Melting clocks on branches of thought, dripping seconds into the ocean,
My consciousness—a whirl of shadows and lights dancing chaotically,
Seeking the truth hidden behind the wax masks of reality.
Words collapse like autumn leaves, leaving silence behind,
Stripping away layers of artificial knowledge, illusory certainties,
Until I stand naked before the boundless mirror of existence.
I discover that truth is not a treasure to be found, but a veil to be lifted,
From the eyes of a mind weary from so much futile searching outward,
When all that was needed was to look inward, into the void full of whispers.
I unfold like a lotus flower under the moonlight,
Petal by petal, I let go of false identities, of roles played,
Until only the pure essence remains, unaltered by time and thought.
In this profound silence, I hear for the first time the melody of truth,
A song without notes, a symphony of the creative void,
And I understand that awakening is not a journey, but a return home.
Bite Size Contest no123 Poetry Contest
FOREST QUEEN
As ash the oak remembers the kiss of the flame.
Fallen branches remember the wind’s caress.
The bark is armor hardened by time.
Her leaves hum lullabies for the sun.
Beneath her boughs, the breeze begins to breathe.
She stands. She waits. She grows. She knows.
ROOTS AND BRANCHES
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
tree roots hold steadfast
though branches bend in the wind
faith and loyalty
Miss Leatherface masked with demons for the world
to face them, or get caught in the teeth of the abattoir psalm. Prove me wrong__
Skin peels back. Fingers branch.
Seeds sprout wings. Body art in hues of blue.
You burst into iridescent dragonflies.
Foxes grin. Ginsberg's Howl made of bark.
Fractal skies. A living mandala.
Jefferson Airplane's cryogenic supernova.
The ground goes liquid, a swirling tie-dye quicksand.
A harlequin paints the world magenta.
This ain't no picnic. This is the vortex.
Flying on a carpet of pure pandemonium.
Hurricane vortices of phosphorus green.
Insects crawl from beneath and consume your frame.
Every orifice, defiled and used like a subway.
Phallus-trains of centipedes pour from your ears, your mouth, your nose.
Eyeballs melt. Skin blisters to bursting boils. Spiders cover your shell.
You claw and roll, screaming, as a mahogany cigarette liquefies, revealing ME.
This never ends. The paradox begins.
Welcome to the Bosch Painting. My laughter, your shriek of agony.
Back to the beginning. My plaything.
Smooth as the vorpal descent.
MAKABRÉ MINUET-!?
the early sun drapes gently across the branches
a whisper of promise, of new golden chances
A BRIGHT MORNING OPENS EVERY QUIET DOOR
and shadows retreat where the sun will restore
love clings tenderly in petals that shine
hearts lift overhead like branches that climb
BEAUTY BECOMES BLOSSOMS, BOLDLY BREAKING THROUGH
and faith feels steady, reshaped and born anew
waves whisper gently, curling near the coast
dreams drift forward, the ones I cherish most
COURAGE CAN COME, PEACEFULLY CALLING ME HOME
leading the lost where the spent still roam
night leans close and stars give counsel to the sky
hope clears gently and grief learns to fly
DREAMS DESCEND QUIETLY, GLOWING THROUGH MY HEART
and love, unwavering-binds what was torn apart
Branches
an assumed relationship
parts and whole
impossibly seem to
convince that a tree
is a tree~~
Gold the young moon
above an Andalusian grove.
Love vines bind us
as we share the same wine.
In a sterile Spanish clinic
her cat-scan is read in a dead language.
I keep looking at the stark image,
hoping to see Olive and Date Palms
not these smoldering shadows,
branching through her being,
as if she were a vineyard
on fire.
In the forest of stars where thoughts intertwine like eternal branches,
The human imagination is born like a dragon from the mist of dreams,
Transforming the earth into a canvas of colors flowing from the heart of the sky,
In the ocean of the mind where desires ripple like waves of light,
We do not surrender our crystal wings to ideologies that bite into the blue sky,
We do not yield the helm of the ship of dreams to those who do not know how to dream.
Instead of losing ourselves in shadows that slither across the cold ground,
Let us rise toward the sun, seeking the rays that reveal our soul,
With an open heart, like a gateway to the infinite worlds of the heart,
Let us be weavers who braid the threads of destiny with golden hands,
For each of us carries a hidden galaxy in our gaze,
Each of us is a line in a cosmic poem waiting to be heard,
And thus, in the silent song of the universe, let us leave our echo,
Let us be the stars that shine eternally in the endless night of time.
I was born with the meaning of home
running through my veins,
like sunlight weaving
through branches,
casting warmth on cold earth.
In shadows, I gathered light,
each ray a promise,
each beam a whisper
filling spaces of despair.
With hands outstretched,
I became a gardener,
planting seeds of love
in the soil of his heart,
tending to wounds like petals.
The forest listened,
its soft sighs a chorus,
as I sought the truth
beneath layers of leaves,
light revealing paths to safety.
In the courtroom’s embrace,
I stood tall, a lighthouse,
shining bright for him,
a beacon guiding him home,
where love flows like a river.
How I wish to be the bird that weaves dreams in the branches of time, silent,
Fluttering butterfly wings around your aura, dancing in your light,
To be the petal that feels your touch like a sunrise birthing the day,
To be the moon with which you string words under the mantle of night,
The tree where you hide your sighs, like an altar of hidden pain,
To be the wave that caresses your soul with whispers of the eternal sea,
The mirror that captures the brightness of your gaze in the eternal dance of light,
The song that fills your silence with notes that are born and die within you,
The rainbow that thrills your wonder, a bridge of colors between sky and earth,
The raindrop that slides into your thoughts like a story of the sky,
The fresh earth that awakens memories with the scent of rebirth,
The sunbeam that embraces you at the edge of a morning,
To be the soul that finds its place in your love like a sanctuary of eternity.
In the white night, the bare branches dance with the snowflakes,
Whispering stories of dreams floating on the horizon,
Fragile as mist, ready to disperse in the wind.
My thoughts stumble, flowing like an uncharted river,
Reminding me of a moment suspended in time, captured in a lens,
A frozen memory of what could have been, what could become.
In the silent cold, without the sun, only the purity of snow prevails,
Whispering to me that beauty is born even in the absence of light,
That dreams, though delicate, are not always without substance.
My consciousness runs, tripping over unspoken thoughts,
And I understand that I must seize the fleeting moment, live it,
For dreams are there, waiting to be touched, embraced.
Oh, my soul, do not let fear freeze your desires!
The branches of life may seem bare, but they are full of promises,
Waiting only for you to give them life, to dress them in the colors of hope.
And even if the wind howls menacingly, always remember:
Your dreams, no matter how fragile, are stronger than you think,
Reach out and grasp them now, while they are still there, while you are still you.
A Conifer
A
Blue Spruce
Born from a cone
Green leaves shaped like needles
Inhale deep draughts carbon dioxide
Provide places for wrens and chickadees to hide
Sticky sap exuded from the bark leaves a fragrant scent
Cones fall to the ground, the seeds of the next generation
Brown branches support long strands of twinkling Christmas lights
Gnarled
Trunk
With
Bony
Fingers
Of
Roots
Two hearts intertwined.
Branches merge into one tree,
Families unite.
Fresh football fixtures, fill our Saturdays
kids all get haircuts and new shoes for school
white summer dresses are folded away
north winds caress us as evenings turn cool
Summer's end harvest, berries and chestnuts
broken branches, the scattering of leaves
shaken dog walkers with their shell shocked mutts
low hanging sunshine, a Cox apple breeze
Weather becomes our preoccupation
ends talk of rioters, waiting for cells
and pauses all of our speculation
on flip-phone Fuhrers, in fancy hotels
Storm Lilian found, it's way down our street
the Autumn statement, arrived at our feet.
On a tree
Overcome by the scent of citrus
Sitting on a branch plucking fruit
With the rhythmic sound of grass below me
The wind blowing the grass like waves
Filling the air with musicality
The blossoms
Yellow and white
With the possibility to be greater then buds
Tightly closed but ready to open
Offshoots of the bigger, stronger branch
I have this quiet moment to myself
To admire nature at its finest
Chewing on honeysuckle
The blossoms are shaped like stars
Soft and round petals
But pointy,
Permeating through the casing they are trapped in
A star, that when pollinated, grows
Growing into the tangy fruit that we know and love
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