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Isaace Nov 29
Reaching into the higher worlds
Through the slabs of consciousness;
Peeling apart the astral membrane,
Revealing transcendental splendour:
Our visions!—
The plains of subconsciousness—
The rotating, interlocking dawn.

So be it.
Engraving or wrought-in-stone?
Michelangelo raised his blade for this...

Be it engraving or wrought-in-stone,
Michelangelo raised his blade for this.
Noah Kernan Jun 30
the gift in a dilapidated
two-story country home
for miles
through holes in the walls
on either side
blackened supports
and ramshackle comfort
tackled by fire
caressed by rain
you can see through to the second floor
if you tilt your head,
expose blood subways,
let your hair
grasp at spine
the fault of past residents
mirrored in big blue eyes
a world of green and brown
surrounding, no,
growing from
this pin-***** destination
left to the wind,
to the quiet
the underscored call
of persons,
stronger than I,
who knew they were finished
and walked away.
who saw the green and the brown,
and looked at the home,
once warm, I'm sure,
and thought,
"there's so little here,
with an expanse beyond
so much friendlier than
brittle walls,
tender floors,
metal and wood."

so they left

and rightfully so.
one of my favorites
Barnaby Atkins Dec 2022
There are buckets made of plastic
There are buckets made of wood
The former are fantastic
The latter not so good.

There are buckets made of metal
And canvas buckets too
But metal for durability
I'd choose if I were you.

There's a bucket on a digger
And buckets made of leather
The former are the bigger
And the latter not so clever.

There are buckets made of tin
And with a little ***** in hand
Kids can build sand castles
When playing on the sand.

There are buckets made of rubber
Or with a wringer for a mop
And some in white enamel
With a blue ring round the top.

There are so many buckets
And some I may have missed
But if anyone should ask me
That's my bucket list.
A poem by Ray Pattenden
Warrior Poet Jan 2022
The fire lit is bright,
As a lamp within the abyss;
It ignites the contents
Of the wooden chamber;

Smoke slowly escapes the contraption,
Designed to guide its flow;
Into the bags of flesh
That only fresh air have called home;

It swirls inside with no escape
Before it is slowly & gently removed;
Smoke now escapes into the air,
Dispersing, never to be seen again;

Inside the little fire dies
Leaving behind a pile of ash;
Fresh air is again acquainted
Into the passage of which air flows;

The taste that is left behind
Is a burning that cannot be quenched;
Calmness now sweeps over
Bringing a cool feeling;

Thoughts were much clearer
Than the mist that was once breathed;
Now they are scattered,
Similar to the smoke that had left;

Fearing that this feeling is but a dream
and praying that it will last;
But no sadness shall be felt
When the pipe is no longer lit;
For all things must conclude
And the briefness of existence celebrated.
Danielle Oct 2021
She have never been into things such as growing a garden, they say her potential will have to be reached by a streak of light draping through the window pane.

she builds her greenhouse and collected some seeds, she doesn't sort if she'll grew by season or if it's a monstrous plant— she just want to see a lot of butterflies that she have never seen before.

she remain unimpressed, seeing a hues full of periwinkle and blues, roses and thorns decorated beautifully by her fragile hands, you can see on her plain tone the visible traces of paper cuts and ink blotch.

one day, a boy visited her garden, he grew fond and perpetrated on every flower she had. they sat on an empty, unfurnished room, filled with his paintings and brushes, not seem to notice the one uncleaned palette she used and left forgotten. She watched the boy as he paints, as if he knew every detail of his magic, it reminds her of the days she spent the same way, on how she loves it, tenderly in her heart— she said he was a stray butterfly, everything on him is luminous.

they spent their time there, little did the boy knew that she loves everything he had done on the garden. She wonders how a little misadventures were found in a wild wood.
just a little touch of how lang leav left me in tears and some of my old poems. That uncleaned palette is my habit.
This good place
One I was searching for all this time
This inner space
Out of the blue
Into the wood
Somewhere within,
I stumbled upon it.

As if by chance,
In this moment of grace,
It appeared before me.

I do not know long I will stay,
But I like it here.
KG Jan 2021
The pile of wood chips stack like the
Tower of babel from this concrete plane
The furnace hungers, ever patient for
******* blood
dripping cuts
Ripped up cufflinks that share the table
Every **** night.
Before attempted sleepless dreams keep this distance bearable by proxy.
I see your face when I wake up.
I see your face when I sleep.
I pray the days spin down quickly till I can see your face in person.
Until then I'll feed this furnace.
Seranaea Jones Nov 2020

stripping off bark,
carefully neat
and then
into the bone
of the branch

bigger chips follow suit
as the carving

the knife peels, chunking
out rough pieces as
they litter the floor

later to be swept aside
into darkness

years pass in solitary
cutting as cars
go slowly by

looking where the front porch
is buried at one end with
the chips of his wilderness

displaying no
to show
for the labor

no birds
no raccoons
no whistles
not even his cane

pare of nothing
but the pile—

all he is...

s jones

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