Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
like weeds, word seed grow
ideas parachute with breath
ants carry them home

-cec
For some of us
abstractions
can flow too far apart
to gather together
Still we navigate
through poems caught
in stormy weather
Then there those
whose desires gets tossed
into a word salad
of creative thought
Pour on some dressing
romantically obscure
express your victim hood
your poetical fears!
Page after page
line after line
recording
the history of
the Poet kind!
Traveler 🧳 Tim
In the quiet embrace of the vast sky,
A tapestry of white floats gently,
Puffs of vapor, soft as a whisper,
Beneath the sun's golden gaze, they linger.

Mists arise, ethereal and delicate,
Shaping and reshaping, a restless dance,
A blanket of dreams stretched across the blue,
Each fold a story, untold but felt.

Amidst the sky, a billow takes form,
A congregation of thoughts, light and heavy,
Swarming like ideas in the mind's eye,
Connecting, dispersing, then gathering again.

Thunderheads emerge, dark and powerful,
Foreboding yet beautiful in their grandeur,
A nebulous promise of rain to come,
Teasing the earth with a distant echo.

Cumulus clouds drift, sculpted by winds,
Gentle giants, casting shadows below,
They mirror our fleeting moments of joy,
A reminder of time, swiftly passing, yet still.

Each cloud a vessel of possibility,
Carrying whispers from far-off lands,
A gallery of shapes, unique and fleeting,
Chasing the light, forever changing.

In the soft twilight, they blush and fade,
Colors igniting the world in soft hues,
Mundane becomes magical in their presence,
Embracing the stillness of a moment held.

As night falls, they dissolve into dreams,
While stars peek through, twinkling like thoughts,
The clouds' memory lingers in our hearts,
An endless voyage through the infinite sky.
From my lessons in Picadilly's Write the Poem
Across the vast expanse of sky and sea,
Two lives unfold, connected by a thread,
Invisible, yet strong in whispered words,
A bond that stretches through both time and place.

A woman in the West, her heart still tied
To distant lands where tales of old reside,
She finds herself in bustling streets unknown,
Yet senses with each step, a pulse within.

A man, with roots in soil of foreign kin,
Bears witness to the world through different eyes.
He walks beneath the weight of history,
Yet feels an echo calling from afar.

In dreams, their paths entwine beneath the stars,
A glimpse of hands held tight, of laughter shared.
While miles and years conspire to divide,
The thread, though fine, resists the pull of fate.

Each letter penned a bridge across the void,
Each conversation, sparks that light the dark,
They navigate through cultures rich and strange,
An atlas drawn in ink of longing love.

At last, a day arrives, the paper falls,
Before a gathering of kindred souls—
An ancient rite, a promise carved in time,
Two hearts, now joined, beneath the endless sky.

And where the little hands reach forth with hope,
Their blessing woven in the tapestry,
The echoes of the past meet present joy,
In laughter, tears, and dreams yet to unfold.

The thread of destiny, so finely spun,
Becomes the fabric of their every day,
A journey shared, a lifetime yet to write,
In love’s embrace, forever intertwined.
"Crimson Silk" is a poem about an invisible thread connecting two souls across cultures and distance. This romantic tale explores themes of longing, destiny, and forever love between individuals from Eastern and Western backgrounds. Through exquisite language and imagery, the poem navigates cultural blending, communication, and the unbreakable bond between two hearts meant to be together.
I'm my mother's blood and bone
Features on my face are shown
Identical birthing hips
More alike the more I have grown  

And same bit of mischief is harbored in my eyes
In a slightly browner shade to focalize
Motionless in front of reflection transfixed
Cannot help but overanalyze

But on a binge of self-pitying despair
How can I mosey forward with only memories there?
Similarities between are reminders everywhere I turn
Her soul absent and I am all too aware

It comes and goes in undulations of pain
Lost in labyrinth lurking in my brain
Crippled by spilled love that will never return
Only empty echoes within broken heart remain
I look at the mirror and see half of my mother in all I do and it kills me
The succor of strumming overtakes her
as the moon climbs high;
if she plays late enough, she will not sleep,
will let hours slip by,
will become midnight's muse, or something else ---

another song for the morning
swan glides through the mist,  

rippling glass of tranquil lakes,  

nature's breath in peace.
St Paul's feast day today we get a public holiday ❣️
I sleep into the
late afternoon
I open the window
to smell the rain
I watch the winter
trees undress
I wait for the storm …
Clay.M
Next page