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over the past weeks
a gentle autumn sun
has painted colored leaves
upon the ground
and thinned
the bright abundance
of the wooded ranges

most of the harvest
is securely stored by now
or sold at morning markets
by weathered men and women
in country garbs

vintners are busy with their lots
fermenting grapes
and entertaining those
who see their visit
as pleasant pastime and escape
from daily urban chores

hunters and lumbermen
are waking up
to shoot and mark

schools by this time
have settled into the new year
teachers are happy still to share
the knowledge of our world
with students still inclined
to listen

remembering their vacations
on the Bahamas or in Saint Tropez
step sprightly into offices
womanned by secretaries dreaming secretly
of beautiful Mallorca summers
and of those never-ending nights
on the Algarve

I guess it is a human thing
to find a new beginning
and do best
when nature’s breath goes easy
to collect the strength
for yet another fruitful year

or were it better
that we also took a rest?

           * *
I sit
   all by myself
and look out
   down upon the streets
cigarette in hand
a glass of wine upon the table
love's sweet exhaustion lingering in my bones
   and smell upon my skin
feeling so young and yet somehow so old

a late night bus drones by
and takes strange people
   to their desired stops
in a city
where I know only few
that could say
  it's him

a woman with unsteady midnight gait
secretly walks her dog
into the public park
   both little more than blurs
   of bluish white and brown
   in the half-shadow
   of forbidden bushes

a couple leans entwined
   forever in a parting kiss
   upon the doorstep
unmindful of the plane
   that comes in low and loud
   before the landing

why is it that these moments
   seem eternal and yet
I sense the rush of time go fast
   and pass me by
   and her
   who sleeps next door

and leave us lost among our memories
of what was lovely
   and so beautiful

you are the poet
the mirror to my soul
you're  like a beacon
that lights up my life
your words are a gift from Heaven
Dr Peter Lim Nov 2019
dusk      the river is dark
no star yet    no moving clouds
deserted shore     dinghy  in distance
the trees whisper        falling leaves
late flight of herons across the grey sky
singing in unison           smoke from village chimneys
fishermen draw in nets           wives awaiting their return
aroma infusing the kitchen         the kids chasing one another
grandpa reading poetry            grandma sings an old song
winds rush through windows
the fields are empty and silent
who's playing the violin?
life is a picture and a poem
This isn't a poem, it's a thank you to a couple of people who reposted my poem "WORK IN PROGRESS". Thank you Perry and thank you to FallenAngel33. This makes me want to keep writing my poems and keep sharing.

I love you guys.
abby May 2017
When I remember you,
it is not a slide show of memories between us,
it is one single memory, and it is not a group
photo of us on our friends roof that you posted to snapchat
and I posted to instagram, deleted, reposted, deleted, reposted, deleted-
you know how it goes.
It is not a picture of you and I, or even of you and her.
It's just you. And I can't see your surroundings, they change
every time I smell your scent, every time I hear your name,
every time you cross my mind. You're never in the same place, but
you're always laughing. I used to say your laugh was like a plane
landing or plates breaking  because it was loud and it shook a room,
it shook my soul. Your laugh was my favorite earthquake, and I do not
know why I continue to compare it to such negative things when it is what made you stand out. Your laugh. It was the only thing that was really yours that you offered to me. I wish I could've recorded it and made it my ring tone, I wish I could hear it one more time before
I take a step into the real world. It feels like I've been walking for miles and nobody laughs here, nothing is funny enough to laugh at.

I hope you find things that make you smile, still, even if they do not correlate back to me. All I ever wanted was to be your downwards spiral.

Everyone's always grasping for a voice, to be heard, to be held and to be fed but also to be understood.
I don't want a voice, anymore.
I want a laugh like yours;
and even more than that-

I would like to laugh again. At nothing. At everything.
At anything.
You stole the sound from my throat and all I'm saying;
is I want it back.
I want you back.
Ivan Brooks Sr Apr 2019
God smiles every time I Write beautiful poetry,
and He throws a party for dead poets in Heaven.
My poetic vocation is confirmation of his generosity.
Whenever my pen bleeds, He knows I am working.

God smiles each time my poetry starts trending,
He gives Maya Angelo and Shakespeare a hug.
It's an indication of my dedication towards my Craft.
Whenever my work is reposted or liked, He says bravo, son!

I hope He likes this too ...

— The End —