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Alyssa Underwood Dec 2015
grace on a birch branch
a pair of silky redbreasts
among red buds of spring
no worry about tomorrow
for *** feeds them today
and clothes them as kings
A hummingbird moves so fast it buzzes,
but it hopes you don’t notice.
frosted Feb 2017
The Tuesday in September I woke up to you singing
The Friday in January when my mom sat me down
I know how much you loved him broke a sob and dropped me to my knees
After that it was just broken glass and bruised knuckles
More in love with the memories than the person in front of me
I think I made you up inside my head

Two years later and  
The old you is calling. I want to answer, but he is a whirlwind of
Here and not here, discontent and content
But have you seen him smile?

Wednesday morning and the birds are singing back to me
The old you is calling and I am picking up the phone
Chris Neilson Sep 2016
Stopping to write words is my impulsive habit
as hopping grey squirrels cross paths with a wild rabbit

Hedge and tree sparrows creating their fun
tweeting feathered friends under a rising sun

Goats and rowing boats resting by a shady tree
donkey rides advertised that don't come for free

Mother feeding baby upon a tartan rug
a passing loved up couple sharing a hug

Ear flicking deer romping up then down
full leafed green trees turning to brown

For who knows a bell tolls at midday
not for a slight slumbering pony anyway

Passing a multicultural horticultural area
spotting an alpaca who's growing hairier

A soaking Labrador emerges from a small lake
brushing my bare lower leg in its wake

Sitting on a bench dedicated to a lost loved one
taking in the views he loved before he was gone

A picture may paint a thousand words long
but poetry captures succinctly September birdsong
It's my fortune to live close to one of the largest municipal parks in Europe (Heaton Park), this is my account of a stroll through there this unseasonably warm September day.
a bowl-shaped hollow
greystone pool amongst boulders
songbirds bathe and sing


*words in the wind
Rites of spring haiku: # 2
-gabi p- May 2016
daydreaming is like a fog
      that dissipates when you try to touch it
it’s that perfect mirage
       that can’t ever be reached

look! there she comes
     ”splish, splash”, that’s her
             stepping on a rainy day’s Night
but her head is always in the clouds

her mind reciting sweet words
         that will never be said
and her thoughts are running, wild
    chaos like tangled thread

“who is she?”
         and the birds, smiling with joy:
“it’s the daydreamer, she's the Daydreamer...”
    you know… daydreamers are always the bird’s favorites.
Harley Oliver Jan 2015
the rain is dense
& the day becomes faint
no time to count the roses
or the stir up my spine
it feels like february
from where i'm sitting
when my hair comes down
and your words get shorter
take off your suit
and tie me down
******* adrenaline
it's heavy on my tongue.
seven minutes in heaven
with kisses that linger for hours
and when i feel the sun
set on my back
i knew this moment
would never last
it's a day overgrown
if the rain runs out
and wakes us unrested
so put your car on drive
& bind back your tie
i want to kiss you now
but that won't ever mean goodbye
Joshua Brown Dec 2015
poem in two parts (a plane and bird)
You are a sound in still silence; a point against negative space toward which my eye is drawn. The sun set, peeking beneath a blanket of storm clouds, painting the underside, as a plane, an infinitesimal photon, a plane flew as an impossible pinprick of optimistic light, moving slowly against the immense parallax backdrop of bright and hazy pink-orange glowing thunder clouds. You are the first breath I took. You are the product of all infinities, divided by itself, the sum of all integers. When the earth falls into the sun, long after humans left, long after you left, and any recognizable trace of you is swallowed, your memory will persist. You will have still lived; You will have been the last breath I took.

A fulcrum of loss and a wedge between two equally lost people, but between them, between them still a bird, flying farther than any eye can see, but should the lights of the lighthouses lose you against their foggy panes, or should the salty wind dash you against something equally heavy, call out, and cast your voice into the sky, upon the sea, and against the stars, and maybe its echoes will live a little longer than you.
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