
by the earth's blue speed,
and carrying in a handled urn
the plucked heart - ours,
it's beating, it's heard, it's beating, it's heard,
a sphere in wild growth -
the roads are wet with tears,
memory frail and elastic,
a sling for stones, a gondola
drowned in childlike Venice's,
a tooth yanked from the cells with a string -
down the empty socket of Vesuvius. And you exist.

by Nichita Stanescu, translated by Thomas Carlson and Vasile Poenaru
Aimée Sep 21
Wonder fills spaces of any size
Like a baby's laugh
Like a lightening strike's crash
Like me, when I look in your eyes

Like you, when you look back into mine
Wondering makes life worth living, wonder on!
snipes Sep 7
pocket watches
money disappear
time ticking away
pocket watches
appoint the daylight withdrawal
and compasses the grey nightfall
costumed victim to time as we all
wonder
Who knows

Not the best of us
Nor the stargazers
Not the book readers
Nor the book writers

Especially not the politicians
Who never stop
To ask the question
Or to ask any questions

Their nature is to accumulate
Pretend to lead
Pretend to guide
Still, their nature is taking

Some pretend to tilt
toward compassion
Toward caring
Toward altruism

Me, a grizzled octogenarian
Asks no questions
Merely wonders

Where has all of the wonder gone
Is altruism real
And if it is, why is
It ******* by greed
revised from a previous post
Tony Tweedy Aug 16
I look again upon the sky as I have done so many times before.
To see the change of natures' palette as sun sinks beyond horizon's floor.

The blue of daytime sky and the wisps of white and mottled gray,
give-way to golden inlaid mauve upon red curtain as amber fades away.

Hues of golden yellow that were present short moments before,
now lost beyond the silhouetted landscape as if cast to distant shore.

Flame upon the heavens, cloud lit as if scattered, precious jewels.
Colours of natures palette so vibrant, disobeying all artistic rules.

silhouettes of birds in flight etched in black upon the fading light,
All traversing in rapid beat of wing, to seek shelter from the night.

Trees and distant vistas mere shadows where sun did slide away,
as palette welcomes the new nighttime bidding farewell to passing day.
No brush stroke and no words can match it.... a fire like no other.
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