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Métis, Themis, Ma’at, their banter was for naught.
All the tides and tithings wisdoms and their teachings, Daemonium forgot!

But the heavens cry  manna as Nix cried out reprieve!
An act that loosed the flood, the chaos of her sea.

Her pain arose a champion to tend to all her needs,
Formed of Celestial Ocean he bore down on the freed.

A giant wave of madness, thrusting mist of sadness eradicating gladness... One led the ruthless breed.

Opaque in their beginning, formless shapes in twining.
Conjoined but not together, accompanied the weather.
Thalassa’s stringy tether wrapped them all forever.

Come or go in seasons, live or die in age.
No Spring to Fall in reasons, travailing of the mage?
Black tentacles the streamers, rooted into wave.
Witness the all-wise and snaking phantom phage...

Chiron watches while he prances, his dressage on the shore.
Arising liminal of beings wettened ambiguity of yore.
Even Iblis is impressed, such black rotten to the core!

Merkabah or egg, mountain, belly, tree they squabble.
All elements do I cobble, such are actions of the wobble.
Nico Julleza Aug 2017
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Seems to be a strange day
a cold in the breeze
in the months of May
screeching’s of the door
a mist at the windows
broken pane

The room was lonely
as the leaves, out whirling
a thump at the ceiling top,
rolling, shackling
like those ogling cats
for a savoring mouse

From an ominous weather
to the whispering waters
a crack brought my most
—attention
uncanny things lurking
came falling within

I saw streamers
faking shimmers
I saw glitters
but aren't gold
I saw diamonds
yet it wasn't snow


A strong wind gushing
hoist the storm came
toiling, warping
heaven and earth
were felonious, winced
and everything was settled

Crystal drops touching
the tender heart abrupt
shattered glass striking
a sorry won't be sought
memories engrave nothing
flagrant it is to mend

Crystal drops falling
true friends come for once,
an astral to a feeling
stalwart is to be keeping
till when, twas its end
and all of this begins again
#True #Friendship #Love #Rain #Crystal #Drop

Yes Dear Poets.. You will know the Feeling of this poem..

(NCJ)POETRYProductions. ©2017
annh Jul 7
You build your nest of pretty words,
Sly threads of verbiage,
Plucked from outworn phrases,
Secondhand sentiments and frayed metaphors.

A thorny simile, a faded pink ribbon,
Of rhetoric woven with silky streamers;
A warp and weft of fond and found,
Borrowed references and stolen verses.

You recycle the shining heart,
Of another’s penmanship,
Modelling it into a tarnished,
Uninspired and untitled composition
...OF YOUR OWN...

‘I get a lot of big ideas, and occasionally I actually come up with one myself.’
- Bauvard, Some Inspiration for the Overenthusiastic
Confetti and streamers
The music played by the universe
Oh so free
Never heard, deeply felt
Slow on the breeze in a second to freeze
Distant temple sounds of conches
Sacred Chants
Little bells jingle mid air
No strings simply free
Of mossy trails
Snow stilled lakes
Vast expanse
Not one soul to dance
Free untouched
No trails to follow
Nor to leave
Magically written
And erased on the glassy slate
Never seen yet closely known
The trees of ancient world
The bark thick and strong
A house to dream
Ten storied tall, lasts long
A place so cool, full of warmth
Of the cashmere shawl
Paisley embroidered wrap around
In colours of the valley flowers
Shikara dreams
Written 10th of August,
2:45 am
Unedited thoughts
HORROR SCOPE

Turned the key
and the darkness exploded

into "SURPRISE!"
apparently I was

" a jolly good
fella!"

The room rocked....lit up!
It was all streamers and bunting.

******* I hate
my birthday...and parties.

My Mars was in retrograde
in my third house so

it was no
surprise.

My commitments, ideas and
short-distance travel...were shot!

All the planets
had turned up.

I was a Cancer but
with a Leo rising.

I had thought my moon
was in Venus but

there it was in the kitchen consoling
Pluto being thrown outta the Planet Club.

Uranus was being chatted up
by Kevin Bailey

discussing haiku
and tilt and ****.

Uranus was drunk as a skunk
rolling around the room on its side.

A Māori chap addressed
the sky-king-star as Whērangi

and it sobered up
its southern collar blushing.

My horror scope told me:
"There was a light and easy atmosphere

with today's planetary energy."
but I hadn't expected this.

"Ok you guys..party's over
everyone out...now!"

The planets reeled down the road
not in alignment...singing drunkenly.

"Jeez!" I said
in a Woody Allen voice.

"I hate my birthday.
And surprise parties!"
Dimly lit atoms eating the scenery with a scream;
The electricity of lamps hum the dusk
Until the  gnats and fireflyes break into suborbital routines
Calling ghosts home from the thrush

The GRAVITY of Scorpios delineating
the event horizon of Saggitarius A
reclaims my brother’s matter from streets where his molecules,
shattered, scatter ed.
The streamers bleeding with color left too long in
The shadows, drawing flesh out of teeth,
the brutal artists beating
his face past healing

Every
breath draws every thing into his vestibule,
His **** ridiculed
with alabaster pips.
Time as a prism cel developing him
as hammered tin,  the flesh simply pressed
into emotion’s visage, a
state of Anger.  Land of Betrayal.  Cauterized Hope.
The Leviathan, capillaries architecture from curiosity,
Amelia tannins stitching heart pulp into usable robes the
cleric sustain through evolution, the
blood red coagulating in devotion
to leaves, countless leaves
bound to reams
of books,
of text stuffed into the corners
of UNIVERSE

And still he's cursed
Patricia Arches Oct 2018
I always remember how as a child, I would always go out for an adventure. My true identity as a wanderer is what I believed it to be, a child’s simple curiosity is what they branded it as. I was nine when I went down to the riverbank and breathed in the fresh air for the first time as I watched my brother skip stones against the river’s seamless stream. Not much could be heard but the patter of the rocks and the very breath of my lungs in the morning dew. I remember picking up that one rock that my brother carelessly lay to the side and putting it in my pocket.

On the way home, I could hear my mom shouting our names. She always had to tell us to come on home before the sun would set, but I never minded for more adventures awaited in the house. Dungeons and dragons is what we called these games. There was never a damsel in distress, but a duel to the finish line, a prize of milk and fresh cookies. Forts were architecturally placed around walls of pillows and streamers of blankets. In the center lay a solitary flashlight to emphasize our voices when there were stories to share. I always put clips in my pocket, just in case the fort would fall. I was the repairman.

My grandpa was never the one to shy away from big puppy dog eyes and small grinning teeth. He was a sucker to the pretty pleases with extra sugar on top. Chocolate was never past his reach and always in his hand, but so were his complimentary hugs with each and reassuring pats on the back. The forehead kisses were sweeter than the candies itself and much more worth it. I was his grandchild, the one blanketed with warmth and love, compassion and dreams. I was a result of his love. I place the candy wrappers in my pocket for mother never enjoyed a litter bug.

Now, I slip my hand into my pocket. There is no candy wrapper, no smooth pebble, or handy clips. There is no anything but an empty pocket, completely and absolutely empty. It is cold and black and quiet yet readily available for the next smooth pebble or bright orange pick to strum a guitar and claim me as a musician. If I put my hands in my pocket there is nothing, yet there is everything left of the wanderer, of the repairman, of the grandchild. My pockets are empty; simply in lacking of something to make it full …for it is in the simple emptiness of my pockets where I can create my identity, for it is in the simple emptiness of my pockets where I can place my dreams. Emptiness doesn't always have to be just empty. Empty makes room available to be full.
I wrote this in my final year of high school. It was a prompt where we had to write about what was in our pockets. Mine were empty so I decided to make a lesson out of it. A lesson out of the beauty of an emptiness.

— The End —