Monuments of long gone eras,
Pyramids, the sphinx, Egypt itself,
Its ivory grandeur ground away,
By desert dust,
The hanging gardens of Babylon
Whispered of in fables lost to the ages,
Its location muddied and forgotten,
Atlantis most likely swallowed by the sea,
Barbarians burned the Library of Alexandria,
To dominate and control,
Ancient wonders of the human race,
Of nature and of man,
Faded into the earth's crust,
Lost to the ages,
And to humanity.

Tay 7d

Going somewhere I want to leave
Gone gone gone
I'm going places unknown to man
Not seen by the naked eye I'm going to see World mysteries I'm
Going to see phenomens small and big
I'm going to see something even better
I'm going home and
Seeing my family

Family is always more important! :-)
Peter Balkus Mar 6

Waiting for Spring,
wondering,
if Her wonders
are waiting for me.

                                    6.03.2017

Katy Miles Mar 2

why look upon the stars
when your eyes hold the same light?
i sail along glistening seas
until i'm lost, out of sight
look for the seventh wonder
through the day and through the night

years pass; i grow weak.

why listen to the sea
when i can hear you speak?
without warning, waves grow violent
shattering me, a deafening shriek

why try to brave the storm
when my heart's been tossed asunder?
it was only when you gazed at her
that i found the seventh wonder.

Kath Oct 2016

I like pretending I'm infinite.
Nothing can touch me.
Nothing can stop me.
Nothing can hold me back.
I move through the clouds.
I connect the constellations with my bare hands.
The wonders don't stop.
The happiness doesn't stop.
Only the hurt.


-k.f

AD Fox Spirit Sep 2016

Oh miss mother you take on all the pain of the world,
And you put it upon your shoulders.

You always feel like your not good enough,
You always try your A+ best.
You push all of your limits,
Even though you already have reached them.

You let your love flow over your children,
You want them to know that they are loved.

Mother dear,
Those sweat and tears are not just for you,
But their for your children to.

A Mother Poem, perhaps?
Allesha Eman Aug 2016

It's the grey of the sky
That takes my breath away
It's the blue of the day
That's stolen by the rain

it's the thirsty lake that is replenished with every drop
The smile of the clouds that darken their gaze
Or the misty aura that wraps up your skin
It's the way you're lost in the haze

And once it has drizzled it starts to pour
The winds came up and brushed us with hail
But then the ice softens when it touches the ground
The world might be strong but it's already frail

its the people.
The people who hold their hands high as the drought drowns in their prayers
For finally we've been blessed with rain
It's the children who watch in awe as they're wrapped up in layers

It's the way the world watches as the sky cries
It's the way the way everyone's umbrellas are furled
No matter how busy anyone could be
We all can say what a wonderful world

As you hum the tune to what a wonderful world by Louis Armstrong

As I look down on you sleeping
Silent, peaceful, features fine
I have to ask this question
Are you really, truly, mine?
I can't believe we're partners
That we've been together all this time
But you know I have to ask you
Are you really truly mine?
My life is full of wonders
Full of troubles and of strife
But I must have hit the jackpot
To have you to be my wife
There's nights I wake up early
Just to check that you're still there
I have to see and touch you
Just to let you know I care
As I look down on you sleeping
Silent, peaceful, features fine
I have to ask this question
Are you really, truly, mine?
I can't believe we're partners
That we've been together all this time
But you know I have to ask you
Are you really truly mine?
I never knew I'd be so lucky
To find a person just like you
Who would love and stand beside me
No matter what I do
With you I just feel stronger
I am proud to be your spouse
For you make me so much better
Your the foundation to my house
As I look down on you sleeping
Silent, peaceful, features fine
I have to ask this question
Are you really, truly, mine?
I can't believe we're partners
That we've been together all this time
But you know I have to ask you
Are you really truly mine?
I don't know how I lived without you
you're what make my spirit whole
To make you proud each day is
My one and only goal
When I am out beside you
My heart just fills with pride
For I know that I am stronger
With you right by my side
Now as I lay beside you
And I listen to your snores
I'm glad that I am with you
And that I'm truly yours.

George G Asztalos Jun 2016

It's raining heavily in my laboreour's Germany
it is Sunday and foreigners are quietly resting
with some beer held in their large & full of scars hands

there in our improbable wonders
I come to talk to them
when a bumblebee lost and drenched
also comes on dry ground
marching through our feet

when one of us turns him on his back
he is buzzing he is drying his wings
and I say
"let him go man"

and afterall
"es ist nur ein Waser Probleme"

All ”strangers” have just a water problem. There is to much rain in their country. Let them go my paranoic friends. They just need a dry & quiet place to recover the slow beats of their heart. There is not a nuclear bomb but a water problem afterall the damn boom.
Alex Jimenez Apr 2016

Doctor, tell me:
What do you believe of a woman who envies
not the placement of the phallic sword
but the expectation
placed upon the glorified weapon
to penetrate the holy blossom positioned
between two soft mounds of rosy flesh that
she would die to run her mouth over?

Faceless textbooks whisper
of specialized jealousy
that I, for a lifetime,
will never comprehend—
instead:

Red rouge cheeks plastered against
a clear pane, staring at the winged
angel behind the counter;
Doctor, I hate being a consumer—
I would much rather use my hands
to create a small squeal from
behind her silver tongue
revealing what she thinks
about my manner of exclaiming desire:
writhing lust, dirty thirst,
with weighty spit and heavy breathing
again an instrumental soundtrack:
her movements, mattress creaking—

But Doctor, do you think I am sick?
What is my diagnosis if I can only find beauty
in this societal No-No,
if I have never been an artist
but I always find myself painting
wonderful masterpieces
(a protégé’s standard)
with a cut lock of her hair as a brush,
dipped in white crushed powder,
fresh from a plastic orange bottle
that fell off my desk—
Must I confess to another sin, as if this is the church of
my grandmother’s rosary-laden hands?
Yes, I am reluctantly in love with my Escitalopram
so I have flirted with Acceptance
but he did not seem to like me.

Look here—
Just yesterday
I tried to sell her portrait
to a blonde woman in a pristine art gallery
who peered at my matted hair and how
it fell over the sweater I was wearing,
stained with dark muck,
and I was sent away with the canvas
clutched loosely by my
trembling fingers so that it
barely escaped being dropped.

I do not have nails anymore, Doctor—
What do you make of that?
I have plucked them off their
respective beds and that makes me
feel a little sick but
all is well because it is infinitely better
for my girl's fragrant little blossoms
when she comes into my arms
and allows me to pick them,
one by one, as I roam her field—
Doctor, I would sooner live
in the crumbling pavements of Hell
for an eternity than lose the dreams
that I freely, frequently dream
regarding her and how my nubbed hands are held so dear.

Anyway, Doctor, you need not worry:
I will always have my Escitalopram.

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