Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
gracie Nov 2018
it's how he's gentle, drawing me close
when I shiver; how he holds my hands,
cold fingers nestled in the warmth of his palms.
how we return to a certain forest, admiring trees flushed
in hues of gold and scarlet; how reality fades away as we walk,
drowned out by the bubbling of a stream.
how I adore his honeyed voice, soothing like the patter of rain
on backseat windows; how the taste of coffee lingers on his lips
when he presses them to mine so softly,
so bittersweet.
how I feel myself falling, but I still run into his arms
because"it'll be different this time."

but how can I outrun reality?
too close too soon, i guess.
CK Baker Feb 2017
There’s a silverback haze
on the shallow face
of the Rockwell Ridge
folded brow
puzzled chin
and dark hollow eyes
keeping watch
over the lilies
and crane flies
and will of the wisp

Rust brown ravens
and fisher kings
delight
in the reeds off north bend
(chased by the terraced streams!)
youth blades engrain
on the favoured
and historic
Banka Memorial

Mustard
and pumpkin skies
are clipped
by a call from
the resident loon
the sounds of Buddha Bar
piercing the silence
and shaping the afternoon chord

It’s a time to make way (stream side)
seems the anuran are courting
King Panda Jan 2018
the wicked queen of morning
greets you with
clutching shore

little pebbles in the stream
rob red rubies
from dead fish bellies

on a rock
there are some feathers
a broken beak
crunched bones

your attention is cut
with the dead kiss
of a woodpecker

you are bound
to relive the death
of thousands of forests
bound to kiss
the stream’s mojo
laughter

listen—
the stream is still asleep
its floor is falling through
the weight of its slumber

nothing can contain it
Beatrix Feb 2018
I'm swimming in a stream of consciousness
rare is the occasion I get to rest
I'm swimming
sometimes drowning
inside my head
I need rescue
help me please I beg

I was running wild with the wind once
against the current I flew
through the glass window I came suddenly
and fell into this room

I'm a fish not that big
not a whale or a shark
more like a salmon in the dark
at the bottom of the ocean
where I'm not supposed to be

I'm out of breath.

I'm a fish in your aquarium
the one you never get tired of looking at
you watch me do the same thing all day
how I get bored and lonely inside my rock
you watch me grow until I stop
I can't learn anything new
so I hide and play by myself

Once you dropped me on the floor
desperately grabbed me and took me home
I slept like it was my last day on earth
'cause you never know what's going on in the universe's mind
I thought I should've died before
but when you're being killed the instinct is to fight

I wouldn't mind stop breathing though
I wouldn't mind not having feelings

Fishes have feelings too
I'm afraid of the dark too

Here in your aquarium I get to see the most wonderful things!
how your cat almost swallows me
how your fingers get nervous when you're excited
and I can see everything
'cause no one sees me

Maybe you should take my eyes
'cause I can see through yours.
bones Mar 2017
She loosens on tiptoe
the latch of her window,

slides upward the sash
and the shine of the moon

pours over the sill,
like it's rushing downhill

like a silver stream,
flooding her room.
shamamama Jan 27
Streambed calls to you
Calls to you to share its stories
Trickling water over rocks
Melt into your timeless day,
Your hands gently caress the living water
You feel its gentleness,
Its strength, its current flowing
through your soul

Where are the fish you seek?

As you sit,
Palms dip in water,
Slowly, Slowly
They come, one by one,
To your cup of hands
Curious, cautious
Tasting finger, nail, knuckle

Cupping them gently
Seeing their colors and shapes
Testing their braveness
Wiggling fingers, they dart and dash
This is your way of fishing

Young hand touching fish,
human spirit touching the spirit of fish
You sense one another
How long can you visit?

Land friend meets water friend
This is what you mean by fishing
fishing, nature, human spirit, young child, living water
Sally A Bayan Jun 2018
* * *
* *
*

Faces of friends, of people i met earlier
are  glittering stars on this late evening's
dark blue sky...their smiles are tattooed
in my mind...they're  hunched, going
lower by the days...slowed down by years.
it must be hard and painful...the arching,
the drooping of the neck, the curving spine,
they endure all, 'til each day's end...they rise
each new dawn...do what they still can do,
lest they stagnate in their aging ponds,
diminish to a state, where food, pills, or
forgotten information are forced on them,
......like drugs, injected into the veins

........................
these wee hours bring back the years...
they  have been good...never mind the
hard times...there were, there are good ones
life is a long, wide stream of changing hues,
flowing on and on....my water bears the
colors each new day brings...gray, at times
with sadness and gloom....other days,
blacked by despair...some summers, red,
roseate with glee, or green with life and
hope...blue, when trust is spilling, and
the tranquil sea and sky overwhelm,
with a promise of stability..........white,
when accepting......the unacceptable...
........................
the amber grains and i, are alike
ripened enough to be plucked
be pulled out from an existence...the
signs are known...shown...yet, we wait
for when it is due to happen...and while
waiting, the stalks sway, play and dance  
and enjoy the sun and wind...and i,
while i still can...walk, jump, climb hills
and valleys in this mammoth space
of land and water.............called life
...................
the sounds of my days, i still hear,
i am a lute, a harp, a cello...playing
off-key.....out of tune at times,
my strings are my graying hair,
i still can't stop dying the gray
i still want to highlight the dark,
but, one day, all these will cease...
............
one night, my face will be in one of those
many stars...glittering on a dark blue sky
sending a smile, to my loved ones...
...................
there is no other way, but forward
all are headed....towards an end...


Sally



© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
      June 26, 2018
...ahhh, the rains...do make us reflect longer on life...
Valsa George May 2016
Like a toddler taking maiden steps
The narrow stream moves through the woods
Tripping and falling over pebbles and boulders
Chiming its silver anklets

Forcing itself in irrepressible flow
It thrusts and shoves its way down
Through thickets and a line of ferns
And the tangle of creepers and thorny brambles

Drowning the whisper of bamboo leaves
Its sweet murmur falls in my ears
As an eternal living melody
The cosmic song heard over eons

As the water sluices down the rocks
It becomes a frothing braided torrent
Producing a harsh grating roar
Like the crescendo of a tribal symphony

There it forms into a small pool
With its waves gently rippling
Where birds merrily come to take a dip
And sunning their feathers, fly back refreshed

Sometimes travelling unseen
It suddenly emerges into the open
Cutting its way through cracks and fissures
Never willing to surrender before hurdles

With a bearing immaculate in grace
It sends out waves of pure delight
What joy it is to watch the dilly dally
Of this sedate pilgrim moving to its destination
Brother Jimmy Feb 2018
And While we are in
Conversation here
So many humans
Have expired, I fear...
 
Each moment brings
New life and new death
Final words spoken
And baby’s first breath
 
Life’s currents unbearable
Meand’ring through confluence
The sublime and the terrible
Don’t know their own consequence
 
The rush and the curve
Create oxbow crescents
The vim and‪ the verve
Ensure each one’s presence
 
And all we can do
Is react and observe
(Our own bent deeds too)
And endeavor to serve
 
Either the self
That glutton of grease
Or somebody else
And attain inner peace

Or at least a brief break
From worry and strife
Hold on to the harness, take
Joy in this life!
Ian Johan-Gomez Mar 2016
I feel a grim satisfaction as mud splatters on my white shoes.
What an appropriate metaphor for early adulthood.

My problems are not my own.
The sociological imagination has never
seemed so applicable.
We’ve all been dosed up
On dashes of passion,
splashes of intelligence
and just enough anxiety and depression
to approach existential nihilism and
We’re fed these lies of individuality but
We Know
we are only products of our youth and culture,
ones of many in the long production line
We claim
We are Art,
but We Feel
we’re just generated from streams of code,
prepared to fight to the death for
some algorithm that doesn’t even matter
And so I protest
I can’t just be a number
I am flesh and blood,
my knees are buckling under the
weight of this artificial perfection.
I’m not just a number,
My eyes are staring at the
the marks that
determine my worth, knowing
success is my only option
i am not just a number
My sanity is sinking and
drowning and
constantly fighting to stay afloat
But I am not just a number. -
My mind tells me I’m not making it--
How are these other people making it?
I’m determining my worth
on sets of standards that are as worthy as dust
And it is with these standards i am told
I am just a number.

I feel like
I can no longer speak
because I’ve been
shouting
at the top of my lungs
I AM NOT JUST A NUMBER

But my voice
is too quiet
And the world
is too loud.

I’m so tired of trying to be heard.
Yet these words still sound better
when I scream them,
not just scrawl them down
on scraps of paper.


for someone so happy
I'm so very angry.
for someone so happy
I'm so very sad.
Marigolds Fever Sep 2018
The Stream
Carries the mighty twig along
Through its winding turns
Gets stuck under a rock
But not for long
When the fisherman comes
And pushes it to the dock
There it hangs out
For awhile
Making new Friends
Near the wet branch pile
Some are thick
Some are thin
Some are cracked
And some are its twin
A sudden big splash
The kids have jumped in
Off the twig goes
Where it ends up
It does not know
Entwining with another twig
Around each lily pad
Like perfectly aligned dancing feet
That must have been meant to meet
Together they move swiftly through the water
Stuck underneath some large kelp
Its liked friend is there to help
Over the mini waterfalls they flow
Never really know which will let go
Eventually it starts to pour
And a wave crashes them to a shore
Together they are not no more
One transcends to a useful walking stick along the ridge
The other becomes part sandcastle bridge
Stopped serving their purpose
They did not
At midnight they are tossed back in
Rough waters ahead
They start to spin
Mighty twigs gave it their best shot
And then they began to slowly rot
Charlie Dog Sep 2018
I sit by the stream
and listen.
lapping the rocks,
like children's feet
patting across the pavement
on a summer afternoon.
listen–
you can hear the laughter;
little giggles.
jumping and playing
as it flows by.
Lauren R Apr 2018
Lately at night I’ve been feeling listless, my mind churning thoughts in the tepid cauldron of my brain and spinning about how my name is erased from fond memories and funny stories, replaced with "someone" and my heart is no longer on my sleeve but on my feet and the only time it rests is when I sleep after a day of walking and crushing it with every beat but I can’t sleep, not til 5 am, an hour before my alarm clock screams and I dream of old women birthing cherubs, their angelic hair like hot wire vivisecting their poor hosts’ bodies and a picture of me is sent to you and you say God, remember when we were friends? And then you laugh
Sally A Bayan Aug 2018
..


Save from the hidden nests of birds,
it was the only one there...isolated,
like an isle...crested on the leveled
top of a gorge...its way down or up
was through a hand-carved series of
steps on its *****...at its front was a
curved gorge......one would think,
it was trying to cross over

the cottage was small, weather-beaten,
desolate......its wooden walls seemed to
have shrunk...its faded colors proclaimed
its age...its having survived past storms....
from its window, the stream was seen,
and heard, flowing on and on between
these two precipitous valleys.

light came from the sun...and moon,
music was provided by the murmurs of
the forceful wind, the continuous flow of
water on the stream, the stirring of the leaves,
the crackling of branches and twigs, the birds'
singing in the spring...the pounding of heavy
rains on its roof...and countless other hymns
of nature......the dweller had heard them all...

beneath a lonely moon glow,
when nights were cold,
there hovered low 'pon its aged roof,
rounds of layered fog...like a series of
steps....like a stairway to the sky...
fog slyly crept, and wilfully shrouded
the cottage.....it vanished from view,
the two gorges and the stream, hushed,
in the dark loneliness of that secluded
spot......their vulnerabilities, trapped
inside....misshapen silhouettes...

in light and in dark,
the whistles of nearing and departing
boats....were wailing, haunting calls,
piercing the peaceful calm of the valleys, or,
maybe, the stilled complacence of the cottage,
or...of the one living in that lonely cottage,
...lost, or gone astray, now weary and worn,
willing to be found...longing to be reunited
.......with the light and warmth of love...

the cottage, the gorges, and the stream
would be loneliest,
without the cottage dweller...


Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
August 27th, 2018
"...no man is an island..."
Shofi Ahmed Feb 2018
It always does before I can see
before my foot, my heart
goes out to the sea.

Like the East, like the West
every pole comes in full circle
around this quay.

Far from the bottom of the land
every drop of water spills out
streaming along the rivers
march over to the sea.

I too pop up branching in
with the widest circle sliding
down to this so big but lingering dip.

Therein the sea when a river
looks for the bottom
a star up above in the sky
without a rope without a roof
looks for its peak!

Eye on but touch not
keep off the Moon.
It's for the sea.
For the Moon
the sea too is a Moon!
Umi Apr 2018
All present in the stream of time,
Connected they build a line, a river which flows uninterruptedly,
The here and now, is the future of a pasts dream, a wonderous reality,
It is the futures past, the memories recorded within the depths of it
Gravity distorts time, causing it to slow down till it's stopping point lensed from a black hole, lurking within shadows of remorse in space,
Fished out from the sea of passing events, it keeps flowing, but now it does so while not including the fallen one who embraced a blackhole,
Time only knows one path, straight ahead with no slips and turns,
The present is the pasts future and what was thought to be possible,
It is the little wealth every living being possesses yet it is overseen and forgotten, until the moment of ones death drives gladly near,
From the womb to the tomb, drowning within the waves of a temporal lengh, the event of an entity's existence and its period.
A pace for an allotment, given from the complaints of an worldly life,
Spend it well, unlike the spring we cannot turn the tide, recycle again!
But for that matter the world of dreams holds a sweet embrace to all,
After all, you don't need to die in a dream.

~ Umi
Shofi Ahmed May 2017
The truth isn’t hidden forever
The sun is behind the Moon
it’ll find the bottom of the night
will pick it up upon the rose.

See whose shining
streaming down into a dew?
On the way though maybe
some storms one or two!
Maybe, this thing does not matter.
It feels like a current,
But maybe it’s just another stream
with the promise of leading to the sea
when it’s truly
just heading for a lake.

Maybe, I can watch the ducks paddle over the water
and the twigs float on by.
It could be that this is how you learn,
that your gut doesn’t have eyes.

But it could also be how you learn
that there are some things
no eyes can see.

Whether it be
for the worsening or for the bettering
you are floating down this river
an island in the water
it’s viscosity carrying
you, with your hands
at the side of your hips


where you’ll end up
grace cannot be too far
when you follow the flow
who knows where you’ll end up
maybe next to those ducks
or in the vast open sea
madyson shaye Sep 2017
I am as strong as I want to be, because right now I care more about leaning out and taking in as few calories as possible. Losing the pounds in order to gain 'em back, you know? There's very few questions that truly have a right or a wrong answer, and I believe that with 98% of me. Sometimes a right answer simply means it is socially acceptable and a wrong answer is the truth, so in that situation you'd want to throw away your moral compass, clench your jaw, and hope that the lies that come out just result in pearly, shiny teeth.

you take a sip of something and it tastes like, ummm.. bad. it tastes like deceit, but that isn't totally possible (OBVIOUSLY), so in a literal sense it just tastes like the Coca Cola syrup that didn't have any carbonated water mixed with it. It's sweet, flavorful, but kind of tastes like it could erode my car engine in a matter of seconds, you know?

I feel the sip deep inside of my body, I can feel it trailing down my esophagus (is that what it is?) or maybe just my throat, a tube to my stomach and then to parts of me I better just not try to name out of fear of sounding stupid. fear of sounding stupid drives the majority of things I do, but that's okay, because at least I don't sound stupid.

the sip gets caught in the pit of my gut and I start to feel uneasy. I probably should have looked at the bottle before sipping it, huh? I probably should have asked for a detailed list of ingredients like the responsible wanna-be-vegan I should be? I call myself a wannabe most things. its just the person I am.

I take a seat because I don't feel good. this is going to hurt, this is going to land me in the hospital probably and might take a whole while to get over. this is turning too literal and I'm trying to beat around the bush, so ill just tell you about the time I took a sip of a coke can and a bee was inside and it flew around in my mouth for a solid 5 seconds before I managed to open, spit, and scream. that could be poetic if you really hunt, like I waited 5 whole seconds to get the monstrous bee out of my ******* mouth, I just sat with a confused look on my face for 5 whole seconds!!! thats a whole giant metaphor! I still swallowed the Coca Cola and it tastes like ***.

IMAGINE THAT people- poison only takes like poison once you've swallowed it.
KM Hanslik May 4
I am giving myself over to her now
my wings blackened from the flight here
but she takes in all sorts of strays
they roll onto her doorstep like drunkards chasing dreams down the gutter,
warm embrace me now before it's too late
warm come-hold-my-hand-I-can't-do-this-alone
and she is always waiting
she is full of light and swaying over trees
she is heavy toppled over like a picket fence yet light as helium
and I want to know her
and I want to bask in her bed
and she is endless
and I will never know how many others have come before or how many my lineage will leave,
but I float away in time down a stream (so-narrow-tuck-my-limbs-in-scream)
at the edge of the bank,
my body shrinks and expands;
I am a crumbling masterpiece I am awaiting either 1) reconstruction, or 2) damnation
(reunification)
on a while, I ride my ego home
illusions are spellbinding in the jungle
she twists at my ankles, prickles under my skin
(am I in?) Who knows what kind of state this is
but through the wall, she calls to me
alone at last
we cease to be.
Next page