It's a still morning, quiet and cloudy
the kind of grey day I like best;
they'll be here soon, the little kids first,
creeping up to try and frighten me,
then the tall young men, the slim boy
with the marvellous smile, the dark girl
subtle and secret; and the others,
the parents, my children, my friends —
and I think: these truly are my weather
my grey mornings and my rain at night,
my sparkling afternoons and my birdcall at daylight;
they are my game of hide and seek, my song
that flies from a high window. They are
my dragonflies dancing on silver water.
Without them I cannot move forward, I am
a broken signpost, a train fetched up on
a small siding, a dry voice buzzing in the ears;
for they are also my blunders
and my forgiveness for blundering,
my road to the stars and my seagrass chair
in the sun. They fly where I cannot follow
and I — I am their branch, their tree.
My song is of the generations, it echoes
the old dialogue of the years; it is the tribal
chorus that no one may sing alone.

Toni Seychelle Jun 2013

The sun is setting on a hot day, he hides coyly behind tall sycamores, his reflection playing on the undersides of trees on the riverbank. His warm breath is the breeze that kisses my cheek. The river carries me on, over pebbles and rocks below the glassy surface. Dragonflies dart around, flying gems that glisten in the sun. The heron, with diligent patience, hides seamlessly in the trees awaiting his next meal. He takes off when I get near, his frame is much larger in flight. The sweetness of honeysuckle is thick in this warm air. The trees on the riverbank are laden and dripping of the sweet flowers. As I gently glide through the water, the waves lap against my boat, almost making the sound of kisses. This is my river time. All these beautiful things, I love. There is passion in Nature, it is in birdsong and in the breeze. It is in the river as it moves along and the swaying of the trees. This is where I breathe.

I love kayaking.
K Balachandran Feb 2016

Against the thick black curtain on horizon
of  still, gigantic cumulus cloud formation
three flitting army helicopters deftly display
a shadow play on jolly life of dragonflies,
I am compelled to think, as I drive past this
along the road skirting  Bangalore garrison

There's a meadow past the village
On a hill...where magic swarms
You can see it on a summer night
When the clouds predict the storms
Life from time eternal
Starts appearing in the field
Gnomes and bluebell fairies
and the magic that they yield

You can see them from the village
Dancing in the moonlights glow
You can see the lightning jumping
You can see the ebb and flow
The pixies and the fairies
Folk who are part of their own world
Light up the distant meadow
As the magic is unfurled

Daisies and soft bluebells
fill the meadow in the sun
there is clover and some dragonflies
And young children having fun
The magic folk are hiding
Lights are hid, and tucked away
Until the humans in their world
Pack to end the day

It's then, from down the village
That the meadow lights begin
Where the magic lights the sky up
In the early gloaming din
If a human breaks the borders
Coming out and much too near
The lights go dark...and silent
For the magic world has ears

There are sentries in the meadow
All unseen to you
That alert the makers of the lights
When the humans are in view
there is magic in the meadow
magic lanterns are set free
where the world becomes a canvas
Of dancing lights for all to see

A backdrop of frost nearly gone
as the daffodils laugh gleefully
and conduct winter's requiem

Drops of life giving dew glistening
on the early morning spider webs

The slenderness of the stem
of the blooming Narcissus
in the nearby field

The weeping willows
sipping from the backyard pond

Old painted walls
with climbing ivy reaching skyward

The smell of lilac bushes
wafting through the air

Spying the blooming dogwood
from the bedroom window

Tree frogs in the woodland pond
amid the floating lily pads

Cherry blossoms
floating effortlessly
on the gentle wind

Dragonflies flitting
through the rainbows
of the the backyard sprinkler

The empty swing on the back porch
slowly creaking to the breeze

Bright yellow rain boots
for rainy day puddles

The light chatter of squirrels
running amuck

A baby robin on the edge of the nest
flapping it's tiny wings

Songbirds circling the bandstand
in the middle of town

The paper birch trees
swaying to the music

The florist outside
watering her plants and the sidewalk

Music and laughter
coming out of the shops

Old men and their cigars
under the store canopies

All of this going on
while the sweetest little girl
dressed in her Sunday best
blows away the dandelions' fluff
and giggles

Cherub Nitman Nov 2013

I could write about all of the things that make you wonderful,
or all of the things that don't,
but either way you'd be getting what you want.
I could write about your eyes,
and how they make my bones vibrate.
The way that they morph into hollow chestnut soldiers who have accepted their dreadful fate,
Or the way they surrender to your smile prompting fire to question it's purpose.
I could write about your lips,
and how they're the strongest magnets I know.
The way they cripple my elbows and make my fingertips tingle,
Or the fact that they taste like my favorite flavor of euphoria.

But I'm sure you've heard it all before,
So instead,
I will write what I feel.
Because your eyes are yours,
and your lips are yours,
but my feelings belong to me.

You know that feeling in your lungs when you've just run a thousand miles,
that pain in your head after you've cried a thousand tears,
you are that feeling, you are that pain.

I used to be a granite countertop,
shiny and cold,
as still as a living stone could be.
My eyes were a place for people's empty glasses,
nothing more,
and my smile was a painting made from the grease of half eaten pizzas.

At first, you managed to make gravity give up on me,
the granite shattered and I became something else,
hovering above success and failure,
elation and pain.
Unable to touch down because none of the above sounded okay.
Afraid of the good as well as the bad,
no laughs and no tears,
no daydreaming about future love affairs,
just an observer,
a hot air balloon.

Then you touched me,
And it burned like a cult of dragons,
Breathing fire down my spine.
Your hands turned my skin into sparkling water,
Bubbling and fizzing,
Unsettled razzle dazzle.
Each time our lips touch,
I taste a bitter happiness,
Sour, spicy, sweet,
Pixie dust and dragonflies.
Time has lost it's steady pace.

I am a slave to your existence,
Like the way that jellyfish move, without control or purpose,
or the way the sand can't run away from the sea.
Somehow you've managed to pump wonder into my lungs,
and fill my head with weeping willows.
the dancer in my beating heart, found her rhythm in yours.

Some nights, after you've fallen asleep,
I imagine myself sleeping atop your eyelashes,
cuddling with constant contradicting comparisons,
snuggling with smug smiling faces,
spooning the speckled souls who speak without thinking,
tangled in your secret stash of picturesque ideals.

I wish we could jump in a death cab,
and go somewhere brand new,
because baby, I could stare at those bright eyes for all of eternity.

Nina May Oct 2015

Dust on fans, cluttered rooms
you're still beside me
I know that's true
red nights, take it how you like
you're still beside me  
I have to thank you
Darker thoughts, and mistrust
you've reassured me, no matter what
I trust you, I do
Past has bruised me,
but eventually they disappear
yours have not, I see that daily
Ill tread with caution,
you seem to save me
Daisies, and messy clothes
my muddy water remains,
We share a lake, you and I
with turtles, fish, and cranes
dragonflies coasting above our rippled waters
our lake is never dry,
you seem to save me,
you and I.

Gazing through the tallest
green nettles

I realized they do
not bite me

Cause it was not the day
for stings and aching

Cause i had the black
mountain boots
and a heart
on my
sport gown

My hands reached
the Heavens
the white yello

Elder's Abundance

Where Scented Blossoms
Coloured my skin

And exposed my life lines

The coolest tangerine

I sat on the black soil
squished young grasses
and found the

My palm was a giant Plato
For it's snailish leg

On the left one
he was without weight
portruding forth
to his destination

Is it possible that
his house was
3,5 mm
Isn't it cute
that when streched
was 7 mm
at lenght

Visible horns
like 1 mm
and half of it

The upper
The downward

What are you looking at
My lines or me

If he climbs from my
left palm on the right one
It's ment to be

I'll visit the seaside

Fibbonacci House Spiralled
Inner layers with colours
outer still
and translucent

Is it possible
this tiny snail
thinks about me

It didn't work
It remained
on my heart's side

Then I moved this
cutest creature
on my right palm

Little little snail
you're not a match
to squeeze

From the right to the left
I thought to myself
he is she
i don't know
snail's so young
for sure it doesn't seek another snail

To cherrish and love

Climbed on my left thumb
Beautiful in motion
As a revolution
For better days

It is my heart's side
My vision became
Waffed all around on the deepest blue
White and puffy



Emerged out of


Had landed on a spider web
on the Verge
of Enchanted Forest
Where grave monument resides

was in the air
the invisible wings fluttered

My sharp vision
focused on
another three

They don't need los zapatos
They are not obsessed as
Imelda was

And i wasn't thinking
about that at all

This words are for you:
thank you for the music
but the dragonflies
buterflies I love

They were near my
one caressed among
tall grasses
one butterfly

not in oslo

Fibbonnaci Friend
who gave me this
Sharp vision

To see the magic
revealing all

Imagined by
Impeccable Space
Poetic Flame
AmberLynne Jul 2014

Walking within
the confines of the trees,
we find ourselves
alone within nature,
partitioned off
from the rest
of civilization,
and in this moment
we dance
among the dragonflies.

MsAmendable Jun 2015

I never win,
Racing against dragonflies,
But I love it.

We walk by the river side
wanting the sky to fall
planes fly tree line low
she ducks her head as we go
as I hold tight to her hand

She has the look of eloquence
her eyes burn into my eyes
and by the riverside
we spot a blue dragonfly
we watch it's shimmering wings as it flies

We stop for a few moments
to watch this baby fly
as we care for all
and none care for us
as we are just planes and dragonflies

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

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