Shadows shift in flickering flame
Vows made, now stained with your name
Our flame, once bold and bright
Now wanes upon this cold, stark night
I see the distance in your eyes
Reflecting echoes of love’s goodbye
Emptiness fills your silent stare
A longing still lingers in the air
Your heart, once gentle, has lost its grace
Betrayal bleeds—a bitter taste
Sarcasm drips from lips once sweet
A soured promise, my heart retreats
Through veins of passion, ice takes hold
Your touch, once warm, now a numbing cold
Loneliness wraps around us tight
This silent suffering, my secret plight
Our flame that waltzed is now a wisp
A puff of smoke from a burnt-out wick
Haunted by love that burned too fast
Our fading ember, reduced to ash
There is a silent visitor inside you now —
softer than fresh-baked bread,
more precious than gifts from wise men of the East.
A second heartbeat,
gently echoing beneath your own.
You carry more than a name.
You carry memories yet to be made,
a mirror of past souls,
a vessel for tomorrow’s joy.
So walk gently,
eat wisely,
rest fully.
That bottle of cider —
it whispers lies.
That puff of smoke —
it scorches what is still becoming.
Feed this life with love,
with hope,
not with chemicals that dilute beautiful expectations.
Go.
Sit with those women in white —
the ones who read charts like oracles,
plotting the rise of a king or queen within your womb.
Let them weigh the weeks,
count your months like blessings.
Endure the prick of needles —
not just for you,
but for the strength of the life to come.
And when the countdown draws near,
remember:
Swollen feet will give way
to first smiles.
Too much sleep
will surrender to sleepless nights.
And sleepless nights
will bloom into stories —
told by the very angel
you now carry.
by Davie Kaliu
Set in a picturesque wonderland a lone blue-bird sings a soft song of sorrow awaiting the arrival of a warm springtime day
Draped in a Winter coat a snow covered cottage
sits in silence as a puff of smoke pulls from the chimney
Frozen branches dressed in crystalline pearls
reaching outward from an age old tree
Gently sway as the boughs peek upward and then fall to the earth with ease
[]
A muse of white a canvas defined a pallet
of color and lines
Of Winter's cold freeze
A simple yearning need
As Spring comes of showering light
Lost and Alone
Lost and alone in this once happy home,
Where love and laughter rang, now a silent tome.
Our candle, an ardent fire that burned so bright,
Now dimly flickers, in the cold, harsh night.
I see the distance in your eyes,
Reflecting the echoes of love's goodbye,
Emptiness in your silent stare,
A longing that lingers in the air.
A love that danced has lost its grace,
Fading memories leave a bitter taste,
Sarcasm drips from lips once sweet,
A love turned sour, our hearts retreat.
In passion’s veins, ice takes hold,
Your touch, once warm, now a numbing cold,
Isolation wraps around us tight,
Loneliness now our silent plight.
Our former fervent flame, now a thin wisp,
A puff of smoke on a burnt-out wick.
Haunting memories of our love’s past,
Our smoldering ember, reduced to ash.
A sonorous knell echoes through this hollowed home,
Eternally cursed to haunt these halls, lost and alone.
-Edward
Politics
in Hyde Park
was at the end of a shtick
FDR’s mouthpiece
a cigarette holder
suspended over
his spinning wheels
Pearl Harbor
a puff of smoke
It was a new deal
It was big
The peace pipe
signaling
W A R
USA
evened the score
A Fading Ember
In shadows cast by waning light,
A love once vivid, now takes flight.
Our candle that once burned so bright,
Now stings of a cold, harsh night.
I see the distance in your eyes,
Reflecting echoes of love's goodbye,
Emptiness in your silent stare,
A longing that lingers in the air.
A love that danced has lost its grace,
Fading memories, a bitter taste,
Sarcasm drips from lips once sweet,
A love turned sour, our hearts retreat.
In the veins of passion, ice takes hold,
Your touch, once warm, now a numbing cold,
Isolation wraps around us tight,
Loneliness now our silent plight.
The flame that once danced, now just a wisp,
A puff of smoke on a burnt-out wick.
A love once radiant, turned to rust,
In silent ruins, we return to dust.
With a pen she wrote a story,
Stretched across her old notebook.
About a girl who wanted to be noticed,
And a boy who refused to look.
And she wept and wept and wept,
Leaving an inky, tear-sodden page,
But she swept the issue under a rug,
And brought it all down to their age.
With the same pen she wrote,
This time on a newer, nice notepad.
About her dropping, declining grades,
And how her parents were so mad.
And she tried and tried and tried,
To hold her emotions behind her eyes,
And she realised she would never be good enough.
No matter how hard she tried.
With a drag and a puff of smoke,
And something alcoholic between her lips,
She wrote drunkenly on a piece of paper,
About how her life had come to this.
And she winced and winced and winced,
At the messy drawings on her am,
How some were faded, how some were fresh.
How she could cause herself such harm.
With her crimson wrists the subject,
And a piece of broken glass.
She wrote her final story,
Before her body would finally pass.
And she stayed silent, silent, silent.
She was a stature laying in red.
She thought
“What use to words on paper have
When I am already
Truly
Dead.”
I'd say I do tomorrow
Should the stars align
And if you wanted I'd be yours
I'd want you to be mine
I wish tomorrow were today
I crave your love so much
A tender moment waiting
Commencing with your touch
A little spark, a puff of smoke
A single dancing flame
Fed by fuel of passion
Explosions self contained
I think together we could make
Some music beautifully
You're country, folk, you're rock and roll
Yeah, you're the one for me!
He knows it.
He knows how beautiful all the world thinks he is.
Aware of the adoration, shallow infatuation.
He’s not blind to where this has led.
The fame
The fortune
The girls
The boys
The sex
The kudos
The parties
Yet
No matter the adoration, plaudits and swooners,
No one sees inside your soul.
Your own misgivings, insecurities.
Fighting your own demons that lurk within.
But this is not without merit.
For despite the the here and now, the gifts and the glory, he is smart.
He knows it will not last, does he burn bright to the last?
A short yet powerful flame?
One he controls?
Or does he turn to an ember, a lost forgotten spark which has ebbed away its heat, to a puff of smoke that’s lost on the wind?
The so called Tinder Swindler is a Coward
He is a Joke
One Netflix documentary and the pathetic little man
Vanished in a puff of smoke
An imaginative guy whose games are over now
Plastic surgery may transform that face
But the evil that resides in those eyes and soul can never be replaced!
What if
Taking a puff of smoke
Do I stop my words for you
Last taste of my drink malted with feelings and emotions
Do I stop my words for you
Under the tree at night when they talk to each other chi cha
Tune of my friends
Do you stop my words for you
In the long drive when she ask I love you
Do you stop my words for you
Death is near count is bend back
Do you think my words for you
Is not called in life that I am a poet...... Om......... Maa
With love all
Jagdish Bajantri
She thinks she can and chugs along where vistas dip and swell;
A rush of steam, a puff of smoke, a whistle and a bell.
Gonna buy me a haircut and polish up my boots
When that pretty little engine comes to town.
The miles speak more of landmarks passed than merely distance run;
The hiss and clatter, music gained, not quietude undone.
Gonna tune me a banjo and play it in the pines
When that pretty little engine comes to town.
She thinks she can, and so she does and rolls across the land.
Her brakes might squeak like nails on slate, but stop her on command.
Gonna grab me a ticket and really go in style
When that pretty little engine comes to town.
In a puff of smoke, it appears
And it does endear
The person there before them
And I think it really adores ‘em
I can’t help but feel
That this is showing I notice the appeal
Of the one I see in front of me
And I think I would like to be free
To do whatever I want with this person
And to not know when
It is, but rather be content
With the one that I have the intent
On making them mine,
Oh, how that would be divine!
I would be able to
Be alone with them and do
What I’ve wanted to do since we met,
And you might think I covet
The one that I have said
Would be mine, but you might feel dread
When i say I just want them dead
And the emotion in my head
Was bloodlust, and the want to see the red
That would bleed out as I put them to bed
Written on March 25, 2021
Smooth Sailing
Delicate youth
Somewhere down the line
Is the spring of a bloom
Grown up to smell the fumes
Smooth sailing
True to form
A portrait framed
In cornflower wallpaper
Wild weeds
Broken skin
Shedding
Thin paper wings
Strange creatures
crawling within
Echos bouncing
Off the walls
Music and noise
Blocked doors
Locked and chained
The road
Leading to nowhere
But somewhere close
Familiar
Sharp
Under the nose
Carrying on
Turning against the tide
Polka dot eyes
Crystalline,round
Looking all about
We’ve got the night to cry
For the wrinkle in our eyes
Worn away
Crinkly and plasticized
A puff of smoke
Rough notes on the piano
Though not too much of a pain
Is dry against the grain
Gliding knives
Across the heart
A tease for torture
Wounds in the bloody rain
Marckincia Jean
Free verse
03/23/20
Torn and Worn With Time
The forgotten photograph
Legs crossed, wrinkled forehead,leering out the window
Coarse, gray beard , mustache and bushy eyebrows
Great grandpa , torn and worn with time
Legs crossed, wrinkled forehead,leering out the window
Seated on a wooden chair with cigar in between middle and index fingers
Great grandpa , torn and worn with time
A puff of smoke consumes the air
Seated on a wooden chair with cigar in between middle and index fingers
Thick fog takes his mind elsewhere : to cardboard boxes , milk crates, holed styrofoam cups and loose change
A puff of smoke consumes the air
The house fire ran with his mind, in a deep sleep, locked doors and stolen keys , nowhere for the fire to breathe
Thick fog takes his mind elsewhere : to cardboard boxes , milk crates, holed styrofoam cups and loose change
Coarse, gray beard , mustache and bushy eyebrows
The house fire ran with his mind, in a deep sleep, locked doors and stolen keys , nowhere for the fire to breathe
The forgotten photograph
Marckincia Jean
Pantoum
11/24/19
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