Since I recently have started writing again I thought it would be best to keep them in one thread instead of a million separate ones... Liquid Sunshine Liquid sunshine cherry goop Simmering rainbow soup Shimmering steel blue skies Reflect Zeus’ stormy eyes Fresh winds lift somber feelings Evoking universal healings Provoking men once unkempt Donning courage woven hemp Sipping soup scrumptiously stirred Discouragement magically cured Encouragement symbolically sings Spinning rainbow fairy wings Startled men suddenly fly Contagious laughter bubbling high Outrageous phenomena miraculously sent Meandering rainstorm spreading content.
The face on the bottle mirrors the soul her body walks without— laying naked on the beach immersed in her own shout reaching clawing for that face, her grasp is yet too weak, she has till tide to reach her face or forever hold her peace when ocean finds the bottle and holds it in embrace, down to seabed’s bottom away will go her face to mingle with fish once long, lost souls, lost long, long ago… people who lost them hunt forever for things they do not know. The girl in her struggle watches the sea sparkling under the moon, faces reflect all but hers ready to grab hers soon. “No!” She cries, jumps to her feet, grabs the bottle as if to take a swoon— staggering, waggering drunkard be she if she dare to drink in the moon. The bottle hovers in her crazy grasp and then falls to the sand with a clatter she laughs in the face of the face in the glass coming to a shatter. A million pieces lay on the sand as many as the sand— but each shard belongs to her, she finally took a stand. She lays back on the shore until first tide when ocean carries her body away, she smiles gently as she floats away and whispers her final say, “You can have my body “but you can’t have my soul, “you can’t have my face… “at least not whole.”
I really like the girl and the face on the bottle. I like the flow and how you played on words sometimes like 'once lon lost souls lost long long ago' and "she laughs in the face of the face in the glass". Quite a simple poem really, almost like an old fable or tale. I like it a lot. Looking forward to reading more of your posts. Peace, A.
i like your voice and whimsical tone, it pulls your reader in well...i prefer the second of your poems, i like the concept and you have some good imagery, and as red pointed out, good word play...
I am here, right here, where are you? Faded photographs, wispy memories, a fog induced stupor. Trembling in waking life, a periphery engulfed in smog. A crocodile bog may await your fall, or nothing. You spend your whole life quaking in fear but it is only your own conjured nightmares grinning from below. In the meantime, you get snagged by a hawk lurking above. You are what you imagine. Instead of dreading invisible monsters, demons, snakes! Give life to fairies, flowers, sunshine. The day is yours! Beauty awaits! You have only to dream….
Mushrooms sprout— Some get stomped on— but not a single mushroom utters a sound of protest. Some fear abandonment, some expulsion, others fear they’ll get stomped on again— but the worst are those who don’t fear anything at all are those who believe they deserve to be crushed— that they are nothing, worthless. These are the ones who when they grow big and fat, as mushrooms tend to do, stomp on all the smaller mushrooms, continuing the hateful, abominable behavior. A few brave mushrooms crawl through the mud in a starless night and carry themselves to a field of daisies, daffodils, sunflowers, and even a few tulips. They each breathe a sigh of relief and try to move on with their lives, in a non-mushroom sort of way, forgetting their past and all the mushrooms stuck in the mushroom field. But one brave soul puffs out his mushroom chest and denies nothing. “A mushroom is a mushroom is a mushroom,” he says. He screams, he rants like no one has screamed and ranted before to anyone who dares listen, like no one has listened before. He scrapes his last few pennies together and eats them for supper. Little mushrooms grow under a sky a little pinker, a little lighter, a little brighter. Mushroom chests stand a little prouder, taller, sprightlier. Whispers are heard in a once hushed night. At last, the mushroom field has begun to stir.
