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Nidhi Jaiswal Aug 2020
In an open hut
There was a hole in the roof
from which sunlight comes on hut.

In every evening
sitting on the wooden chair in front of hole
i thought my past and future
i cried loudly
My soul was dead for two moments of happiness
My tears was red like blood
Who started falling on the ground every evening
By din't of this
Earth crust is like red.

One evening
Again i sit on my wooden chair
Clouds started thundering ...
lightning started shining...
Hut started moving...
Cloud started like raining...
i was lost in my memories
i cried,and tears like blood.

But that evening,
my tears become colorless due to rain drop
Red "danger color" disappeared
for few moments
I feel past sorrowful memories
Are flow like water
A new thought come on my mind,
that is filled with my sweet memories,
Of past and future which gives me happiness.

This poem is based on sorrow and past moment of our life,
That is based on imagination.
The title"wooden chair in the hut"
filled with deep sorrow and great happiness.
I just share my ideas with everyone.
isabel mayaka Feb 2020
with their little wooden smiles
but where is my heaven?

with their little wooden smiles
i ask them to pray for me
but they don’t love me

they’re just
firewood kids
waiting to be charred
just like me
Amanda Kay Burke Dec 2019
Waiting quietly in line at the age of nine
Wet hair clinging to nervous skin
Remembering previous summers
Past attempts I failed to swim

To pass you must bring yourself
To the water trampoline and back to the dock
Then tread water for thirty seconds
By then arms feel like rocks

My friends wished me luck
Before into the water I leapt
Pushed my muscles through the cold
As I surfaced from the murky depths

I reached the looming yellow island
Turned around, feet on the ladder, and kicked
I used that small bit of extra momentum
To keep paddling  though lungs constrict

When I find myself back at the wooden dock
Then final countdown starts
Each cell in my body is aching
This is the last and hardest part

Fighting with the freezing lake
The test is nearly done
Just as I am about to give up
Day 20: write a narrative poem about a childhood memory

Mine is about passing the swim test at bible camp and being allowed in the deep part of the lake
Ilya Krivonosov Mar 2019
My body seems to be destroyed.
Cataclysms tore the flesh.
Survival logic is broken,
I can't crack a log.

I can't use an aspen pole.
Prop up the rotting attic.
And from juniper basket
I can't build anything.

I can't use a twig bundle.
Melt the grate fireplace.
And count in French Spanish
I can't for no apparent reason.
Poetic T Nov 2018
The eternal strings play
as crows feathers
                  fall like tears.

But alas,
               these will never dry
seeding the clouds with grey.

Every melody is a line of life,
now serenading stone words.

A sunset caressing
chiselled days, years,
                       then nothingness.

Upon a wooden box,
               a crow sings tears
that form on the strings of
      yesterdays now played.

          The future is barren of you.
Nikos Kyriazis Oct 2018
What are you drinking sir?
Oh, inside this wooden mug
several things exist

Stalks from the flowers of rainbow
and some molten clouds of autumn

Petals from the maize shrubbery yonder
and some drops from youth's lunacy of course

All you need
for the upcoming winter
Lydia Hirsch Jun 2018
Wooden woman waiting outside of a grocery store
in North Berkeley

Made tired by time,
chips of wood had fallen in masses from her body,
entire aspects of her anatomy had eroded away--
most of her nose, her left ear,
her right cheek, her *******, half her stomach

She had been a tree,
torn apart, reassembled
in the form of a female human being,
no sign of life in her sightless gaze

I guess she’s gone now,
after all those years

I went to look for her
and found only an antique shop
with a peculiar name
at the address where she should have been

I would have liked to have seen her
one last time, this statue
that fascinated and frightened me as a child

I’m glad she’s gone, though--
She resemble less and less a woman,
was becoming clearly merely wood
cut into tiny pieces and glued together

She resembled less and less a woman,
and I’m glad she was killed
before she ceased to be art
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