once we met, loved, kissed,
hug and talk a lot to each other.
now we see each other,
and looked away our eyes,
as we forget our past.
we forget who we were, and are.
forgot the love,
which flourished
between our kisses
and warmth of our hug.
we forgot the color of our smile
and dazzle of our eyes.
i am not sure that it was you or it was me,
but yes! we forgot,
who decided first to start this forgetness.
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| Winter in pastel
Snow falls on snow North wind whistles through the pines The lonely crow calls The fire crackles The window pane cries tears of confusion in the early morning sun Love in laughter Toes tangle beneath the quilt Summer can wait —cphowes |
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There she stood, fleeing from her fears
A big clear ocean stands before her
She can’t see life the same way she used to
There’s a void in her, there’s loneliness
Pulsing, wanting to go back in time
To fix her gestures, under the moon she lays
One foot upon the shore, a single exhale
She let the sadness eat her up, inside deep
Floating between the waves, eyes closed
Giving her life to the most precious thing left
The only thing that ever made her feel alive
Time after time, her footseps were gone
Walking aimlessly, her love to life was lost
As the ocean hugs her, her inhales were at sea
One with her, no more running, she is free.
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|
We move as wild birds, swiftly, but not failing to stop and recoup the vast expanse that clears above us- the sky moving westward, making room to hold in it both full- one waning in its leftover gold the other reclaiming its voluminosity a strange concurrence of two lights set upon the moving dome. The spruce bearing its wood pines among silent trees in a restless rustle- as if mimicking the old whitewater that runs miles below the tremendous mountains, in a low, muffled harmonic we gladly tune into; and quaint birds chanting age-old wind-age trapped in cracks of tree barks and curvatures of stones that turn sharply as we climb- they say the higher you climb the deeper you go; the more you hear, the more you know. Lung ta prayer flags strung upon shiny mountain ridges, call for a different breed of peace- five colours dyed on thin cloth, for the mountains can be brutal in the dearth of tincture and translucent winds often call for revival in desperation- today, we are coloured in them. These bring you good fortune, daughter, the Tibetan woman selling keychains on the foot of the hill before we started, whispers once more as the campfire dies down, the last light gone, and we return to our lodgings. We rest as wild birds at midnight soundless, warm in our shelters nestling with fine tea and good food, for we must sleep well to wake up in time to taste the tangible rays of golden light as they lay gentle and godlike upon the massive rubble the earth is. The small dreamcatcher hanging on my hiking bag should keep us from wayward nightmares from far beyond that come hunting for paradise. |
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Form colour texture shape
Do they singly or in blend
Define what we see as beauty?
Is it how the limbs are made
The curving contours or
The hidden depths unseen?
Can genetic imperative alone
Something so banal be why
Or does some other force apply?
Undoubtedly we are attracted
Are all designed to look
And gender is no key
Despite the jests on paper bags
The face is all-important
A smile an invitation glance
When the loved one looks your way
Is it you who fills those eyes
And that one you really see?
By Stuart Aken (UK)
Genres: Love, Philosophical, Relationships, Romantic.
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A pot of boiling water
By Matt Bloom
@matthew_bloom
When you turn up the heat
To that of dynamite and a bee sting
Pouring it over the skin in anger
It cracks and flakes, sears like a stake
Is that hate?
Is it the water?
It’s the calculation
The tick tick of the clock
And the racing thoughts in the minutes
as the pan births bubbles
and beads of sweat drip drip
down your nose
Salty, evil drops of sweat
Born from whiskey losers
Do you turn off the flame once it bubbles?
Or leave it burning as you
Tiptoe up the stairs
As he sleeps with his lover
Where does the steam go?
It runs into the moldy ceiling tiles,
And through the roof and into the sky
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I found an old brass button in my back yard.
It once adorned a Union soldier’s uniform,
And lay among the blades of grass almost a hundred and fifty years.
It waited patiently, finally to be discovered.
How many times had I stepped over it, or mowed past it, never to notice?
I had lived on the property for ten years, and there it lay the whole time,
But there it lay for all the previous years combined.
I picked it up to see the eagle still proudly spreading wings beneath the clustered bits of dirt,
And realized, I may have been the first to touch it
Since the soldier whose uniform it once embellished last pushed it into the button hole.
Likely, he had camped on this ground.
My house, over a hundred years old, was not standing then.
This hillside was likely pasture rolling up above the county courthouse.
They had burned this tiny town to the ground, left it in ruins,
And left anguished survivors to rebuild, and try again.
My mind envisioned the battle, gray and blue uniforms soaked in dark red blood,
Fierce screaming rage, gunshots echoing among the oaks, and bayonets stabbing.
America’s bloodiest war left almost seven hundred thousand dead,
And those who died were brothers and friends, family and neighbors.
Many sacrificed that others might have freedom previously deprived.
Could this one have lived to face another day, or did he die on the ground where I was standing?
Did his blood saturate this sod, and marry the red clay deep beneath my feet?
Was this button ripped off his jacket as his corpse was dragged away,
Or, did it merely fall unnoticed from thread worn thin?
If he survived, what wounds did he carry from this place,
Wounds that others could not see?
Did fitful nightmares of battle cries make him sweat through cotton sheets?
Did he startle, half from his skin, at the snap of a twig?
Did he sit alone and weep with guilt and remorse for those he loved who fell beside him,
Or did he grieve for those, once his countrymen, whom he had killed?
Did someone weep for him while watching his silent torment,
Or weep because he had never come home?
Only a guess is possible now.
As I held the button in my hand, I could not help but wonder, who last touched it,
And what was he like?
Where did he come from,
And where did he go?
Whoever he was, he swayed my heart, and made me think.
Without knowing I would ever live, much less come to stand in this place,
He touched me.
Whoever he was, he honored me that I could hold this small button in my hand,
And wipe the years of bitter dirt away
So it could shine again.
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