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 Dec 2024
Carlo C Gomez
~
Hand and needle,
weapons of mass protection.
Mending day called solace,
bitterness in every stitch.
When all guides disappear
the hand begins to tremble,
that is the material point.
Listen to the water,
the sea is full of memories.
It knows everything,
it feels nothing.

A rage is building.
The sails unfurl,
the wind follows.
A hundred years of
traversing the deep
on a ship full of opiates
and other distant mermaids.
This blood vessel,
cresting the heart of the wave,
you will never completely cross
this body of water
until you learn to trust
the hands that hold back
death and it's squall.

Even now they drop anchor, singing
into the starry sky:

"Gather ye fishermen's wives
As thy men roll out to sea
Pray one and all
Thy sails hold strong this day..."

~
 Dec 2024
Nat Lipstadt
when does the poem end?


creation is never ending,
the earth is endlessly morphing

but you lean back and say
enough
not because the poem
is finished,
for it is never finished,
because an exhalation feels
satisfying, releasing

but the poem never ends,
nor does the need to

exhale

not with the final .


the next poem is

but a

continuation

of the previous poem;

a continuation

of you~poem,

inhaling

and

exhaling

& morphing.

Sat Jan 7
7:57am
Go into the arts. I'm not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something. ~Kurt Vonnegut
 Dec 2024
jordan
as the cold december moon
descends into her mountain tomb
and dies another morning death
her light enshrined within my breath

i will remember her

within this fragile moment
and her glorious midnight shine
for she exists as borrowed light
just as my life is borrowed time
 Dec 2024
J
The sea is a man who takes without asking
bruising you endlessly, soft as undertow
His touch a quiet violence
Yet still people come, drawn to the light
the shimmer of morning sun on water
The glint of shells and sea glass bright
Seeing only the beauty, the grace
not what lurks beneath the surface
The sea knows how to hit
To drag you back and carve his name deep
A quiet ache left in the wake of water
Salt water slips into the cracks
Spreads like fingers on skin
Darkening every place it touches
he takes what he wants and leaves what he likes
her pain eroding into the shore
and while the tide still hurts
and the salt still bites
she can do nothing but
whisper defiance
into the night
 Dec 2024
Unpolished Ink
If you take my words
you are stealing sand
which belongs to everyone,
there is plenty on the beach,
we share a bucket of language
play, make a tower of your own devising,
the castles I build are mine, and mine alone
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