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Jasmin Apr 2016
Don’t we all hear the same sound
of a raging stream
Don’t we all feel the cold breeze
of September’s wind
Don’t we all see the stars shining bright
when it dims
Don’t we all smell that flower’s scent
when it’s spring?

The sound of a flowing water wants us to know that
we still have its melody when we hear nothing
but bones breaking
The touch of zephyr wants us to know that
we still have its warm hug when we need
to feel a thing
The view from above wants us to know that
we still have its solace when everything
our hearts see is darkness
The scent of the flower we hold in our hands wants us to know that
we still have its beauty even when we feel like
everyone’s stabbing us with its torn, cutting our flesh.

We are alive even if we don’t feel like we are.
Love still flows even if we live from afar.
NURUL AMALIA Nov 2018
when mouth can't talk anymore
but tears fall down
it doesnt mean you are sad
but it means you are crying
Alyssa Underwood Jul 2017
It's delight which flows without measure
from the assurance that through every circumstance
and detail of my life God is ever beckoning and drawing me
into deeper intimacy with Himself, ever whispering to my heart,
“Come closer still.”

Joy in the midst of devastating loss, crushing disappointment,
unbearable pain or scourging heartache is about the discovery of
treasure so precious and rare that it never could have been found
had we not been forced to walk a path of affliction in the desert.

It's in the isolation and brutality of the wild that we come to know Him
in ways that transcend the span of human imagining or desiring,
and all the songs and all the poems and all the masterpieces
taken together cannot capture an estimable description
of the pleasures that might be unearthed there.

There lies before us in our afflictions a vast and wondrous beauty
yet undisclosed behind the fog, and like a theatrical curtain
slowly pulled back to reveal a perfectly set stage
He will sublimely unveil it in His own directed time.

And we shall be elated at the view,
for it's against a backdrop of struggle and darkness
that the best and most moving of stories have always unfolded.

Maybe nothing truly beautiful can ever take form on earth
without the shroud of mystery and brokenness surrounding it—
at least not the kind of beauty that takes our breath away
and leaves us yearning to possess it.
~~~

"You have made known to me the path of life; You will fill me with joy
in Your presence, with eternal pleasures at Your right hand."  
~ Psalm 16:11

"O God, You are my God, earnestly I seek You; my soul thirsts for You, my body longs for You, in a dry and weary land where there is no water. I have seen You in the sanctuary and beheld Your power and Your glory. Because Your love is better than life, my lips will glorify You. I will praise You as long as I live, and in Your name I will lift up my hands. My soul will be satisfied as with the richest of foods; with singing lips my mouth will praise You. On my bed I remember You; I think of You through the watches of the night. Because You are my help, I sing in the shadow of Your wings. My soul clings to You; Your right hand upholds me."  
~ Psalm 63:1-8

"It was good for me to be afflicted so that I might learn Your decrees. The law from Your mouth is more precious to me than thousands of pieces of silver and gold."  
~ Psalm 119:71-72

"'Therefore I am now going to allure her; I will lead her into the desert and speak tenderly to her. There I will give her back her vineyards, and will make the Valley of Achor a door of hope. There she will sing as in the days of her youth...'"
~ Hosea 2:14-15
Sachin Subedi Apr 2018
One goes deep into the flow
Becomes busy flowing to it
Lost in the flow
What happens
Is that the one forgets
What he is flowing for

Afterwards
A day comes
When the one is reminded
Of what is the flow for
Time passes
Flow continues...
A day one reaches the destination
Now surprised
That the destination matters not

Now one is lost again
He searches and seeks
Fortunately
Gets the next flow
Which sets a beginning
And the destination for itself
Again and again and again.
Addicted to the presence of the flow
Not realizing
What one is addicted for
A roller coaster.

Maybe the addiction is not in whats not present
But in whats not realized
Maybe it will be too late to realize
Hopefully it will be realised
All that mattered was the flow and the flow only
Each flow among the many
Instance of the reality

The river is the reality
The river flows
The noble river
The flow in the river is somewhere steady
And somewhere turbulant.
Thanks the nature
A river always realizes
Both are the part of the whole.
Vexren4000 Nov 2018
Sparkling seas stretching far.
Beyond where the eye can see,
Sparkling unto a new horizon,
Shimmering unto dreams of mean lost to the seas.
A frontier once unexplored,
Now has lost its magical glow,
Due to man and his machinations.

©BAS
Alyssa Underwood Nov 2015
What is true joy?
It's delight which flows without measure from the assurance
that through every circumstance and detail of my life
God is ever beckoning and drawing me into deeper intimacy
with Himself, ever whispering to my heart, “Come closer still.”
"You have made known to me the path of life; You will fill me with joy in Your presence, with eternal pleasures at Your right hand."  Psalm 16:11
island poet May 2018
“Moby ****,”  Herman Melville

<•>

~for the lost at sea~

after a year of saltwater absence and abstinence,
return to the island caught between two land forks
surrounded by river-heading flows
bound for the ocean great joining

the Atlantic welcomes the fresh water fools,
bringing with them hopefully, but hopeless gifts of obeisances,
peace-offerings endeavoring to keep their infinite souls

sea accepts them then drowns the
warm newcomers in the unaccustomed
deep cold salinity, which
sometimes erodes
sometimes preserving
their former freshwater cold originality

I’m called to depart my beach shoreline  unarmed,
no kayak, sunfish or glass bottomed boat needed,
walk on water and my toes, ten eyes to see the bottom,
no depth perception limitation,
reading the floor’s topography,
millions of minion’s stories infinite,
many Munch screaming

god’s foot, heavy upon my shoulders,
a daytime travel guide, hired for me,
not a friendly travel companion,  nope,
God a pusher showing off a drug called deep water salvation,
designated for the masses, can handle large parties

my in-camera brain  eyes,
record everything for playback -
the lost and unburied, bone crossword puzzles

walk shore to ship, on soles to souls,
is this my new-summer nature welcome back greeting?

puzzled at the awesomeness of vastness,
conclude this clarification for me of the occluded-deep,
is a stern reminder of my insignificant existence,
my requirement to walk humbly, spare my sin of vanity, and
forgive my trespasses upon the lives of others

perhaps then the infinite of my soul perchance restored,
older visions clarified and future poems
will write themselves
and sea to it my predecessors
be better remembered

Memorial Day 2018
Cné Mar 2016
Mentally beginning anew,
Shower and storms scramble,
A mind, a mess, stuck in the cold of blue,
Writhing in pain without preamble.

A season after the cries of winter,
The tears of petals shed,
Flows hope once more enter
Where a broken heart bleed.

Relief of breath ooze,
As fragile blooms of forgiveness peek,
Through darken days of self abuse,
To nurture the delicate emotional physique,

Healing in time blind,
Pure instinct survives,
An emotional breakdown of the mind.
Until finally, awaken spring arrives.
In winter, depression manages to take its strong grip on me, almost strangling me. Spring is a breath of fresh air to my mind, with its negative inner voice.
Tommy Randell Dec 2014
To loosen with my bare hands
the wide air between us
in explaining something of meaning
I almost feel
I am pulling flesh
from the living and moving moments
possible here.

It is somehow breaking
the natural order of things
to use words alone
of all viable means
in setting out the wind-waves and rivulets
of ideas internally flowing -
but I must try and get something out for once.

I circle in bad phrases
prickling with the itchiness of sharing,
I send out a few vague words
horrified and perplexed
at their translation now they are naked
knowing you too listen
and they are at last unalterable.

Deep in the brain, far back
this is my bad time
but I know where the roots go
down into me
and from the storm’s heart
perpetual agitation pumps hand in hand
with calm acceptance.
The self *****, alternately
to fan and to freeze
whatever doubts or unease are burning.
Talk travels the spaces between us
through the clear air
in the kind of silence
surviving bones may know swinging in a wind.

But I know stillness can become alive
when living mouths bring their hearts to bear -
ears can well hear
what the breath has to say,
as the eye sees
the body’s smallest noises -
face to face we are a field of listening.

The warm comes without sound.
This is only the edge of a becoming.
We are not trapped in the lips -
already we lean inward
to know of each other and to give
not words for the wind
but a dance at ease with all that flows.
marvin m brato Oct 2018
My pen got feelings
the moment I hold it
seems it possessed me
with sentiments

My hand scribbles
innate expressions
enthuse from my heart
the essence of my soul

Experiences composed
myriad colorful hues
of love and struggles
making me quite human

As long as ink flows
poetry will never cease
for those poets writing poems
with words of authentic beauty
Inside the hour glass time will pass
Sand flows freely never fast
Wondering if this second or next will be our past
Enjoy every second as if your last
King Panda Feb 2016
I say blood
marbled floors
and boats
somewhere on the Ganges River
Africa?
no.
wait—I think it’s
sadness
that flows out every hole
onto the plain
into the water
out of the well
all of the elephants swallowed
and digested
down to the bones
on colors
on sky diamonds
on lovely wax and wane
this river
these people
blood and guts
cooking
tradition
knowing
that it’s the last meal
to throw to the gods
in the water
Laura Duran Jun 2018
He loves me, he loves me not
We're meant to be, or so I thought
My heart is broken, the pain is real
I long for peace, from all I feel

I fake a smile, so no one knows
I mimic strength, lest weakness shows
I refuse surrender, I stand and fight
I must succeed, and so I write

The ink it flows, pours from my pen
It heals my heart, and I can breathe again

Minutes into hours, hours into days
The love I held so tightly, starts to fade away
The pain begins to lessen, the tears no longer fall
Seemed misery was forever but it's not that way at all

Those nights you haunt my dreams
Are few and far between
When memories overtake me, I know I'll be alright
I know now what to do....and so I write

The ink it flows, pours from my pen
It heals my heart and I can breathe again
Yes, I can breathe again.
King Panda Jun 2016
this is my excavation to
the days coming along
running hands with laughter
throwing it down on the table
straight
flush
okay, cool


sister, these things don’t matter
when we’re twisting into the sun
with pants that are too short
the fountain rich with
iced chai
tangled with the peculiar
the beautiful
through these moments
I commend
our hearts for finding each other

love is always on the move
as sure as shoe shine
as mahogany
like timidity to relinquish
to let the universe take hold
and instill this emotion
into my body
fit it all in my heart
O, singer of love
fit it all in my heart
the knell
the reverberation
the cotton that lands
on your hair
the sunscreen stuck in my ear

we are a sketch of two travelers
sleeping under stars
the fire
finally dies down
the rapture of the universe
is overwhelming
everything flows
everyone is connected
and this music we hear
is constant
like gentle waters falling

this too, sister
makes my cane solemn
and I draw you in the sand
only to watch the tide
wash you next to me
the emotion
wrangled in English
simply means good
simply means
a full listen and
dear sister
because everything begins
and will be remembered always
as love
Rob Rutledge Jan 6
Our body was well worn,
Born, bled then ill informed.
Skin shed
Torn
Dust to adorn a once pristene floor.
Bred to provide countless lives, more.
Martyr to a form it shall never see.
The water flows but cannot know
The extent of it's captivity.
With this pen, I paint an image of you.
Not a portrait, but a true portrayal of you.
The ink flows into words that dance across your hair.
The end of each sentence marking a cross that you bear.

A painting would be suitable for some.
With beautiful colors, cascading down on you from above.
But, those colors mearly hide the truth behind your smile.
With the right shade of light and a light smear, it becomes a cosmetic fix for a while.

My words flow through every crack and fill every shadow.
They bring all light to the surface, for the reader to see within the shallows.

The image of you that I create can be vivid and great.
But with this pen, my words can also design your fate.

You see the truth here is that my words hold all truth.
They leave no place for lies to hide, with each word holding proof.

In the readers eyes, my words are you…
With this pen, I can create you…
With this pen, I can finish you...

- Brandon K. Stephenson
The underestimated writer and the power within his pen.
Doreen Cavazza Apr 2012
The river flows over empty promises
depositing sediment
in the form of confusion and stagnation
leaving a bad taste in one's mouth.
I hang on your every word.
Grainy is the trail
of crumbs left for inspection:
affectation over articulation;
all the better to hear you.
Skim a stone across the surface
leaving ripples of insecurities
and questions past.
The message is clear.
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2018
Art, unborn,
aches to find form;
to manifest itself.
Within me it screams,
while those around
remain deaf to its cry.

It claws to free itself
from mortal chains,
restless to share its vision
with the world;
to tell its story
in verse and beauty.

This art within,
impatient, cannot wait.
It struggles to find
its voice
within my finite days
and world.

Until at last,
like a volcano,
unable to restrain that voice,
it erupts,
and my art flows out,
spilling onto paper.

The words and images
become solid,
taking form,
giving birth to the art within.
Thus, completing me,
quieting the cry inside.
All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
William Eberlein Feb 2013
I tell you...

I love your laugh,
and the twinkle in your eyes.

I love your hips,
and the way they sway.

I love your smiles,
and the dimples they leave behind.

I love your hair,
and the way it flows down your back.

I love your voice,
and how it soothes my mind.

I love your eyes,
and all the subtle colors within.

I love everything about you,
and anything that you could ever be.

I tell you...

I love you
and all that you are.
Land,
The Mystery
A Nature to One's Mind
A Sand which Flows,
And Glows
And sparkles Success
To One.

Before Men,
Before Cities borne out of
Civilisation's Womb
There was,
And was known to many
That it was Land,
The Enigma,
The Unknown to One.

Who lives in the Deep,
The Paradise Underworld
Of Many,
Of Millions,
Of a Thousand Beings in Atlantis.

The Impossible
Is Done
And should be Done
By One.

The Brave,
The Humble,
The Curious Juniour
One Foot,
That touches the Sand
One Breath,
Of Boreas' Air
One look,
Of Demeter's Feet
One Meet,
At Thriver's Friendly.

And Wisdom,
Has been Known,
And Shown,
The Impossible
Has been Done.

It is One's Dream,
The Goal,
The Conquest,
For the Future of Existence.

The Happiness,
To many of One Nation's Grand
Of Praise and Possibilities.
tinhearts Jul 2018
Written as questions in kindness
Never any animosity
Just wondering inspired in genuine Finesse
Why all this need for universal popularity ?

Why do you need recognition from people to pump up your EGO
When you are perfectly capable of doing it yourself
Now days “self”rules demanding such attention
What good is It if you gain the whole world and lose your soul

Social media is a force field of flattery
Likes loves and followers celebrated when more is accomplished
I think it’s  disgusting and unflattering
To think you put your self worth according to the numbers you watch add up to impoverished

Sadly this whole world is an avatar
Hiding behind a phone or computer so long they don’t recognize their pets anymore
Starving for some real attention because even the kids are on devices with games of war
How do families expect to get to know each other with text messages being their main source of communication

Poets are pompous needing extra recognition
Scarcely do they realize it’s all vanity
Bragging about publications for impressing exhibition
The Bible has said every word with powerful rhapsody

Where oh where is a humble writer
“The lovely and delicately bred”
No need for a public fanfare
At least in the Bible you know every word is in-breathed

No questioning the authority
Perplexing yet light lit lines
I’m a peculiar type of believing in honesty
Loving the poem or letting it lye

Truth be known I’m not a big poetry fan
It flows and I write what I must
Sincerely saddened at the starving hearts speaking of a suicide plan
Believing God’s Will being written within us

My purpose is to be where I can share the mysteries
“We have become orphans, fatherless our mothers are like widows.”
None of it is about me
Love ~being an unknown entity  unpopularily

Always search for open windows
Search for refreshment in every breeze
Don’t allow popularity to guide your soul
Any light you see grab hold and find its virginity inwardly

“Woe is me! I am fainting before murderers”
*
tinhearts~©️
Robert C Howard Dec 2013
Above the caldera at Yellowstone,
a brittle soil-rock crust
caps a lake of liquid fire
with only fumaroles and roiling geysers
to slake its upward ******.

A single heedless step is enough
to breech that mantle's fragile seal -
spelling death by fire
to any hapless soul
who fails to guard his steps.

Fragile calderas also roil
buried in dark crevices of our psyches -
brewed of failures, slights and fears
dissolved in fiery pools
of self-consuming misery.

To dress and salve our wounded souls
we plant fertile gardens of reconciliation
with beauty, trust and charity
and kneel to gods of grace and solace.

But a despot’s practiced eye
knows how to tap our fragile crusts,
releasing acrid lava flows
from pools where fear and rage reign hot,
and reason has no district.

Friends and siblings - my flesh and kin,
this world is ours to lose or save
so let us seal well our Sacred Calderas
from bitter foes that stalk us from within.

July, 2006, revised December, 2014, 2015 and 2018
Robert Charles Howard
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