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CA Guilfoyle Apr 2018
In the sweet of early morning
and only for a few precious moments
I thought of nothing at all
I stared blank at the dim lit walls
in a state between awake and dreaming
only until the startle of the first bird singing.

I saw the sun clinging to roofs and trees
light traipsing through the garden lilies
I heard the chirp and groan of frogs
newly green, all the unfurling fronds
and from the broad leaves
the dew fell sparkling in rivulets
and drank the carpet moss
softly green and splendorous.
#morning #spring #garden #moss
bones Feb 2016
Blowing silence
like a bugle
to announce his dismay

he got set
to make a statement
without speaking for a day

but his mother
just assuming
he had nothing much to say

sent her silent
revolutionary
son outside to play;

outmaneuvered
in the kitchen
by his mother's disregard

for campaigns
of wild muteness,
the rebellion fell apart

to the sound
of scuffing shoes
and the grumble in his heart

'cause silent protest
tends to lose
when no-one's listening very hard..
Pat Broadbent Oct 2018
Planes streak across the wide October sky–
The sun is setting–
Contrails stream behind them,
glowing scars of the evening.

The highest ones, they exhale the day’s gold,
pure and sharp
like fields of August wheat,
dusty and late-summer charred.

Redder and lower ones hug the skyline,
No cloud to catch them,
Fall like meteorites,
the slow burn of a dwarf star

Memories never print so vividly,
slow burn sees fast death,
Reds, golds and what's between,
A brain is all catch-and-release


So afterwards what should be left of this?
Not but an umbra,
Impressionist beauty,

A mere relief of its source?


Beauty’s slow fade is not the tragedy,
–rather the reverse–
That I fade to beauty,
To never hold it in full.
Beauty and whatnot
Bus Poet Stop Apr 2015
eye did.   As my prejudices expected, the odd assortment of "characters"were all present and not to be unaccounted for...a romantic comedy on a good Friday, attracts the believers, the well wishers, the ones who think if only the world was.. and I was not re or so tired of life, unemployed, lonely, damaged in some manner of being...

not too many young, just a few... theater darkness is a masque, with a risqué chance of oh no, I've been witnessed by the non-believers.

the infirm with their mobile caretakers and paraphernalia were there.  Odd couples, were there.  If there was one unifying common characteristic, I selected this one.  We all needed haircuts. eye don't know why but it made me think about going to get one's haircut, and the rituals that requires....and it is and is not a bit like being in a almost totally private world inpublic, where you, the individual and some outside force majeure, hairdresser, movie screen engages and temporarily transforms you.  That is why, I, went to the movies on a Friday afternoon, to be transformed and not reformed, in public, in private...
Jon Thenes Mar 2017
foisting up at the strop of yawn
i remark,
impared
at the bluffers worn
it is kildy and capy
i'm underly mistaken
i plonder on my clothing
and part the towd ranglings
blind are the dawnings
it's still a mite
at four gone the night
and more a tune til the mourning
i am blowtard and sworn
i mumble back to kibble
and a mount full of scorn
Early morning nonsensica
Kale Apr 2015
Goodnight my love,
Even though the moon's
Greeting comes
to separate us,
I will always love you.
Our bond that was
Formed by Fate
Can never be broken
Because with each
Setting sun
You enter
My dawdling mind
And my heart begins
To sing songs
Like the birds of
early morn
Kai May 6
blue tinted light
peaking sunlight
turns hills golden
and valleys glitter
with  sweet dew

then a little chill
from the gentle winds
caress an early riser
as they stretch out
lazy and content there
in the early morning
It was really beautiful this morning. The air held that easy chill of coming rain and everything was tinted soft blue.

poem style: words+2=lines
memoona kazmi Mar 23
some flowers aren't meant to bloom fully,
they are plucked so early,
some waves aren't made to surf,
they die too early,
some eggs aren't meant to fertilize,
they are stolen so early,
i guess i wasnt meant to be loved deeply,
that's why you left so early..........
emily mikkelsen Sep 2016
the light
from the window
wakes him
trickling down his face
I like watching him sleep
in these sheets
so white
his eyes
staring into mine
this time
I can't look away
my whole body
aches
to hear him say
those words
I see in his eyes
oh what a surprise
when he smiles
at me
the early morning light
touching his lips
makes me want to
kiss him.
but instead
I'm left
laying on the other side
of the bed
separated
from him
/ you are so close /
/ yet so far /
chichee Oct 2018
In the searing airless midsummer-
awaken!
The clockwork morning rewinds
cobalt into a bleeding orange yolk dripping across
the canvas of the world.

Sky, turn the colour of dreams. Heart, turn the colour of love-
I’m posed over a skyscraper
Because I wanted to touch the stars. Because I wanted to touch you.
There’s a beauty found in the smallest spaces
Gaps in your heartbeat, getting your toothbrush mixed with mine
Honey-lemon on my tongue

So maybe you loved me, but not in a way I comprehended
I’m thinking of your lips, your eyes
and the way you said goodbye-
The word wrapped around your tongue like a prayer.
Pink bleeds into violet and it looks like the 5 a.m. Berlin skyline
might tear itself apart, like a heart bursting or a car crash.

So it’s dawn. So I’m inconsolable.
And if the angel sun sets,
then so be it.
A prayer for the healing.
Arke Oct 2018
you spoiled the ending of our book
but I wasn't ready to stop reading
William Eberlein Feb 2013
There once was a man
who often ran
from all his life,
for it was filled with strife.

One day,
with mind astray,
he stumbled and broke a leg
on an uneven protruding peg.

Down and down he fell,
upon a bed of eggshell.

Bleeding out his heart,
hoping that it would turn to art.

Instead,
it turned to lead.

So he did
what he had done as a kid.

Squeezing his brain,
causing himself to go insane.
And in a last resort,
maybe possibly to abort,
he bent his knees
and begged his pleas
to the entirety of his soul,
Asking only for a loophole.

Up and out of this hell.
ˏˋDalPalˊˎ Dec 2014
You don't know it but
You're the reason I'm awake
And you'll always be.
I wish you weren't though.
Aleena May 4
In the early morning sun
Just barely after the rise
The birds chirp
The wind blows
So the grass shivers
And the trees dance
In the breeze
While the robins sings
To find a mate
The rays trickles down
On every living thing
Through the leaves
And through the trees
The dew smells fresh
From last nights rain
The water puddles
Glisten in the sun
Whilst the morning glows
The world was awoke
harlee kae Mar 2015
the world is kind of unfair.
how someone other than you
can decide your future.

how one day they say
i dont love you anymore
and its over. against your will.

yeah the world is kind of unfair
like that.
Eden Quinn Feb 17
In a graveyard, a little being
slept on the bench
while people passing by
wondered
what it was doing there
but little did they know,
the being came to say
its bye-bye.

Quinn
When I feel suicidal, I always visit the graveyard and end up crying because deep down I know that I am loved and my grave would be filled with flowers. However, I only know it and can´t really feel it.
It´s like feeling lonely when you know you´re not and it´s killing me.
Val Vik Mar 29
I deeply care for you, even
with the scarring pain...

with your hypocrisy,
unnecessary outbursts,
  jealousy,
distrust,
sullen moods...


Please forgive me for my anger
I still love you most
midnight whispers, tears, and soul consciousness

*Anger don't mix well with love, either you forgive or forgive and let them go. Some people need to accept an apology they will never get, or it will slowly diminish the light inside them.
Mary-Rose H Jul 2017
Five in the morning
feels fresh
and new,
as if
the world has
renewed itself
overnight,
and left
the early morning air
feeling
pure and untouched
against my skin,
within my lungs.

This is air
that the events of the day
have yet to fill;
it is a blank canvas,
whispering its request
to my soul:
for art to be
designed, created,
born, and painted
across its timespan.
Written at 5 o'clock in the morning.
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