Since she walked away I haven’t known what to do,

With all of my colors that have turned gray–I’ve been left to only feel this color of blue,

As there’s not a shade in this world that could ever replace her hues,

My sight and mind has been left in a haze–and left ever so confused,

With my eyes that stay closed–for I’ve been blinded by the truth,

Wherein the only thing my eyes want to see–will no longer be in my view,

So go ahead and paint my world however you wish and want to,

As you can paint my whole world with the most vibrant and amazing hues,

But until the day that she returns–all my eyes will see is gray and blue
Alyssa Underwood Apr 2017
Might there be a fountain
where souls long dead from thirst
find spirits raised to life in floods abounding free,
so that what once walked as corpse,
night-bound and blind, may see?
Old self exchanged for Treasure, diving in
tastes such rejuvenation as can't
be weighed by mortal measure—
wine unlike our earth-grown fruit whose petals fall,
from this Vine flowers the pleasantness of Love Divine
which bathes in healing waters all
who come as humble newborn with bold suck to dine.
"Jesus answered, 'Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.'"  John 4:13-14

"Then Jesus declared, 'I am the bread of life. He who comes to Me will never go hungry, and he who believes in Me will never be thirsty.'"  John 6:35

"On the last and greatest day of the Feast, Jesus stood and said in a loud voice, 'If anyone is thirsty, let him come to Me and drink. Whoever believes in Me, as the Scripture has said, streams of living water will flow from within him.'"  John 7:37-38

"'I am the vine; you are the branches. If a man remains in Me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from Me you can do nothing.'"  John 15:5

***

Structure inspired by a poem from the journal of Jim Elliot

Repost
Stu Harley Aug 8
it
lurked
wherever
i
go
the
paper tiger
walked
upon
the snow
what
is
orange and black stripes
and
camouflaged
by day and by night
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
I
A flower that smells of pure bliss keeps an ear to the ground
It's a serene one sitting beneath the stars down on earth
The moon, far, far, seven seas away, loves to drop into her lap.

The Bay of Bengal billows, music has gotten beneath the skin.
The leaves furl out off the deep wood with the birds
singing out to the top of the trees, rhyming with the leafy dance.
Heavensent, that was in one sanguine day in the spring.
The Mother’s Language Movement in 1952 sprouted like this
on the eighth of native Falgun month—oh magic did it unleash!

On that day our beloved brothers were shot dead
They could swallow the bullets with smiles but won’t give up
demanding the official status for the Bangla mother tongue.
Angels wrapped round the martyrs amid lamenting mothers
Laid them on Falgun’s perfumed ground bleeding corpses
Seas of roses bloomed and blew them out red, red kisses!

They are gone not the stone wall of consciousness they raised
Ah, at the sprout of the spring what were they echoing?
Ingrained deep in the soil the pre-designing voice in the planning?
Who can tell? The world gels on February 21 in celebrating!

The angels then snapped up our martyrs’ souls off the land,
placed them on a piece of Heaven where they can hear the jingle.
Down on earth, a nation springs up, has gotten its wake up call!
Stepping on the sweetening arc of the mother tongue melody
the stone turns a flower, all in a butterfly moment soaring to victory.
Thanks to the movement - Bangladesh itself later comes to be!

II
The sun comes down to the rose painting on the land
In the heavenly Falgun hues it nibbles some wild summer dreams.
“Serene songs of earth stirring the water,” like it comes into play,
rowing the cloud bubbles singing in southern breeze.
Ah, a walk on the sun-kissed kaleidoscope land is a pure bliss.  
Every blossom spray of the wind is soothing sweet
Hop on and play straight to the ruby heart, as if it's a flute.

Mother tongue means speak free, fearless, in full streaming.
Speak the heart to the world without the fear of losing the cloud
that will listen, bouncing back on the brink of the sky river.
Then what did one say, hear, or was awed by in the blooming Falgun?
Could it have been the spring humming in her native lingua
or King David singing in mother tongue by babbling brooks
what in any other language, even with a silver tongue, isn’t possible?

Allah has listened to our martyrs’ crying mothers and fathers
The martyrs’ souls whisk through the galaxies and starry fair.

Soar high over the clouds, take the rainbow's pot of gold away,
Like a hue turns 360-degree in the colourwheel bask into the colour.
Still, dip the toes in Bangla mother’s soil salted with perfumed art
Like Himalayan water swirling down melting deeper deep down
This magicland is polished for everyone be it you, a fairy, a star
or off the ploughed-out barrow a walked out wonder!

A pristine voice duo’s voiceprint gleans to the spring in muse,
Pops in a beauteous scurry and speaks in the mother tongue!
Hidden within the earthy depth, only emerges with time,
only dances in tangent, that day slipped out with the butterflies.
And finally the blue nymphs take the plunge drop down the sky  
That day the mother’s voice triumphed, whose is the most original!
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
Chris Neilson Jul 2016
Attended a dinner party with poets departed
secured a place in a fantasy scenario self created
Dylan Thomas did not go gently to the event
discussion with Yeats was heaven sent

Conversation with Shakespeare was bawdy and lewd
even brawling Brendan Behan found him crude
Wordsworth wandered in as lonely as a lakeside cloud
faced with his eloquence before me I bowed

John Cooper Clarke's showing brought mouths open wide
Jim Morrison spoke, "You've broken on through to the other side!"
The Salford Bard looked dead so they let him in
as refusing him entry a gratuitous grave sin

Heaney was asked for his views on Brexit
a number was taken for dear Seamus to text it
"Here come some women poets?", exclaimed Sylvia Plath
as Browning, Dickinson and Rossetti walked up a path

When I shuffle off this mortal coil
with relics scattered in suitable soil
eternal musing with all the above
would bring evermore everlasting love
Lynnie Defelice Aug 2017
She slid between the shadows,
of the walls in every room.
She hoped the sun wouldn't crawl her way,
as she cried for the moon.
She's learned to hide amongst the paint,
slipping in its depth.
Watching from the inside,
deceiving her own breath.
It was cold where she walked,
the night with wind so strong.
How could she know this smart escape,
when her heart was just so young?
Well you see, she never fit in,
this weird world of light.
So she fell away from the day,
and slipped from people's sight.
She saw into every person,
that thought they were alone.
They never knew she truly cared,
and from their heads she'd go.
Yet they felt this kinder relief,
when her shadow appeared towards theirs.
She would stand so brave and tall,
as she gave them all her air.
And one day she won't have enough,
she surely won't survive.
But she helped many others,
to make them feel alive-
This poem is about all the people that help others, but the others never realize. This poem is for all the introverts, including myself, who never really talk in public.
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