I Do Recall

etherlighter:

We’d cross the bridges fenwards to the sun,
Perchance the tiled college floor between. 
You know the Castle Hill, the sunset one? 
The river is a dapple of the green

That lined the summer streets, reflected in
A mirror of the walk to market town. 
I do recall the strolling in the wind;
I do recall the willows drifting down. 

mermaid.

mademoisellechapeau:

The moon was lazy when he fell into the sea,

forgot to breathe for a second and drowned in deeper blue

when her smile stole his poise and a shiver of silver-gray dust,

some seamen still wonder about a gleam tied to the ground

and we weave tales in fishnets: his underwater love.

A Poem About Writing Poetry or Not Writing As The Case May Be

dr-gibberyshrooms-md:

poetry will never
come knocking at your door,
fully formed,
and eager to hop in your lap,
so don’t wait around,
bitching and moaning,
with one eye on the peep hole,
thinking maybe today is the day
that I write,
because it won’t be,
unless you write,
you see,
simplicity
is the key.

Allegory of the Cave

harp-song:

Not everyone thought it a life. He lived
it anyway. He hopped from trailer park
to trailer park—with each summer contrived
a different home but same A/C that’s dark
from dirt, the same dogs panting in a shark
shaped kiddie pool. The summers saw a slew
of new beer buddies, the same hands—with marks
of any working man’s—diving into
his ice-box for the next Pabst. Every summer grew
 
more like the last. His past always out ran
the future. Till one night he stayed outside
too late, the moon had risen with the span
of stars. He looked up and his beer and pride
fell to the ground. The dog had just untied
its rope and past the yard the world stretched on
to endless horizons. The friend beside
him grabbed his beer and gave it back. They yawned,
began pretending life again. But the next dawn
 
he stumbled out his trailer and wondered
how far his filthy, blackened feet
would take him if he could step past
the shadow he cast. The crickets played
their legs to break the quiet, as if to say
his too could be an instrument.

Credo #1

quirksofgrammar:

So-called authorities
hold their hands up,
palms out, saying, “Stop.”

She writes a poem in her palm
and places hers up to theirs.

c. QBH

lessons-in-morbidity:

there is a trapdoor
somewhere
beneath my feet

I just know it.

Such simple, genius storytelling.

I’m just a child

ponderingcomplications:

I’m just a child
beholding the world
through naive eyes.
I play with the shadows
that laugh in the corner
of every room,
and I weave the sunlight
through the holes
in the concrete.

This world is beautiful
in its darkness,
and perhaps that is why
I trust it so.

Life weighs heavier 
than the hands of gravity,
and still I think
that it is bearable.

I’m just a child
growing in a world
where reality is as blurred
as my hands are
when they sift through the tide.
There is the saltiness of tears
and the sharpness of sand,
and still the sea is lovely,
and still it calls me home.