A Storm of Words - Hello Poetry

Mar 2

Lawrence Hall

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

The Seven Seeing-Stones

Good Tolkien writes of spring far better than we
With layered allusions to Celtic and Nordic myths
His Fairy Folk sing clearly in rainbow rhymes
Among the crocuses abloom ‘round ancient trees

My crocuses bloom ‘round a shaggy lawn
With garden furniture in need of paint
And morning coffee in a Tupperware cup
To serve as a greeting to the rising sun

Friend Tolkien writes of spring for you and me
And through his Seven Seeing-Stones – we see!

Mar 2

Carlo C Gomez

Wilderness of Mirrors

Beneath the arch,
        among the branches,
      the maunder of her eyes
           finds noir in an afterimage,
every reflection is unique,
    explicit and indivisible,
      every reflection is her,
      there she looks close
       for gracefulness,
            in the essays of her skin
              and their brazen transparencies,
         she enters into her body fable,
      the shape of her resembles
           the tenor viol: where it widens,
                  where it narrows,
                where it digresses
              and monochromes,
           she reflects a fragile geography,
             a soft cargo, but
               an inkling of hurricane,
             rendering the fault lines
          beautiful and strong,
       in supplication tomorrow's explorer
will disturb the patterns
   until she's become her own lullaby

#allure #beauty #beholder #reflection #selfesteem #bodyimage

Mar 1

Sonia Ettyang

Soulmates

Our souls do what they do best. Speak fluently in silence.

#soulmates

Feb 27

Nylee

Generative or degenerative

We are yielding to it in every phase,
Our own cognition grows faint and low.
We built intricate webs of thought,
Now code streams, where bright ideas go.

The ceaseless flood of digital tides,
The seamless assistance AI provides.
No space to strive, we're the data it feeds,
We heed the tech giants' gilded deeds,
And craft fresh forms of digital greed,
Become hooked and mesmerised
By new tales it feeds, new strategy devised.

The algorithms churn in server halls,
No truth escapes, behind those tall walls,
What unseen shifts, what hidden thralls.
So we are growing weaker still,
Our keenest senses start to chill.

The world is a filtered, growing haze,
Authentic feeling, no longer stays.

#nyee

Feb 23

Theresa Hartley-Mace

Red Sky in the morning

Well what a gorgeous sky this morning
It looks like the reflection of a field of beautiful tulips
It’s streaky red above my head
And down below
The pavement has a little glow
It’s is a little damp
From the morning due
Little tiny drops of water on each little blade of grass
But alas
The air is cool but fresh
There’s No one about but a few cars passing by
Peace perfect peace
It’s Sunday morning as the night draws nigh!
What a wonderful red sky!

Feb 22

Agnes de Lods

Dress

Her soul was torn apart
into a dozen shreds.
How would she sew it up?
Such pieces couldn’t be stitched together again.
And it was such a beautiful, pastel-colored dress.
There was everything in her—
The desire to create,
First love,
and everything that could yet happen.
Only trembling hands,
emptiness, fear, dry throat
and astonishment
that what had just happened
was merely a distant hour.
She wanted to return to her mother,
but she already knew the end
was coming on that frosty morning.
That girl would never come back to herself.

#dress

Feb 21

Coleen Mzarriz

Orange Juice and Apple Pie

I exist in the abysmal state of solitude, where I, whose existence survives in profound literary pieces, could fall short of mere words penetrated—cast against me. Where would I be if I can't find the right words to say?

In front of me is a sweet orange juice menacingly teasing me with its dazzling pumpkin hue. Beside it is the apple pie I swore my life I would never put in my mouth. Yet, the sun glistened brighter when I gently put my fork down and absurdly ate it with my eyes closed.

The sadness that lingers deep within enthralls me more, as I swiftly swallow and digest it without tasting all its flavors—just so I can return to reality. I try to keep it all together, even as my spirit is crushed by the thoughts that seep in, nipping at the edges of my soul—through the cracked window of my vision, and the half-drunk orange juice. These thoughts keep coming in, like an intense downpour after a shower. I have tried to write this simply, yet I could never find the right words to say.

I could never forgive myself.

the first whole month of this year felt like unending closure and goodbyes of the past and the future. i wasn’t living in reality but between these two. a lot has happened from the first month until this day. i felt like a child trapped in a 20-something adult’s body, and it’s terrifying to know that i will never meet that child again. it’s like a cold january and a warm fuzzy december being distant yet closer in edge.

i still can’t fathom those thoughts that i am already an adult. i have to work and try and fail until i come of age and die. it’s unnervingly a hard pill to swallow. and it’s making me sad.

televangelism - ethel cain

#eyes #sadness #sun #deep #hue #orange #soul #window #solitude #sweet

Feb 21

Cheryl Ann Warner

Cloudy day

A poem is an evening
When dark falls
The evening meal is served
Packed with emotions
Dessert is the ending
Feelings of warmth
Feelings of friendships
A poem is words
From the heart
It conveys
A beautiful start
A poem is an evening