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Amanda Nov 2017
We are desperately clinging to the past
We cannot let it go
We clutch on to it with sweaty palms
Our grasp is slipping
We cling hopelessly to the familiarity of the past
But it can't last

We have to sever the grasp
Against our will,
the hold slips
Lost in the abyss of the past.

We must take an axe to our Roots
Nature will run its course and plant our seeds where they need to be
in order to evolve into a stronger, greater species
After letting go, we let the wind carry our soles elsewhere
Soles sink into new healthy soil
We look behind us
Waiting to see the past chasing us, struggling to catch up
But our eyes behold a new unfamiliar landscape
that's ready to take us through a new adventure

We evolve
We yearn for new self discovery
Passion sizzling in our stems
It may feel like a storm, but it is a mere shower that all flowers need in order to grow and blossom.
Poetic T Nov 2017
As I asserted my standing, slowly like sheep being herded
to a cliffs edge. They were each fading in painfully
hostile silence.. Have you seen something knowing that
this time no matter what, there isn't another existence
there is just obliteration of all there essence..

It was like candles being blown out by a chainsaw,
but a candle bled in a form of censorship.
With me though there ending crept through me
like I was feeling every torn filament undoing.
These picture once idyllic, but they were more
notable of what was befalling them and they ran.

Well not ran, the better word would be phasing
from one place to another, but the end result was
the same, a snow storm of embers fell around me.
So beautiful were the shades of each collection.
The aura a little different around each one that
was falling within me, but it was getting to much to
handle so many memories tearing through me.

I looked at the surroundings, it like autumn
leaves setting in snow, vivid emotions seeping
beneath my subconscious, I could see every
moment till that final breath... everyone was
so cold though, that last lingering moment of
fear gnawing within me like paper cuts writing
nothing but expressing everything in nothingness.

I had accumulated so many endings, such sorrow,
some happiness that the lingering moments were
fading. But this garden of white roses was being
blemished, consumed from within. I could still
see these things clinging beneath the surface..

"One with the will to live,
                   must first except the will to die,


"Our first inhale,
                     is exhaling the breath
that will eventually be
                         the last motion we do before death"


Then as this thought progressed through me,
I started to remember things of before?
              before I was a human popsicle.
There were so many machines, so much death
paused in its final exhale. Faces in slumber,
flowers painted around this garden of oblivion.

I looked around, and the bricks of conscious
memories were corroding no longer ethereal,
what was formed now seemed to have vines
collecting within them, contorting what was
pure. I gathered my presence and heeded that
what ever was consuming this place.

"Roses wilt not because
                 of time,
          but they sense the fading of love,



These thoughts were gaining pace in my subconscious.

"Memories are some time better
                       left under the carpet
sometimes we can sweep pain away,


I started convulsing, then once again regained
my composure. was this me or the memories that
we ashes in my mind. From others now fluttering in
this garden of oblivion, that now heeds its name sake
so very well.

The shadows were now surrounding others like
sharks tasting that scent of blood, but here I think
it was fear..
I noticed that the vines were echoing, I slight pulse
of aura permeated from them. In my ignorance of
staring a shadow had lingered upon the painting
of my feet and within a moment a searing pain
collected within. this was it as I started to flake away...

But then it was not me it was the shadow becoming
fixated on me and then cracks illuminated from it and
what was once a lingering gaze of quite a stature...

"What the hell was going on??

It looked at me in vacant gratitude, then saw the shades
lingered upon it and once again ash fell, autumn leaves falling
on fire.. this time it was different though as I grasped upon
its figure it was whole again.. it was more than before though
it was as I was.. It spoke in soft tones..

"You are new here,
                      "Yes, how do you know,
"Because this place is meant for the dead,
         Where are you from?
"Where frozen in death, static decaying life,
               "I recognize you now you were in the stasis chambers.
"Yes, were in our own purgatory"
            "Our own selfish need to linger on more
                        than the clock is meant to count has  lead us here,



I pondered on his references and knew that,
I had done this out a need to exist longer than
time had given me, not thinking of what lay beyond
that notion.
I told him my name was lunar regent, and when I first
got here the place looked much different, but they touched
upon me they feel like ash. He stopped me there!

"You are the course of all what has perspired in this place,
"Me but I didn't do anything?
            "Your alive where we are dead,
                "Your like a lighthouse in the dark,
  "But everything you linger on, drowns in the evanescence,

I stood back in disbelief, I'm the villain!
The desecrator of this once tomb of thought
that has no reason to doubt their existence.
"How do we stop it?
Jump in the pools of shadow and do what you did
before, always grab on when the shades linger on
the new infused apparition of reflection.

We went through this motion, it felt like weeks,
as every emotion that had lacerated within me
fell like tears of happiness from my grasp.
We had continued, and new faces and gratitude
had graced my eyes.. what was once fleeting
images and layers of reflection and thought became
form the oblivion I once gazed up now was a garden
of reality...

"We are all grateful for this last moment.
to see ourselves as we once were,


"But we can feel the petals
                once again fading..


I asked with sorrowful glances of what could be
done as this would just be a reparation of what
just happened.. I found out that even though
clinically dead our brains were monitored and
thought is but energy and all lingered in the
oblivion of each others memories.
This wasn't an existence they wanted they just
wanted to die.. to be noting once again as it was
meant to be..


"We will use our residual energy to force you
out, to bring you back, please end our suffering,


I didn't have time to even speak as I felt immense
pain flood over me, and before I knew it i
was cradled on the floor.. So cold, my sight regained
and I saw other pods, rubbing the frost from the
windows seeing faces that feel like ash before.
This wasn't a life.. this was a garden of oblivion,
and I was the blossom blowing in the wind.


I reached over seeing an emergency panel,
gazing at it for what felt like eternity..
I pulled it, as I did alarms rang..
I tipped over a pod unused.. blocking the door way..
Then I collapsed in exhaustion.


Awoken by the sounds of a phone ringing,
looking up I saw unfamiliar faces.
"Sir are you ok
      "You have been through a traumatic experience.


"Yes, what about those other people,

               "They were already dead sir,

"Frozen echo's in a chamber of ice,
             "Pardon sir what was that?

"Nothing, how long was in there for?

"Two days.  "Two days,

Once I was well I found out each of there names
and visited there graves stones, laying blossoming
flowers on each one.
Your at piece now friends.
                  There is no garden of oblivion only peace..

I walked of realizing, that life is every moment
every breath is one granted by our willingness
to see a new sunrise. Mine will come to pass
and i will be silent not an echo or in darkness
just a memory fading slowly away.
Richard Grahn Oct 2017
Blossoms in the wind
Meadows rich with fragrant gifts
Gentle lamplight flows
Ashley Chapman Oct 2017
In Hornsey
      N8
          resting.
              From somewhere
                  a rising crescendo
                       'Ohhh, My God, yes.
                            That's so ******' good!'
                                On the walkway
                                      the plasticised soles
                                           of black pumps
                                                slap the pavement
                                                   obsce­nely,
                                                        I think.
                                                              Bu­t ...
                                                             ­     Hang on!
                                                            I hold
                                                      slowin­g
                                                 And
                                            look up.
                                      From a cherry tree
                                 an exquisite
                           pink blossom
                       releases herself
                  gliding
              closer
          &
     closer
.
Unfortunately, this poem hardly works on a mobile. It needs a wide screen to catch the visual effect.

I've seen the way some write here on HePo using the line breaks to punctuate and I wanted to try.
There are other techniques, too, visual puns,  that I love.

Anyway, when is a poem over? For me I tinker over days, through many hours, moving stuff around until I can't move anything any more because the effect of moving it jars with the intention. The intention? I don't know, it's intuitive. This poem for instance is problematic because what I really liked about it was the juxtaposition of a blossom and my own crabbiness, but that may not work for others, which would have meant that my love of the blossom would have been wasted.  Ahhh, perhaps, if that's the case, she'll come back to me in some other way; for my love of the blossom springs, of course, eternal ...
Madhu Jakkula Oct 2017
The sun painted gold on my rugged skin as I stepped out of my gray world to take a peep of the vast blues, blossomed yellows and the lush greens.
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2017
My Lady Ophelia of the Golden Fleece.
With hair spun by the Sahara Sun
and alabaster skin. Eyes of indigo
flames and lips that have the
pop of the poppy. Her lush
body fitted in emerald
enchantments and
threaded
silver thistles.
See her sailing by the
moonlight on an ethereal sea,
upon her ship, the Tears of Joy.
The Emperor's Butterfly in her hair
with shining wings of gossamer threads.
Oh! I marvel the twilight afterglow
kiss her skin, making her a peach
rose. From her carnelian cup,
she sips the nectar -
moscato sweet.
Her first sip was of
gumdrops, then roses,
and after that, the more. Salty
tears from a mermaid's cheek, the
whispers of wisteria, the laughter of
springberries, the kisses of sweet neroli
and the tartness of plum toffee. She
passes by Aegean Ruins, her
secret retreat upon the
White Cliffs
that is west of
the moon. The beauty of
this lost history is as soft and
deep as an angel's sigh, with its
enchanting mist like graceful tendrils.
The shadows of the Black Hills bloom. She
coats herself in a cloak of midnight and
she descends down, setting foot
ashore. She walked down
the winding road of
burnt orchids
and lavender sands.
She had heard whisperings
of an unfound door and the Dream-
weavers of the Sable Heart. And so she
wanders... passed the midnight trees and their
sad serenades. The chill of sea ice and the
sharpness of pewter buds. The mist
dances. It twirls. Pirouettes.
Arabesques.
It circles and hisses.
Circles and hisses. Circles
and hisses! And there it was, the
unfound door made of crystal shadows.
Lady Ophelia of the Golden Fleece, extends her
hand and holds the ****. She twists and
enters...
This poem is based on a dream I had while working on my stories. But I woke up so I have no idea what comes happens next...
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2017
Roses blossom with the moon overhead.
May lovers stay entwined forever.
Based on a dream I had last night.
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2017
There is a beauty that comes from seeing
a flower dancing in the wind with the
leaves that follow.
It's no different with ballet.
For the art comes from the music within a soul
and the mortal coil brings it to light with
enchanting dances.
For I see myself in a the blank canvas of a theatre
and the Swan Queen graces the canvas as the brush,
with raw love expressed not from her body but her heart.
As she spreads her wings, I can hear the words behind her moves,
the flame that twirls with kaleidoscope wonders.
"I am here," the voice says. "Don't you see? I am here! I am free!
I am freedom!"
And as the Swan dies, broken but content, the crowd erupts
like thunder in the Heavens.
"For you see now," the voice echoes as I claps. "You see now.
The secret language within a soul that passion can only bring out."
A poem from my journal. I happened to be watching Black Swan which is one of my all-time favourite films. Ballet never fails to take my breath away, the beauty overwhelms me.
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2017
Two becoming one by golden rings,
The man in a suit, and the wife demure
in white.
During the art of making love,
the ardour of man is firewater,
and sweet liquor.
The woman's wistful gaze is aflame
with a wish of vestal silk.
The firewater may chill, and the sweetness
of liquor fade, but the wistful woman's wish
is as lasting as time.
A poem from my journal based on a picture of a married couple that I saw in a magazine.
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2017
Sweet dew days,
and violent delights.
I dare not look at the faults of our star
because they shine for us and us only!
Please, grace me.
Grace me with your smile.
Bless me with your touch.
Let me worship your body,
my holy grail chiselled from
starlight and moonlures and sunkisses.
For when our bodies are entwined in love,
for when two hearts meld to one,
all the murmurs of love done in the nights,
can be seen by our linked hands of day.
And I have no shame in that.
I must hold and shield the one
who quiets my heart, and confuses my soul.
For forever is a silver chain that binds us
by our ankles and no God can change that!
Come close...
You smell the salt of my tears...
So ******* soul upon my lips.
Love me fierce.
For you know what prospers when a fault
is forgiven.
Just posting this now as I saw a couple together in the park having a picnic.
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