Arts + Entertainment
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A Whispering Wind
If winds were to speak What might they say? Give us sage advice? Count hours in a day? Would they be playful, Smart, funny, kind?
Irene ProudmanPublished 7 years ago in PoetsMessy House
The house is a mess, the dishes ain't done, there are clothes on the floor where they were flung. The beds are not made, this is all true but my children are smiling this i can do, i can fill our home with laughter,
Andriea MunkeltPublished 7 years ago in PoetsHot Box Tree House
I’ve hidden myself away in a plume of smoke, deep in the crevasse of quantum mechanics. The void in between choice and not. Action and inaction. Behind a shrubbery at the fork in the road. My shell—this burning bush of a womb, I’ve hotboxed myself into a treehouse above my own decisions.
Joke MarfskyPublished 7 years ago in PoetsFly Free
Birds do not belong in cages, their wings are there as proof, they belong to fly up high, higher than your roof. Birds do not belong in cages trapped behind those bars, they belong to sour up high right next to twinkling stars.
Andriea MunkeltPublished 7 years ago in PoetsDrop of Hope
She's walking down the street. Looking like an ordinary, small piece of an enormous grey mass. Soft wind touching her dark, satin hair as her forest green eyes childishly follow slowly moving clouds in the sky. She has so much to say... Yet stays quiet. She's silent, for she's afraid to be left misunderstood.
The Little Death
This dull ache fills the void in the pit of my stomach with warmth. The smell of her perfume. The taste of her skin. Here we are again, tangled between sheets,
Rauce The-saucePublished 7 years ago in PoetsThe Way of the Crab
The Way of the Crab— Adventuring in zig-zag formation. We don’t do straight lines here—everything becomes more tangential than that, but by all means, we arrive at the same location. I just take longer to get there.
Joke MarfskyPublished 7 years ago in PoetsThe Stone and The Traveler
The night was dense with the musk of the sound. The scent of which filled the nostrils and choked the hopeful. Alone, amongst a group of strangers, shrouded by the smoke of cigarettes ignored stories and fabrications, a lone Stone shone bright. The light of the moon cascading down her twisted bounty: Side eye glances pierced the armor of the a traveler stuck in the time. That one glance eliminated all the questions that surrounded the traveler: he no longer consumed the by the night, He was enamored by her atmosphere. The whiskey blurred his mind, yet his vision was crystal clear.
Stephen JonesPublished 7 years ago in Poets