Her hands full of sand,
Letting it sift through in the wind,
I look in and say take this,
This is what I have saved,
Take this, Hurry.
(Jodie graham,
from “prayer”, never)
//River//
"I'd always found myself,
At the shore,
Going deeper,
The longer I stayed,
The farther I went,
Immersed in,
The river.With every time,
My desire to go deeper,
Doubled,
An uncontrollable urge,
Almost,
L'appel du vide,
But, I'd always stop,
Dimly aware of the world,
I'd have to get back to,
Before I reached the point of,
No return.Almost there,
Almost lost,
Almost finding,
What I truly wanted; Chained,
By the shackles of the reality,
I had to return to,
But, reality,
Gave me an answer.
Answer?
Well, illusion,
With the puffs of smoke,
I blew out,
Drunk,
Away from reality,
Chained; not aware,
Less painful than that
Unquenchable desire,
{That I have a vague remembrance of}.
Quenched? Not quite,
But, now when I step into the river,
I'm weak as I watch it flowing,
Drunken, dreaming,
The river overpowers me,
I falter standing at the bank,
Not daring to step in further,
Forgotten to explore,
Thirsty,
Weak,
Desparate,
I go back to reality,
To the illusion it showed me,
Trying to forget,
The river,
Myself.
(By Kumud)
My brain searches for an image
an image it can, for once,
decipher into a puzzle
so i can be less of an open book
and more of a story
you would pick off the shelf
in the library you've created
between your palms, my world
starts in the lines, as i read
what's written, is often more
than what you see, but i see
the lines you created on your own
im afraid these lines i reside in
won't ever take me there, for those are too far
and i fear wandering off into a world unknown
ever since you happened
i have known to be the book picked up less
and the dust scars my cover
but i have learnt to be picked up less
and so, i stay in the lines- reading.
(By Mukul Jindal)
I don’t begrudge the spring
for coming back again.
I can’t blame it
For doing its duty
The same as every year.
I realise my sorrow
Won’t halt the greenery.
If a blade wavers
It’s only from the wind.
(“Parting with a View”, Miracle Fair: Selected Poems of Wislawa Szymborska)
Full moon.
Evenings wrapped in red petals
of sumbal trees,
Ushering in a spring,
Till it all gets clothed
In the ominous sheets
Of darkness
As night crawls inside
The untouched corners
Of a house
That belongs to no one
The walls cave in
And the memories crumble
Under the weight
Of empty promises
And innocent hands
That haven’t been touched
By the moon
Blushing in the hue
Of a setting sky
The petals reflect
With their crimson
And spread in the wind
And rising clouds
Over tea cups
And incomplete conversations
Where once past used to be
Now is only a remnant
Of a picture frame
That has been broken
By time
And only dirt settles
Imbibed to the plane blackness
Trying to hold together
The memory that was once lived
Wholeheartedly
And now only
Breathes from under the rubble
Not enough to cause alarm
Only enough to exist
The demon walks through us
With a silence
Weaved over my lips
My eyes blinded by
False hope
My ears buried by the voices
Inside my head
They tell me I’m lost
When in fact
This is the first time
I’ve found
This is not
Who I used to be
For now,
The only bargain I make
At the altar of life and death
Is to remember
The person I was
Bruises and all
Fading in the evening sky
Till the moon rises again.
(Amna Ameer)
I held you like a victory,
embarrassed and relieved that
this was how you loved.
To the bone of you.
To the meat.
And we want the stricken
pleasure of intimacy,
so we risk it.
(Traci Brimhall, from “Fledgling")
Free flow between lows
to whoever is reading, i write to ease your pain. give you a brief distraction from what these fear feeds contain because i feel the hurting & the suffering of the world at the hands of extremely vain shapeshifting personalities that appear to only pretend to have our best interests at heart when their only aim is to seize our brains so they command us to listen & read their claims. i write to help to keep you sane in a world that's going insane so please stay safe.
(unknown) .
I. In March the earth remembers its own name.
Everywhere the plates of snow are cracking.
The rivers begin to sing.
In the sky
the winter stars are sliding away;
new stars
appear as, later, small blades of grain
will shine in the dark fields.
And the name of every place,
is joyful.
II. The season of curiosity is everlasting
and the hour for adventure never ends,
but tonight
even the men who walked upon the moon
are lying content
by open windows where the winds are
sweeping over the fields,
over water,
over the naked earth,
into villages, and lonely country houses,
and the vast cities
III. because it is spring;
because once more the moon and the
earth are eloping -
a love match that will bring
forth fantastic children
who will learn to stand, walk,
and finally run
over the surface of earth;
who will believe, for years,
that everything is possible.
IV. Born of clay,
how shall a man be holy;
born of water,
how shall a man visit the stars;
born of the seasons,
how shall a man live forever?
V. Soon the child of the red-spotted newt, the eft,
will enter his life from the tiny egg.
On his delicate legs
he will run through the valleys of moss
down to the leaf mold by the streams,
where lately white snow lay upon the earth
like a deep and lustrous blanket
of moon-fire,
VI. and probably
everything is
possible.
(Worm Moon
by Mary Oliver)
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