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summer, disembodied

arquious — Sat, 10 Oct 2026 09:13:33 +0100

"summer, disembodied"

Cruel, Perhaps

all summer

the body paraded itself

along avenues of light

wearing sunlight

as though it had tailored it

for its own shoulders

every branch applauded

with a thousand green hands

and the air

kept flattering the leaves

into believing

they belonged forever

then came the season

that would not compliment

nothing dramatic

in its loosening

a notch surrendered

on the belt of the year

a cooler glance

across the mirror

one by one

the bright notes detached

drifting down

to gather at the roots

where praise eventually goes

there they lay

creased gold

muted bronze

a correspondence

summer had no wish to read

the tree stood barer

than it preferred

yet closer

to what it was

and the wind

for all its rough instruction

seemed to know

that kindness is not always

the art of adorning

sometimes

it is the hand

that removes the costume

and leaves it

in a heap at your feet

so that when the long cold passes

and another procession forms

the branches will wear

their brightness

less as a possession

more as a loan

from a season

already learning

to let go

🍃🍃

🍂

On the road

sinha murari — Sat, 10 Oct 2026 02:01:26 +0100

On the road

On the road
from Belpahari to Banspahari,

the sal trees
I pass, one after another,

if only I could draw
upon their bark
a moon
sucked pale by bats,

then all the day long
the quicksands
I make my home with

would surrender
every one of their truths,

and drift away
on a river
of roasted peanuts.

HOW DO WE SURVIVE? TWO BROKEN MIND\'S

Alan J Ripley — Sat, 10 Oct 2026 00:08:18 +0100

Lately I've been thinking,
how to survive with,
A mixed dementia wife.
while I'm living through
a mixed dementia life

I love her dearly,
can't think of a life without us.
If we do go hope it's together,
before we forget one another.

Life is a place i didn't mean to go,
I've lived it with a heavy heart.
For a man born to long ago,
why I wonder i can't explain.

Am I losing my mind,
as i slowly lose my wife.
Or finding it once again,
as we share this life.

Together forever though,
thick and thin.
This dementia is a funny thing,
my mind is full of silly thing's.

It brings me tears,
As i struggle to realise.
Joys of my past years,
All belong to her.

Sometimes I feel pain,
for my life isn't real.
As i feel my mind drift,
against it's will once again.

www: Wild Wild West

Albert Vynckier — Fri, 09 Oct 2026 15:28:57 +0100

tu sais tout, two, too
go two, go too go to
go them, Gotham

www: wild wild west
western
Mr Stern
Sternway
don't confuse with Steinway which is a pianos' brand

tout, to, too

when a dominant and a dominated want to settle somewhere, they play dominos at spare time...
so that they change the rules of strength into the rules of chances and some make you believe that the power of chance is greater Than the power of strength : that's what I call religion !
would you play the peace of a region on a poker game ?

gamma gimme

88.5 Acts of Intercourse

Ingvar Loco Nordin — Fri, 09 Oct 2026 08:47:21 +0100

Friend

Michael G — Fri, 09 Oct 2026 03:37:54 +0100

I came to with a start, gasping for air and immediately falling into a fit of coughing. I tried to roll to my side only to realize that I couldn't; something was holding me to the hard surface I was laying on.

What... what happened? Where am I?

After a time, I was able to get the coughing under control, sucking in deep breaths - though doing so almost caused me to lapse into yet another fit.

What is that smell?

I gagged, my eyes roaming the dark, trying to see something, anything to make sense of my situation. I was lying on my back on a cold, hard surface with some kind of straps on my ankles and wrists keeping me from moving. Aside from the darkness, there was a slow dripping and the smell of iron in the air.

As my thoughts became clearer, I felt a terrible tightness in my chest - a dreading sense that something was wrong.

"Hello?" I croaked out. "Anybody there?"

Suddenly there was light, blinding me as the darkness was banished in an instant.

"Gah!"

I instinctively tried to cover my eyes, only to remember I was still shackled. When the pain lessened, I opened my eyes, staring up into a single fluorescent light set into the ceiling.

Ok... think. What was the last thing I remember?

As soon as I had the thought, it came rushing back. Terror, helplessness, and intense pain rocked my mind as I remembered a figure leaning over me. I lifted my head and gasped as I looked down at myself. I was laying on a metal table covered in blood. It was pooling next to me and dripping onto the floor.

Is that my blood?

I looked myself over, but aside from the tightness in my chest, I couldn't find any injury that could have caused that amount of blood.

"Hello!? Is anyone there?" I yelled a little louder this time.

Still no response. I looked to the right and saw a table full of various cutting utensils. Spying a large hunting knife, I shook as another memory flashed before my eyes. A young, dark-haired man plunging the knife into my chest - over and over. I yelled and bucked at the memory, but to no avail.

Surely that can't be real. There is no way. I would have been dead.

"John, is that you?" came a call from the far side of the room.

I turned my head to see a silver-haired man walk into the room through a door, shutting and locking it behind him.

"Didn't think you'd be awake yet, not after what I took," he said, walking to a chair and sitting down. "You don't mind if I drink, do you? It's been quite the day."

The man lifted a beer to his lips and took a long swig. "Ahhh, that hits the spot."

"Who are you? Why am I here?" I questioned.

The man chuckled. "You know, I've had a lot of fun answering those questions. But you know what? I think we'll try honesty and see how that goes this time."

"I'm Elijah. And you are here because of me," he said, leaning back into the chair. "I'm sure you have a ton of questions."

"Why did you bring me here? Why am I locked up?"

"Well, I brought you here because we're friends! And you're locked up because we can't just have you running off now."

"Friends?! What kind of friend would do this? I don't even know who you are!"

"Come on, John, you are hurting my feelings. You don't remember how we met? It was at TechCon. We went out for a drink after the second night."

"TechCon?"

I tried to think. I remembered grabbing drinks with some people I met at the vendor booths, but none were this older man - they were all my age. One of them was named Elijah though, but he was a younger man with black hair and...

The image of the man stabbing me came back into the forefront of my mind, making me flinch again. It was the same man as the one from the bar.

"What - that... that can't be right," I said, confused.

"Well, we've changed a lot since then. Well, at least I have," said the man, getting up. "That was 30 years ago."

"30 years? That's impossible," I whispered.

"Yes it is!" said the man cheerily. "And yet here we are."

The man walked over to the cutting instruments and began looking at them, a fond look in his eyes. "Honestly, you changed my life. I don't know where I would be now if it weren't for you. Probably in prison or something."

I opened my mouth to speak, but as I followed the man's gaze, I spotted the instruments again and more memories began resurfacing one after the other.

My arm being amputated with a bone saw, my stomach being cut open with a scalpel, my eye being pulled out with forceps - more and more, like a never-ending tide. I turned and heaved, but no vomit joined the blood on the table. In each memory it was the same man, only with each one he was slightly older. I looked up at the man, who was now holding some kind of powered saw.

"What did you do to me? What did you take?" I asked desperately, the tightness in my chest increasing.

"Apparently nothing important - at least to you, it would seem," he said.

"How... how is this possible?" I asked.

"I don't know," the man replied wistfully. "But it must have been the luckiest day of my life meeting you. Now let's take a look and see what's in there now."

No... not again.

"Please... kill me," I whispered.

The man leaned down and whispered back, "Believe me; I'm trying."

kettle for one

arquious — Fri, 09 Oct 2026 02:09:14 +0100

one key in a bowl meant for two

toothpaste hardening around an unused brush

a café receipt peeking from of a book

three unanswered messages

raincloud darkening the passenger seat

the neighbour carrying in groceries alone again

lights coming on apartment by apartment

a television speaking to an empty room

midnight

sheen of a new kettle for one

(traditional narrative treatment)

A man leaves home.

He walks through town.

Nobody speaks to him.

He realises he is alone.

The Banyan Tree

sinha murari — Fri, 09 Oct 2026 01:52:33 +0100

For years and years
it has stood there,

a vast banyan tree
in the middle of the field.

The slightly leaning banyan tree
and its branches,
the banyan tree and the sky,
the sky and the birds.

The banyan tree and its roots,
the roots and the earth,
the earth and nature.

Beneath the tree,
a man, slightly hunched.

A bidi between his lips,
the man and his spade,
the man and his sweat-soaked body,
the man and his sexuality.

On the road ahead,
a few bicycles,
their bells ringing
as boys and girls
ride off to school.

A dog\'s letter to the woman who was going to adopt him TRANSLATED BY ANN WOOD

Ann Wood — Fri, 09 Oct 2026 01:40:55 +0100

ARTIFICIAL POETRY

Alan J Ripley — Thu, 08 Oct 2026 22:54:03 +0100

Where's the soul hide,
does it still burn bright.
In poetrys every line,
when written by AI.

Where does the heart sing,
that only torment brings.
At dawns early light,
When written by machine.

You can't program an artists flare,
i know that this sounds cynical.
Or lead a widows weeping dance,
once written, an ai's to clinical.

It cannot know how a daffodil feels,
as it wanders across a bluebell hill.
Or why a lonely blade of grass weeps,
because it never felt sand beneath it's feet.

A poet's mind does all that and more,
welcomes the breeze across the shores.
Sees more than lies in a muddled mind,
Than an artificial mind would hope to find.

LOSING FOCUS

Alan J Ripley — Thu, 08 Oct 2026 14:52:45 +0100

As what i see drifts out of sight,
did you know I've been told;
If you glance up at the sky at night,
you can see up to 46 million miles away.
I replied "should have gone to specsavers".

Eighth of October in Backlight

Ingvar Loco Nordin — Thu, 08 Oct 2026 13:24:52 +0100

let\'s be realistic

poet*salem — Thu, 08 Oct 2026 11:52:51 +0100

death on the doors

it's over.

Being true

Nils Teodor — Thu, 08 Oct 2026 10:37:51 +0100

"Why chase after thoughts, which are superficial ripples of present awareness?

Rather look directly into the naked, empty nature of thoughts; then there is no duality, no observer, and nothing observed. Simply rest in this transparent, nondual present awareness. Make yourself at home in this natural state of pure presence, just being, not doing anything in particular."

- Jamgon Kongtrul

Already home as the aware present stillness

To know this is to be this

Waves rise and fall

in an ocean

knowing

them

all

The problem of me

Sona — Thu, 08 Oct 2026 04:44:28 +0100

first i need to
find a olace
inspiring enough to make me still
and sit
Then i begin to gather my stuff
My writing pad
Pen
pencil and sharpener
support to write
and hopefully a table
to put my laptop on
i pour a glass of wine
and gather lotions and potions
to be kept nearby
just in case

I open my laptop
and find i have forgotten my glasses
run to get them too

then i plug in my mouse
but cant find the mousepad around
and go -get it too

And all nicely organized
under a beautiful tree
by the lake
i sit down to write.

Its always been like that for me
My writing place
seems more like a
picnic basket to me.

all i need is some
words to tap on my
shoulder and say-
get set go
or maybe just invite me in.

dry creek theory

arquious — Thu, 08 Oct 2026 00:24:01 +0100

"Dry Creek Theory"

The creek left first.

By midsummer

it had folded its maps,

taken the silver fish of itself

and gone underground.

Children still followed

the chalked course

through stones and lantana,

certain that water

must remember its own frame.

The magpie disagreed.

It sang from a fencepost

and nowhere else.

Years later

I found a page

inside an abandoned library book.

No title.

No signature.

Only a sentence

crossing the paper diagonally,

as though it, too,

refused to stay.

I read it once.

The words did not explain themselves.

They lifted.

Not upward.

Outward.

Like seeds choosing weather.

I looked around

for the missing author,

that familiar ghost

critics are forever searching for.

Nothing.

Only afternoon grass

leaning east.

Only the smell

of iron after rain.

Only distance

becoming more distance.

The sentence kept moving.

It entered the trees.

It entered a dog barking

two streets away.

It entered an old memory

that had not belonged to it

until that moment.

By evening

the page was blank.

Or perhaps

I no longer knew

where the writing ended.

Perhaps that is the same thing.

A poem survives

by escaping.

Not from meaning,

but from ownership.

The creek knew this.

The grass knew this.

The unnamed line

crossing the page knew this.

What leaves

is not always lost.

Sometimes departure

is the form

taken by continuation.

Tomorrow

someone else

will find water

where I found dust,

will hear a different note

inside the magpie's song,

will finish a sentence

I only happened

to begin.

Let them.

The best poems

do not remain.

They travel

from mind to mind,

wearing our voices

for a while,

then moving on.

Ann Wood — Wed, 07 Oct 2026 22:07:27 +0100

A Rainy Day by Ann Wood

Ann Wood — Wed, 07 Oct 2026 20:30:07 +0100

Hooray! It started raining today for the first time in weeks, and the weather has cooled down a bit.
The long-awaited rain has finally arrived.
It was a long, hot summer; the weather warmed up as early as mid-February, and there had been almost no rain.
Outside, the air smells of wet grass and earth; it feels fresher, and you can sense autumn in the air.
I missed the rain and the scent of wetness so much.

MADE IT!

ken d williams — Wed, 07 Oct 2026 20:30:01 +0100

Finaly I made it!
At long last
Some of work
Is in the printed
Word, in a book
No less!
I am happy as I
Can be!
My fierst volume!
Now can hope for
Volume two!

The books tital - The Dyslexic Wordsmith Ov Thanet

Kenny D. Wiliams

The Dyslexic Wordsmith Ov Thanet

Again into Another Day

sinha murari — Wed, 07 Oct 2026 15:44:23 +0100

Again,

I will walk
through another day.

I want a morning.
A noon.
An afternoon.

Let there be doors
on every side.

And beside each door,
a flame tree.

Under the flame trees,
lovers may be sitting.

Or cows.
Or goats,
tethered to ropes.

And from the auction house
where pain and sorrow
are put up for sale,

perhaps
I will buy
a little loneliness

and carry it away
with me.

red butterfly

MIRZA AHMER BEG — Wed, 07 Oct 2026 13:14:04 +0100

red wing butterfly
flapping wings
on the green and golden grass
my German shepherd sitting
in lightening shadows of fall
the broken winged pigeon
trying to fly and staying in yard
the light cold clouds have come
and so has slowly come the fog.

wormhole verstronaut

arquious — Wed, 07 Oct 2026 12:00:10 +0100

"wormhole verstronaut"

Between the word and what is meant
a hidden curvature resides,
a darkened bridge no map has traced,
where memory on starlight collide.

I cast a syllable at midnight,
it enters diction's slender flame,
and somewhere in another century
a stranger softly speaks my name.

Poems are wormholes through the silence,
rings of gravity in the mind;
they bend the roads of ordinary hours,
leaving clocks and calendars behind.

A scent of rain, a crow at sunset,
one leaf revolving through the air,
becomes a gate through parsec distances
and carries us elsewhere.

Metaphors, bright tachyons,
rush ahead of thought's slow feet;
before the intellect awakens
their impossible messages meet.

Grief is a house of absent echoes,
love a river-learning sky,
and understanding reaches harbour
before its reasons can arrive.

The poet is no king of language,
only a mason of the span,
placing image beside image
to join the soul of man to man.

Rhythm steadies fragile passage
music holds the tunnel true;
through its throat fly seeds of wonder
toward each reader passing through.

And should these lines survive the weather
of neglect, and dust of passing years,
another heart may cross this crossing
and recognise my vanished fears.

Then poet, reader, star, and moment
shall briefly lose their separate forms;
two minds entangled in an instant,
meeting inside a field of poems.

There, language curves beyond its limits,
light gives way to deeper roles;
tachyons of metaphor singing,
through wormholes of intrepid souls.

RICK (6) - LOADS OF NICE THINGS ALL AT ONCE

Griffonner — Wed, 07 Oct 2026 09:40:43 +0100

Mary had Heterochromia - one
eye blue the other eye green.
I think it was those eyes
that awakened the juvenile
butterflies in my belly
every time she got on the bus
on the way to our college.

Anyway, my attraction grew
as the months went past
until one Winter's day
with snow a foot thick

and the bus creeping along,
she ended up sitting down
next to me for the journey.
Inwardly I rejoiced that
the only spare seat was
beside me when she got on.

Because I was so shy
we didn't speak at all,
but the thing I will always
remember is, as the bus
emptied a little, she stayed.
And the following day
she came and sat next to me
even though there were
other empty seats available.

So started this strange
silent displaying of our
attraction. That was the day,
fighting my shy paralysis,
I finally ventured, 'my name is Rick'
and she, 'Mine is Mary',
With that she slipped off
her woolen glove and moved
to hold my frozen hand.

I can't tell you the feeling
to have her hold my hand,
because it was like loads
of nice things all at once:
Excitement, pleasure, warmth,
tingling, and yes, lust I guess.
I turned and for the first time
really locked eyes with lovely Mary.

So started a week's phase to our
strange affair. Words were few,
holding hands a daily custom -
so welcomed that without it,
as on a day she missed the bus,
I fretted that something was wrong
and felt so very much alone.

The bad weather continuing, and
just before Christmas holiday,
she, always the initiator,
leaned across and our lips
met and melted both our hearts.
We planned a meeting three days
hence, at her friend's party.
She gave me a small note
with the address of the party

just before she left the bus
on that last day of college.

It was on the outskirts of

The coastal town I lived in.

It was snowing when I left
home for our party date.
Real heavy flakes of white
that were refusing to melt,
instead building a silent
landscape all around our town.
As I reached the half-way point
The wind was blowing the snow
into a huge sloping bank of white
up the front of the Royal Hotel.

A little further, with snow
up to my knees, and legs
filled with the pain of effort
of stomping through the snow,
I had to make the decision
to turn back for my home.
It was the safest choice
because there wasn't a single
soul around, and the town
was slowly being buried. Soon
I wouldn't know where I was.
I had thoughts of being found
frozen and dead after the thaw.

We didn't have mobile phones
in those days, and there was
no way I could let Mary know
my plight. With tears of real
disappointment pouring down
my cheeks, I let myself in
the back door to hide my
crying. 'We were worried about
you! Your dad was just about
to go on a search for you! ...
Oh... no need for tears,
we were just worried that's all.'
Mother caught me taking off
my frozen shoes and trousers.

(As I recount this tale I can't
help thinking what a dork I was
in those days: Blighted with
shyness for the opposite sex.
Being an only child didn't help.)

When the new term started
and the bus pulled in at her stop
there was no Mary to be seen.
Days went by before a blonde girl
slipped a note to me as she
walked past with a group of friends.
'This is for you, from Mary' she said.
It was a tightly folded piece
of light blue paper.

Mary wrote that her dad died
in a car crash right in the middle
of that snow storm, and she
and her mum were moving away.
There was a big kiss at the end,
drawn in blue fountain pen ink
about ten times the size
of the other letters she'd written.
Tears filled my eyes, my belly
flipped and flopped, but I retained
my composure for all that journey,
slipping the note inside my
glove to keep her close to me.

A juvenile love that never
really got off the ground,

but Mary's eyes have never been forgotten.

-----------

Now I have Bliss's deep dark eyes
staring at me from off her pillow.
She smiles, comes over my side
of the bed, and plants a big kiss
on the tip of my nose, then lets
her lips slide onto mine, and,
all of a sudden loads of nice things
happen inside me all at once
and I become consumed by Bliss.

"I'm really sorry 'bout the confusion
with my brother, Wrick' she whispers,

and all is suddenly right with my world.

© Griffonner 2026

Millions of Seconds

Melinda K Zarate — Wed, 07 Oct 2026 03:24:42 +0100

Measured Cadence

Melinda K Zarate — Wed, 07 Oct 2026 03:22:49 +0100

The sharp autumn chill
begins its slow work on the leaves,
branches of green evolving
into amber and gold, then falling, falling
until the oaks have coated my yard in rust.

The woody breeze of fire pits,
the distant sound of a high school band,
the popping of fireworks as the fair ends each night -
a replay of old, happy memories
that forces my frantic mind to slow.

I remember the repetition like the bass drum,
setting the rhythm as the seasons turn.

Pumpkins line the porch steps.
Ghosts and goblins arrive first,
faces glowing under plastic masks,
eyes tracking every piece dropped,
parents gauging their candy tax.

Then comes a cornucopia
of friends and family carrying casserole dishes -
the smell of pumpkin pie,
the anticipation of roasted turkey,
familiar comforts for the lucky ones.

Candy canes replace sunken pumpkins,
twinkling lights blur on barren branches
as Christmas trees peep through windows,
the porch cleared of hay bundles
so there is room for piles of parcels.

The unrelenting beat of Christmas
hurries me forward until the day arrives,
then stillness for a week
until the last day is marked
with a new calendar hung on the kitchen wall.

The year has left its mark in measured cadence.
The drum begins again.

sinha murari — Wed, 07 Oct 2026 02:38:10 +0100

How many times will I have to ?

Rob3rt Z3n — Wed, 07 Oct 2026 02:27:09 +0100

How many times Will I have to look to the other sight?
How many times will I have to dry the tears when you turn on the light?
How many times will i have to wear the mask of being fine when I am not?
How many times will i have to smile Pretending im fine and in my throat I have a knot?

How many times will i have to read a book to hide my stories between the pages?
How many times will i have to pretend I'm sleeping not to be asked for?
How many times will i have to pray lying to myself about new changes?
How many times will i have to escape to a place where nobody will wait for?

There'll be one day When I won't wake up.
There'll be one day When I won't give up.
Philosophies and theories have not compensated the questions that killed my mind.
There'll be one day When I won't be living breathless and hopeless.
There'll be one day When I won't be rejected by non-interested wishes and fearless.
Theorems and hypothesis have not healed the ultimate truth i couldn't find?

How many times will I have to shut up to make everything fine?
How many times will I have to pretend I'm happy through my loneliness?
How many times will I have to make you believe I cry for happiness?
How many times will I have to run where I don't see the finish line?

There'll be a day When you don't see me walking and begging in your room.
There'll be a day you will miss someone waiting for you without my perfume.
Blaming me will not make you free how you played and killed my illusion.
There'll be a day when you will see your dreams stop.
There'll be a day When you will see you are not on the mountain top.
Taking me for granted will not stop me when I used to be in your cold prison.

JUST SAYING

Alan J Ripley — Tue, 06 Oct 2026 22:49:25 +0100

Life is a virus,
I'm waiting for the cure.

Even if I was a kleptomaniac,
i couldn't steal myself away.

The rain has washed
the world tonight.

There not really camels eggs,
there elephant eggs.

My mind is over taxed,
it needs a rebate.

Feeling run down,
my batteries need changing.

What are we to the cosmos,
but a speck of dust;
Floating in a sea of time.

If you stop telling lies about me,
I'll stop telling the truth about you.

Do diabetics,
have sweet dreams.

I love cats,
but i could never eat a whole one.

I keep forgetting,
that I've forgotten to forget.

God made primal soup didn't like it,
through it out, it became our earth.

My legs are as strong,
as a boiled egg.

When all about is done and said,
i wish that i could wake up dead.

Sorry folks if I've shared these before,
it's a dementia thing.

Somewhere inside all of this.

Ogundu Christabel oluebube (Chrisie) — Tue, 06 Oct 2026 21:32:47 +0100

why is kindness dangerous?

arquious — Tue, 06 Oct 2026 20:39:32 +0100

"why is kindness dangerous?"

He wore his shadow like a name

Stayed on the edges of the game

The lunch bell blew a winter wind

No one kept a seat for him

Notes like stones weighed down his pack

Whispers circled, sharp attack

Eyes cast down to hide the ache

Why does kindness feel so dangerous?

He watched the numbers fall like leaves

Chasing a body he could keep

The mirror loosened at the seams

Still the gossip beat its drum

Jokes like pennies, tossed as rain

Every word cut just the same

He could fade to dust one day

Tell me, why does kindness feel so dangerous?

A SIGN OF THE TIMES

Alan J Ripley — Tue, 06 Oct 2026 15:26:35 +0100

It's a sign of the times,
That not even a rhythm.
Is coming to me.

It's that time,
In my life.
Not even the wife,
Listens to me.

Life is a bore,
I've thought this once more.
As Life comes crashing,
On me.

Don't shoot the messenger,
They say,
But when he comes my way.
He has nothing to say.

Wild side

Sona — Tue, 06 Oct 2026 15:05:17 +0100

Is it worth it
this alone ness?

Depends-
what are your options?

Definitely, worth it
-in that case.

But dont hesitate
dear girl
for you have lived
in one way
for so many years now
that i implore
you to be
done and dusted
with how it was
and fall in love
with all that could be.

Be infused with the
excitement of going
on a voyage.

It could feel like a trek sometimes
but enjoy the view
and if you could afford it
let it feel like
- life of pi
with all those weird characters
on your boat.

So take charge
of how you wish to steer
this beautiful life of yours.

For people who live
on the wild side of life
have stars to guide
have the sun as renewable
source of energy
and have the ground beneath
their feet to push them ahead
as they move and move on.

Bend it

Sona — Tue, 06 Oct 2026 14:26:47 +0100

Its good to
make magic of reality
to let it bend around you
exactly like
gravitational waves
around mass of bodies

to somehow
live in stratosphere
escape to it
by some divine will
to press the elevator button
to it
with you

Real is real
but if you could add a layer to it
not to veil it
but to make it catalytic
to make space
for redeeming your promises
to yourself.

Inside the land of poetry

Alan J Ripley — Tue, 06 Oct 2026 12:53:29 +0100

Here inside the land of poetry,
Theirs something I feel we all need.
Communication between friends,
That none of us ever do see.

To write to one another,
I would say brightens,
Up the dullest of day's,
Whatever you wish to say.

The Earthen Stove

sinha murari — Tue, 06 Oct 2026 08:04:05 +0100

Clarity of Heart

Nils Teodor — Tue, 06 Oct 2026 07:30:19 +0100

"There is no logical reason why thoughts, which have no substance, should have so much power over you, nor is there any reason why you should become their slave." - Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche

Being clear

You are the aware stillness already here

Behind the thoughts of mind

there is freedom to find

The natural essence

of presence

the Self

as it

Digger

Sameen — Tue, 06 Oct 2026 04:21:13 +0100

between bus stops

arquious — Mon, 05 Oct 2026 14:42:52 +0100

“between bus stops”

Mist lifts

from the creek's dark bend;

a kingfisher

holds still

above the water.

In a cedar chest,

beneath folded linen,

a photograph curls

at the edges,

its faces turning amber.

Wind combs

the grassland ridge;

seedheads loosen,

one by one,

into the pale distance.

The new potatoes

sinha murari — Mon, 05 Oct 2026 14:32:18 +0100

The new potatoes
have arrived in the market,
the cauliflowers too.
For now,
I have no interest
in any of that.
Crossing through
forests and groves
of flesh and blood,
without an oar,
I am moving forward
towards
a pink-coloured flood,
where
I will be able
to cry a little.
There,
ever-flowing
through a forest of reeds,
I will be able
to become
a deer in pajamas.
But no,
it is not that
I am going somewhere to die.
Death
is no one of mine.
Between
truth and falsehood
I am now swinging.
The morning rooster
watches in astonishment
as I carry
in my right hand
the voice of a boy,
and
in my left,
the voice of a girl.
I,
now bearded and moustached,
am also there,
beside the swift-flowing
river of melancholy,
though
in the courtyard there
is no
orange tree.
And yet,
tearing myself away
from my own pain,
I want
to embrace
the masculine scent
of an orange's body.

The return of saturn

jane67 — Mon, 05 Oct 2026 07:51:15 +0100

Its like being pregnant and about to give birth

The act of love and the meeting with the sperm cells have borne fruit.

From nothing to... full term.

Everything I have gathered throughout my life. All the rabbit holes I have ventured down.

All the knowledge I have amassed through my immense curiosity and - not to be forgotten
my sense of justice.

Now comes the birth, ownership of my own life; now the bounty from those rabbit holes must be passed on.

Like a messenger delievering a message, like a conduit.

The old pattens took a journey into the land of darkness
where they encountred guilt and shame.

There was a struggle we wept, we were afraid before we parted ways.

I stand strong.

What is authentic remains,
leaving an imprint that

makes a difference in the world.

It runs deep

It is ancient

It is transformation at a profund level

Life is teaching me

for the rest of my life

The Cost Of Loving Me

Shannon Ann Britto — Mon, 05 Oct 2026 04:36:25 +0100

What my heart wants now I have no clue,
I only wish I knew what to do.

I still love you and that's a fact,
I can tell that by the way I feel and act.

You say you'll always love me but I don't know,
Your true feelings you still needs to show.

What might have been yesterday might be gone today,
But I just wish things ended a different way.

Not only does my heart cry tears,
I am living through all my fears.

Fears of being alone without you in my life,
Sadly alone and not your wife.

Will I one day be happy and fix the mess I caused,
For now I'll live on as my heart has been paused.

I need time to see what will happen next,
Right now my life is hell and perplexed.

As each day comes to an end,
My love I do my best to send.

Loving you will always be a part of me,
But don't you see...
Loving me comes with a huge fee.

Life As A Poet

Shannon Ann Britto — Mon, 05 Oct 2026 04:18:23 +0100

Waking up to the birds chirping
Blessed just to be be awake
But within hours
Tears form at the eyes
And roll down the cheeks
Emotions run high
Love is on her mind
The love of her family
The love of her friends
The love she is still yet to find
Her mind is like a roller coaster
Racing fast around each turn
Her heart blazes like a fire
That is inflamed by life
Her soul wonders about the earth
Aimlessly searching for what is not there
This is the life of a poet
So now you know
The story of my life.

Big Dreams

Shannon Ann Britto — Mon, 05 Oct 2026 04:01:13 +0100

What They Represent

Shannon Ann Britto — Mon, 05 Oct 2026 03:57:01 +0100

You

Shannon Ann Britto — Mon, 05 Oct 2026 03:49:29 +0100

I grow and rear

yoonoos peerbocus — Mon, 05 Oct 2026 00:23:33 +0100

a pet,
unsold in pet shops:
furless, featherless,
indifferent to
kennel, aquarium, leash,
lap , attention,
food or drink,
at night it snuggles up
next to me
as if my home, my family
but
unlike a mute hairy
companion or wrist hawk,
is quick to discern
any ill-bred idea
and promptly dodges it.
It's borrowed from no one,
nor stolen, from out of me,
always mine,yet I
would not create
a word for 'bliss'
I do live that instead.

.

IN MEMORANDUM BENJAMIN SATTERLEY

Alan J Ripley — Mon, 05 Oct 2026 00:00:04 +0100

Somewhere in heaven,
theirs a sadness we know.
For a man known as Pac,
who was called to early.

A titan amongst titans,
who was called to heaven.
He simply drove his car,
into a restaurants car park.

Went in for a meal,
came back out alive.
Climbed back into his,
rental car and died.

Then chauffeured by God to heaven,
at least that's what i would believe.
Millions around the world,
who knew this wrestler cried.

Grief struck over his death,
haven't come to terms with this yet.
For this man in the prime of his life,
Who loved to wrestler that passed.

The wrestlers put on a show for him,
trying hard not to show their pain.
Not succeeding at all showing,
how much they loved him.

As much as his fans did,
my heart and prayers go out.
To his wife and family who's grief,
must be beyond measure.

His brotherhood of wrestlers,
Who feel the pain of his passing.
And lastly to Tony Khan who's heart,
most surly is breaking. Along with
the rest of us who knew him.

BENJAMIN SATTERLEY
R.I.P 1986- 2026
aka pac
We love and miss you.

Lap Of The Milky Way

Chaucer Whethers — Sun, 04 Oct 2026 22:38:09 +0100

The stars shone like strings of velvet pearls

Draped around purring cats in the lap of the Milky Way

Blinding looks of blank surmise coating crowds of mortal eyes

On Earth mortal things never escape

A dark magnetic orbiting dance hypnotic as may

Be that which was and is and also light that never dies

Falls upon an alien landscape

Chasing sound counting stats

Draped around purring cats

Take a nap dreaming of the day

In the lap of The Milky Way

thoughts on poetic language

arquious — Sun, 04 Oct 2026 22:07:23 +0100

of words and language

I have over the years come to realise that we probably never actually share meanings with our words and language but rather share and partake/participate in conventions with which to produce meanings.

People can receive exactly the same denotation while inhabiting very different emotional or conceptual worlds. So even when the denotative referent may be identical, the emotional and moral field could very well be radically different. Language and words themselves trigger these associations, and interpretation has begun even before we are conscious of our process.

In that sense, language not only communicates though but predisposes thought. On the receiving end, who gets to decide what a word means?

Language may succeed linguistically while simultaneously failing socially. A case in point is watching movies again after say a decade or two. Our interpretations would have changed over time. In the end, for now, it would seem that language conventions are only the entry fee. And a poem does not derive its force from dictionary meanings but derives that force from what happens after convention has done its work. What the reader does with them while any number of realities generated from them proliferate. Hence, a word itself may be less a container than it is a trigger, more a seed rather than a parcel. Words invite rather than divulge.

Poetry survives better than philosophy for this reason. Philosophy often seeks correct understanding while poems often dwell in fertile misunderstanding. Not in error but more in a multiplication of meanings that neither poet nor reader entirely controls. Perhaps it isn't really a failing of language but a distinct dynamic of language in daily use. Perhaps.

RICK (5) - SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN

Griffonner — Sun, 04 Oct 2026 22:04:33 +0100

There's a certain sadness in me today.
I was remembering back to the home
we lived in when I was a little kid:
Two up and two down. One in a row
of twenty, and indistinguishable
unless, like me, you found it by rote:
Seventh on the right, from the high end,
with a bright green door and red doorstep.

I had a little girlfriend named Maisie
who lived five green doors down.
We used to play together after school
sitting facing each other on the floor
beneath her family's dining table,
backs against it's stout oak legs.
I can still remember the faded
pattern on their threadbare rug.

We played snap with a wellworn pack
missing a Queen and all but one Ace.
I always ended up with the spare Ace,
and Maisie with the very tattered Queen.
When it was time for her bed, Audrey,
her mum, would say, "Time you went home, Rick"
and she'd stand watching at her front door
until I went into mine just up the road.

Out the back of our house stood
our disused brick built bomb shelter.
I used to sneak in there to hide
and the musty slightly damp smell
is in my nose every time I remember
that shelter. Reminds me of mushrooms.

An only child I used to play in there

with an old glass milk bottle full

of water and a chipped old cup
I'd have playtime solo tea parties.
Or I would go in there after Maisie's,
until mum came home from work,
and imagine Maisie serving me tea.

Maisie died. She got run over by a bus.
I was only just ten, she was nine.
One day on the way back from the doctor's
Mum took me into the church yard
and showed me Maisies white headstone.
I remember her telling me how hard
it had been for her family to buy a stone
and how much they had saved and saved.
I cried a little. I well remember that.
When we got home I went into the shelter
and told Maisie that I loved her.

What made me go back to those childhood days
was the news of a little northern boy, Noah,
who has been missing but has been found.
Like Maisie he had died. But he had drowned.
Little Noah was only six years old.
Now whenever I think of Maisie It'll
be hard not to remember Noah too.
So many people to remember these days
Laying in bed at night before sleep,
thanking the Universe for everything

and everyone, then turning over

and kissing darling Bliss goodnight.