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Obadiah Grey Jan 2012
Gleaning of the Owl.

Gimbal eyed and shrugged
on Oaken bough
before the bluffing of the Crow
before Rook caw and Raven croak
before the shriven threaded dawn-

to glean a silent measure.-
thrawn.
Lachlan Kempson Jan 2018
No easy ends - no simple way
to create a finale
of all that feeling,
buried deep. Trapped.

The heart - conduit
of all the good, and pure,
loving and fair
in that childlike innocence,

but too the cage,
controlled, emboldened, refused
by the cerebral gatekeeper.

Why let that emotion
out? Is it self-sustaining?
Should it be?

Searching in the thickness of grime
and the transparency of glass
both to find that balance
between self and self;

the self that needs its own,
and the the self that needs
its other.

To what end is the search
viable, in being separate
from the internal pervasion
of anxiety?

What does it mean to err irrepressively
from one side
to the other -

a seemingly ceaseless internal script
written drunkly, incohesively
scribbled across the walls -

is it damage?
A calamity of mentality
and an unsaveable prospect
to none of earth - and perhaps she knows.

So many things to ask, each
with an answer he doesn't have
or doesn't want to, tied
to questions he can't put into words,

for her sake, for his, for fear
for love or selfish compulsion -
there is no knowing.

Wordsmith indeed, unable to weave
the most fundamental askings,
but foolish enough to think
he has done it in his moments.

The tale of saving the broken one
has outlived its life
at the forefront of storytelling.
And still, she saves him.

In every word,
every touch,
every grasp,
every time
and every day,
she saves him.

And to think herself the wrong,
to take on the trial - the insanity
of only the loyal,
of only her.

The story is titled simply:

a crooked man,
and the perfect lady.
Anushka Dutta Dec 2020
and then..
and then..
then, you're standing in the kitchen -
your weight on your left leg,
the fan blades consistently cutting the air,
the irregular mouse-clicks ringing in your ears.
tiny cockroaches hustling about;
pulse throbbing,
vision blurry,
sweltering heat,
thick-fat-scarred-thrawn twirling lines; vertigo.
dingy, yellow t-shirt.
rustling murmurs, dimmed out groans.
smothered, crippled deadwood flesh.
tongue-tied entreats.
head-splitting vertigo.
the boundless horrors -
of one, cold, fathomless minute.

it's cold now.
it's cold, now.
the white-marble floor of barren feuds.
I wish someone were to find me, this night.
tender arms of wordless embrace.
cradled in love, my soulful gambles.
Hold out,
Hold on,
Hold back;
Hold me.
God forbid, I long for thee.
I seek thy flickering emerald eyes,
tracing my lass-shaped solitude - wistfully thine.
to scream with terror -
the blubbering toys,
the warmth of doldrums.
late-November's mourning drizzles,
roadside affections; words in vain.
merci, O darling, merci.
~A
Silence attacking
from deep in the hall
Damage inflicted
the metronome stalled
Blood in the orchestra
harmony thrawn
Melody slaughtered
— rhapsody gone

(The New Room: May, 2024)
Safana Jan 2022
Timeliness, the lines are drawn
To put a trap, to trap the fawn
Between twilight and the dawn
In a garden where it is a lawn

In the hunter's home there's yawn
Everyone's eye look like frogspawn
For their stomachs behaving gnawn
Just, as a hunger feel like blawn

The sky thunder is on the bawn
And the ocean waved and mawn
The fog in the space is withdrawn
Because, the sun will rise predawn

The squirrel's tail in the pond thrawn
  To cut the water lines with ripswan
In the forest, bamboo will hacksawn
So that the rabbits teeth are whipsawn

— The End —