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Heli Colmenares May 2012
This is a Mindalithian
Mindalithians live in marvelous mansions
with mischievous children in Minnesota
Midalithians eat mounds of mac-n-cheese,
meaty meatballs, and magicians
Mindalithians like metallic mushroom
and mega marshmallows
Mindalithians make magnificent magic, meditates mellowly
and marches with mops
this Mindalithian taught me magical meditations
and made me march as a mop
blotz
orb-castle
of a thousand purple mountains
waiting mellowly
to be cracked open
by the orc siege of eager witches
rock collectors
little kids
"One firm step," she said. As shallow as she must be, one could think she radiates midnight, and while no one is looking, her lips are similar to Burgundy—soaked in wine and in her drunken state; resting her body as she sat mellowly where no one would choose those seats made for her—deluding herself that there's just too much space in between, and they danced around each other's thick skin while their gazes were fixed on her. "One firm step," she says, straightening her back.
 
Every day, she'd meet her own grim reaper in the shade of the earth's brown mist, kissed by her long, thick lashes as she closed her eyes, surrounded by the people she considered dead. As strange as it was, they didn't know her. There's one string of luck hanging side by side in hopes that she'll live another day.
 
At dusk, she'll attempt to accompany the earth's body at her expense. She'll whisper nice things, and they'll blush at the thought of her noticing them. She'll offer her hand and kiss the molds, and her lips, the tint of burgundy, will now be the same pigment as the earth's body, and they'll chuckle at the sight of her.
 
When the world is laughing at her, death stands still in front of her, waiting for her presence, but she remains still. When the sky cries for her, she gives him rainbows and butterflies, even though he hates them. And when she's alone at night, she kisses the flies roaming around her bed while he thinks of her—but then again, the expression of death is inevitable. It seems like he doesn't want her to be happy. She lets Earth do what he wants with her, even if her skin glows like ivory. She lets him soak her in his dark mists and long-tailed veins, and death starts to interfere again.
 
He shows up in a crowded room with his thousands of soldiers, pretty faces, and partygoers. In his simple armor and at the grocery store, in his childlike appearance and beggar state. She must have been so exhausted from showing up minutes later or arriving at his usual business hour—midnight. Even with the screen, she usually spends the rest of her day. He shows up. Death was persistent. He signifies everything she could've had, even the voices implanted inside her. They named him Death. Sometimes he's a song, a lyric, or an instrument she could not quite understand; the ring before the call was answered; the tap before the keyboard; the lump before it washes down by the water; the movement before she lays her eyes on.
 
He was once a person she grew tired of—but now a metaphor she'll always keep in the back of her notebook. And sometimes, he is an anecdote every old person mentions in their hospital bed. She was shallow, but he was a willow tree.
A swamp.
A locust.
A lover once.
Hi, it has been a while. It’s been months since I wrote something that I’d like to read. Now, I’m just rereading every piece that I scratched from the back of my notebook. I don’t feel like writing anymore. I don’t think it’s coming back, and I don’t think I’ll give it a chance again. There's not a day that I don’t think about it. At the back of my heart, I know it calls on me—in total solitude, in the noise of the world. I haven’t forgotten about it, but I’m tired of pretending that I still love writing. I’m often a wanderer, and a wanderer gets tired too—we get lost in the woods, in an empty grave, or on a blank page.

A wanderer sometimes loathes herself. I’m exhausted.

On the other hand, here’s a piece that I wrote back in 2022. 
I won't leave this page. I know I'll be able to bleed ink again. Maybe I'd write my next piece on my skin—or on an old tree, or maybe in a dream where my words are limitless and in total sonder.
Ronald J Chapman Dec 2014
sleeping mellowly
proudly, imprisonment squirms
sleepily, prey squirms


© 2013 Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
Dawnstar Feb 2018
mellowly air's so clear:
she is not there;
once she was near.
Alin Jan 2017
What is a day when you wake up in meditation
this body is inseparable from this light
and the mellowly blowing signless flag
singing only to one side
and the brown edge
beckoning
nothing else than its edgeness

Skin having already freed itself from the weight bearing traces of the dust of my mind
capturing smooth
the light –
melting differences over the bumpless
recalling velvety longing

not for the sake of the material but
Saluting
the freedom that has once recorded this twin light
long ago
on such surface

for its manifestation


bringing awareness about the tempter
on senses
and again imploding its imaginary cavities
on the touchless curves of a sofa
newly displaying the angle of
its wooden edge
drawing a perfect eighty five degree Invisible line
in space
towards the webless corner -just noticed-
where the eye gets relieved by its neatness
and relaxes
becoming the point of a trivalent stillness

This – the edgy- is a sister of these Sofa legs
Four in all

implying itself as a sexiest part of its couch –
couch of a type – as it says
owning each other
now
Like body and sense
in one posture
and in its remembered object name

and maybe ready to unfold memories Alas
if there would be openness to listen
or if I were what it could allure me to be for its charm

but No – it says nothing this time
mending time through fractals of its becoming my spaceless space
with the old radio set aside
never playing more than its silent tunes for those skaters in an etching of an ancient landscape hanging on the wall above since …
since before the internet age
showcasing a memory that nobody knows and can see or hear but smell maybe
beside a winter blossom
flourishing its inspiration

not understanding each other but requiring the same attention as my body does
or as the realization of a thought that I could not run up that hill as fast as that dog –

a dog being observed behind a glass and I am unsure if this observation could have effect on the style it puts to the run

or if my observation is being observed and that may be a reason of its action as such
as if it does so to show off – Really!
unknowing to who or what
and then again still …

AaaaaW !!!! Shut up!

No no no ! I should stop now

what may make a catch less of a catch
putting things of importance of a day on a scale of indifference
and then again what is this nosy urge
unallowing
interfering
asking for order!?!

It is a play.

See ?!
even if you like it or not
I am in and such is
You yOU YoU

A play as true as the one watching
Same actually –
Same as the one watching

Watching or steeped in
Space in Space

and/or
No Space

and/or
non of these Things

nonetheless
A day remains
Unending
as the mind fades to embrace
Wordless

*Like the day
rainbows are manifesting
from the heart of this inspiration
Dave Robertson Feb 2021
I daily commit to being negatively capable
one might even say it’s the defining spark
of a life spent loving and hating
the art and accountancy
of the modern teacher’s grins and grind

So here’s a mellowly fruitful glass raised
to comrades and fellow sufferers
who dwell in uncertainty and decreasing circles
while those, as sure as idiots
forge ahead
Ghazal Apr 2016
Morning commences with the friendly clink of
cups, sitting beside the tea cosy-clad kettle,
Fresh, calming fragrance of warm tea nudging at
My just-awakened senses, a little unsettled,

My favorite ghazal colors the background,
The record though scratchy, its influence unfaded;
Abida Khanum mellowly croons, urging her lover
to not insist on leaving that day.

I smell, instinctively, the red rose he hands me,
The same rose had traced my skin in the dark
The missing petals testimony to its journey
Over troughs and crests, marks and landmarks.

What is so utterly, heartwarmingly romantic
about something as simple as him spreading
butter on bread, mixing sugar in chai,
what makes his 'routine', for me so endearing?

He watches me eat, breaks into a smile so wide,
'How do you enchant me, even with the mundane?'
he asks, same question amusing us both,
Same passion coursing through our veins.

The poetess inside me, happily chuckles,
Of being the one expressive, of solely giving away-
Are the days of the past, as breakfast in bed
Becomes our way of Give and Take
Alex McDaniel Feb 2015
We
We could slip into the lake and lay there mellowly

We could float on the will of each other alone

If you are scared of shallowness,
we could drown into one another and find comfort at the bottom

If the water becomes unsettling we could lay out by the mountains and melt away the past on just the serenity of your smile.

We could

Oh how we could
Paola Verduzco Dec 2018
Anxious as I am
My heart beats faster
Something is wrong with me
Birds mellowly follow me
Gray skies
Hard to love
Why
#anxious #sad #mellow #gray #nervous
A pair of heavy, darkly-polished oak doors swing open, throwing moonlight across a wide expanse of pale marble hallway, veins in the stone winding like sinews into the shadows beyond.

Gilded in silver light, I enter. The steel tips of my heels click out a dreamy staccato, treading in the footsteps of princes, duchesses, rogues and queens. Their faces gaze down upon me from the high walls. Immortalised in oils, their traditional, inscrutable countenances reveal little of their passions, furies and secret obsessions.

I turn towards a chair in one corner, letting the heavy coat damp from the night air, slide from my shoulders. I lay it carefully over the velvet upholstery, shivering slightly in the chill, unmoving atmosphere inside the house.

I move toward the centre of the hall. Click… click… click…. click. My heels tap out an intent. Upon a small table, a crystal vase holds a single red rose. In rude bloom, the rose has let go of three petals, they lie as perfumed tears upon the table.  

An envelope is propped against the vase. Unsealed. Unnamed. It doesn't need to be addressed for me to know its content. Virtually every goodbye I've experienced has been unaddressed: I can't bear them any other way. A personalised parting ladens the heart, eventually rotting away to leave a brand in the exact shape of its pain.

I reach out a crimson-nailed finger and lightly stroke the envelope. The action pulls at the cuff of my silk shirt, exposing four rows of pearls circling my wrist. They gleam mellowly in the moonlight, exactly the same colour as the skin on his back.

I hadn't wanted him to leave, but I was compelled not to have him feel indebted to me. His love was weighty, dense like hard-packed snow and he wore his sadness like an overcoat. A good overcoat, and one which suited him, with deep pockets of melancholia and often-visited regret.

A cloud sails over the moon, veiling a fleeting wish for his return. The moon knows when to place a finger to the lips, lest foolishness begin drumming insistent fingers against our better judgement.

I turn and walk back toward the doors, pushing against their resistance, closing myself off to such thoughts.

In almost total darkness, the sound of my heels echoes again. A determined, resolute tattoo upon the path of my own better judgement.

Unseen, the rose drops another petal.
Travis Green Sep 2021
Life doesn’t mean a thing
If you aren’t by my side
If I can’t wake up
To see you lying next to me
If I can’t kiss your extremely
Pleasant lips
If I can’t mellowly touch you
And feel your masculinity refilling my soul
If I can’t look inside your eyes
And feel the love blossoming
Beyond thought
Travis Green Aug 2021
Feeling my fingers
Slithering over his
Soft, sensual skin
Reaching under his white shirt
To embrace his fine ample chest
Circle my hands over his shoulders
Let the poetry of romance
Flow through us as I mellowly
Kiss his neck, his beard, his bottom lips
Leaving my sweetness
And touch on him inimitably
Travis Green Sep 2022
I yearn to feel you moving
Sensually along the ecstatic brag paths
Of my immaculate satin craft
Feel my moistness
Sail into my gayness
Pervade me with blazing hot exhilaration
While you nuzzle your rude rubbers
Against my ***** voluptuous cupcakes

Tenderly teasing my tasty peaks
Roam through my homeland
Appropriate my brilliant, rare treasure
Ensorcell my thoughts and feelings
Fold me in your robust protectors
Put some spark into my heart
Give the kiss of life to my soft, wet lips
Make my spirits soar

Engage my attention
Dynamize my senses
Let your high-quality macho aroma
Glide through the fragrant and gallant air
Feel your jaw-droppingly eye-popping muscles
Mesh with my serene tender structure
Enrapture my nerve cells
Let your astonishing solacers slide
Over my peerless, milky chocolate body

Swivel your glistening clipped nippers
On my glorious, flawless shoulder
Travel your formidable prominent choppers
Around the magically masterful map
Of my silky, inviting neck
Gnaw on my earlobe
Make my flashing impassioned eyes
Shine with enthusiasm

So astronomically flabbergasted
Smooth seductive operator
Conduct an offensive on my dimension
Meld out inner worlds together
Cause me to moan mellowly
Feel your velvety, supple lovingness
All around me, trace every lush, incredible inch
Of my stunningly yummy voluptuosity
Travis Green Oct 2021
If it was so effortless
To touch you wherever
You were without seeing you
I would reach my hands out
And envision them mellowly
Feeling your handsome
And serene face

— The End —