"bourgeoning" poems - Hello Poetry

without the humans pedaling along like ants following paths the redwoods still stand still and mighty and feeling the faintest breeze and dampest touch of the birds nestled between branches never moving unprovoked or uncaused they wait for nothing because there is nothing to a redwood but the earth and the sun and the rain and the ants still pedaling between grooves in her hardened flesh, no wringer so efficient and wise ******* fallen water and moist air through the tips of toes and out into the world above the wood ceiling so green and full and bourgeoning life into the lungs of the moving types unable to stand still and breathe and watch their god turn miracles by unspoken stories of growth and sheltering persistence and resolve to manufacture life and color from dirt and water and air so quietly respired

0

Dec 8, 2014

Dec 8, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC

TiredColors

nattering with time and tree rings

without the humans pedaling along like ants following paths the redwoods still stand still and mighty and feeling the faintest breeze and dampest touch of the birds nestled between branches never moving unprovoked or uncaused they wait for nothing because there is nothing to a redwood but the earth and the sun and the rain and the ants still pedaling between grooves in her hardened flesh, no wringer so efficient and wise ******* fallen water and moist air through the tips of toes and out into the world above the wood ceiling so green and full and bourgeoning life into the lungs of the moving types unable to stand still and breathe and watch their god turn miracles by unspoken stories of growth and sheltering persistence and resolve to manufacture life and color from dirt and water and air so quietly respired

19

without the humans pedaling along like ants following paths the redwoods still stand still and mighty and feeling the faintest breeze and dampest touch of the birds nestled between branches never moving unprovoked or uncaused they wait for nothing because there is nothing to a redwood but the earth and the sun and the rain and the ants pedaling between grooves in her hardened flesh, no wringer so efficient and wise ******* fallen water and moist air through the tips of toes and out into the world above the wood ceiling so green and full and bourgeoning life into the lungs of the moving types unable to stand still and breathe and watch their god turn miracles by unspoken stories of growth and sheltering persistence and resolve to manufacture life and color from dirt and water and air so quietly respired

0

Nov 30, 2014

Nov 30, 2014 at 3:22 AM UTC

TiredColors

nattering with time and tree rings

without the humans pedaling along like ants following paths the redwoods still stand still and mighty and feeling the faintest breeze and dampest touch of the birds nestled between branches never moving unprovoked or uncaused they wait for nothing because there is nothing to a redwood but the earth and the sun and the rain and the ants pedaling between grooves in her hardened flesh, no wringer so efficient and wise ******* fallen water and moist air through the tips of toes and out into the world above the wood ceiling so green and full and bourgeoning life into the lungs of the moving types unable to stand still and breathe and watch their god turn miracles by unspoken stories of growth and sheltering persistence and resolve to manufacture life and color from dirt and water and air so quietly respired

19

a schoolgirl found me in High Park with my hands clutched to my chest on a red sheet, under a dead cherry blossom the dress I was wearing was the one you gave me to celebrate our underwhelming tax rebate and the fact that I was eating again the examiner said I looked apathetic, like dying was the next item on my to-do list I could have sworn I had only taken 2 (22) pink ones to match the blossoms the *** sleeping on the bench was my new best friend and the barista at Starbucks asked for my name and I realized I hadn’t been asked that in months; my name my blood type my ETA what colour was the mole on my stomach? and when did I first learn to ride a bike? the last time I smiled was June 17, 2013. In the paper they put a picture of it and wrote “Woman Found” they should’ve put a close-up of my hollow eyes.

0

Sep 18, 2015

Sep 18, 2015 at 12:13 AM UTC

rebecca-gismondi

bourgeoning

a schoolgirl found me in High Park with my hands clutched to my chest on a red sheet, under a dead cherry blossom the dress I was wearing was the one you gave me to celebrate our underwhelming tax rebate and the fact that I was eating again the examiner said I looked apathetic, like dying was the next item on my to-do list I could have sworn I had only taken 2 (22) pink ones to match the blossoms the *** sleeping on the bench was my new best friend and the barista at Starbucks asked for my name and I realized I hadn’t been asked that in months; my name my blood type my ETA what colour was the mole on my stomach? and when did I first learn to ride a bike? the last time I smiled was June 17, 2013. In the paper they put a picture of it and wrote “Woman Found” they should’ve put a close-up of my hollow eyes.

33

The Divide by Michael R. Burch The sea was not salt the first tide ... was man born to sorrow that first day, the moon a pale beacon across the Divide, the brighter for longing, an object denied, the tug at his heart's pink, bourgeoning clay? The sea was not salt the first tide ... but grew bitter, bitter ... man's torrents supplied. The bride of their longing forever astray, her shield a cold beacon across the Divide, flashing pale signals: "Decide. Decide. Choose me, or His Brightness, I will not stay." The sea was not salt the first tide ... imploring her, ebbing: "Abide, abide." The silver fish flash there, the manatees gray. The moon, a pale beacon across the Divide, has taught us to seek Love's concealed side: the dark face of longing, the poets say. The sea was not salt the first tide ... the moon a pale beacon across the Divide. NOTE: "The Divide" is essentially a villanelle despite the non-formal line breaks. Published by Neovictorian/Cochlea, The Eclectic Muse, Freshet, Better Than Starbucks, Sonnetto Poesia, The New Formalist and Pennsylvania Review Keywords/Tags: Villanelle, sea, salt, first, tide, moon, pale, beacon, Divide, love, concealed side, dark side of the moon, longing, passion, desire, lust

0

Mar 4, 2020

Mar 4, 2020 at 10:48 PM UTC

michael-r-burch

The Divide

The Divide by Michael R. Burch The sea was not salt the first tide ... was man born to sorrow that first day, the moon a pale beacon across the Divide, the brighter for longing, an object denied, the tug at his heart's pink, bourgeoning clay? The sea was not salt the first tide ... but grew bitter, bitter ... man's torrents supplied. The bride of their longing forever astray, her shield a cold beacon across the Divide, flashing pale signals: "Decide. Decide. Choose me, or His Brightness, I will not stay." The sea was not salt the first tide ... imploring her, ebbing: "Abide, abide." The silver fish flash there, the manatees gray. The moon, a pale beacon across the Divide, has taught us to seek Love's concealed side: the dark face of longing, the poets say. The sea was not salt the first tide ... the moon a pale beacon across the Divide. NOTE: "The Divide" is essentially a villanelle despite the non-formal line breaks. Published by Neovictorian/Cochlea, The Eclectic Muse, Freshet, Better Than Starbucks, Sonnetto Poesia, The New Formalist and Pennsylvania Review Keywords/Tags: Villanelle, sea, salt, first, tide, moon, pale, beacon, Divide, love, concealed side, dark side of the moon, longing, passion, desire, lust

24

Black squares pulled at the soles of my shoes. Brick-red fake bricks wrapped serpentine around cement beams glazed and shimmering with epoxy and daylight s hone white on the left half a bedraggled face. The other half smirked, sitting cross-legged under a wall-less window eating carrot sticks with chopsticks.  The dust in my eyes, in the blank between us pervaded pore and nostril, bourgeoning the ache of a flaying respite, with the fire of a thousand minute needles and the diaphragm-tugging grip of "come closer."

0

Apr 6, 2015

Apr 6, 2015 at 12:20 AM UTC

brenden-pockett

Sunday Morning Revisited

Black squares pulled at the soles of my shoes. Brick-red fake bricks wrapped serpentine around cement beams glazed and shimmering with epoxy and daylight s hone white on the left half a bedraggled face. The other half smirked, sitting cross-legged under a wall-less window eating carrot sticks with chopsticks.  The dust in my eyes, in the blank between us pervaded pore and nostril, bourgeoning the ache of a flaying respite, with the fire of a thousand minute needles and the diaphragm-tugging grip of "come closer."

13