This bond of our hearts, so deep and true,
You are mine forever, and I belong to you.
The weather tonight is a beautiful sign,
To finally whisper that your heart is mine.
I have loved you wildly, with all that I hold, Giving you my heart, a story untold.
I am lost, I am crazy, in the warmth of your grace,
My entire lifetime, I want to spend in your embrace.
This bond of our hearts, so deep and true, You are mine forever, and I belong to you.
Yet, your memories burn like a flame in the dark,
Leaving my sleepless nights without a spark. My soul yearns to talk, to hear your voice speak,
Whenever your thoughts make my defenses weak.
Without your presence, I am an unfinished song,
But with you by my side, I finally belong.
I want to live every breath watching over you, Hiding you safely in my heart, away from view.To pour out every secret I've kept inside,
And keep every promise, with nowhere to hide.
Our connection runs deeper than the oceans wide,
Everywhere I look, your face is by my side.But without you now, my world has gone gray,
Come back to me love, and bring back the day.
This bond of our hearts, so deep and true, You are mine forever, and I belong to you.
“a heartbeat pulsating as living light
free from each and every limitation
I Am that dwelling in unbound delight
the source wherefrom arises creation”
- by Uneeking Seeker
I burn your passion that’ll climb wildly as vine
In a steaming fountain from soul and mind
I’m hidden spark, deepest source to impel
Your inspirations through words, I’m always there.
Throbbing within you, ringing like chimes
Demanding rest, so stubborn sometimes
Still, my light generates power for a lifetime
I am that I am for creation of verses and rhymes.
Gift from Mightiest One who said, I Am Who I Am
Your guiding spirit, giving joy, extricating glums
I'm goddess of aesthetic expressions, so divine
I am who I am, your muse from your heart inclines.
The tree in my backyard has been watching me since I was three.
As time passed, its gaze has never set me free.
In the light, it gives a shadow;
in the dark, it hides the light.
This tree makes my life just not right.
Like the other night, it knocked on my window, gave me a fright.
This damn tree is trying to take my life;
I know it looks at me like a killer with a knife.
So with an axe, I hacked it to the ground,
And joyfully, wildly, I danced around.
Once he had one he wanted to constrict it, like a boa; a python, to hold closely guarded the thing for which demure closets stay closed like iron-waitresses pervading the hostel with lime-light the lemony-snickett cackling in the born-and-bred flames, curling irons prod the paper-clip open but the stamp endures, a timid interred girl beghosts the earls. The favorite simple plan, favored in heavens gamma, where brightness surely waits in pavilion the concert. My concerto is made-man italian, the devise impregnated, like hollow bells that sour, the grim sugar from said waitress, we wildly call the crows to set and chime on the lines where workmen craft blue ribbons atop the farmland graves.
slender bush spreading leaves wildly is perfectly trimmed by gardener for its docility
Panic’s funny if it’s explained in rhyme.
I’m at a brite, swank, corporate event
summarized by its unexceptional
atmosphere - so I put on my watch face
- hanging back, an observer in the pack.
Fitting in is emotional labor
I couldn’t be more chilled - there’s a ‘work’ me,
who knew? Like a LinkedIn survival skill.
It must be a very recessive gene.
Adulthood happens without my consent,
like old iTunes agreements no one read.
Sooner or later we must all face the
unsparing proposition of working
- the need beneath it is adult and real.
Not money, in my case, something bigger,
something I must approach indirectly.
The wheel of life may spin quite wildly, but
ultimately, it lands on consequence
.
.
A song for this
kid by everything but the girl
kid by the pretenders
Constance La France's Epiphany Contest
Ambling through brittle cobblestone
of an alley...thorns cutting
my soles, the icy wind pinches this flesh. blinded by haze of duskfall...
And yet I persist-
wondering if this heart still
hungers for life...
Remnants of my seasons
are withering in the kiln
of time's cinders-- a shadow play
dimming through the indolence of chapters--
I Iaze around a complacent world,
defined by apathy--
A drifter without cause , my bone and marrow
remain unperturbed by the thrill
of moments' ceremonies...
Fading away into a rugged trail
I reach the edge of a forest track
to find through a hole
how the sky turns wildly red and alive...
hearing the laughter of earth
and the moon kissing summer
on my lips...
the grace of epiphany unknown to me
unfurls all budding flowers.
There once was this witch with a massive beard
Her suitors loved it, which sounds kind of weird
She did have a razor
But preferred a laser
And would slice wildly if large growths appeared
By
David Kavanagh
Cold, corrupt, peace we battle heart
It is our strongest weakness we grow strength
Harden kill of destruction upon vengeance thirst
Wasteland to deception save your own breath
Everything we dream as one for beauty to prosperity
But have we lost ourselves in translation
The mist no longer refreshing beneath burning sun
Dying souls walking reaper demise he breathes
Insanity mind or sane reality gone wildly disturbed
Say we only human where problems exist
Are they ours or world which breaks us down
Who are we as people your integrity you hide
Have we become wasteland where nothing grows
Blackened out by devastation, tear soaked by ground
Is beauty not in eyes of beholder we find love
Thriving being with ambitious dreams to stars
Is man their own demise consequences of their actions
Or one who flipped their lid in crazy world we live
The soccer ball rolls through school days
By Phan Tan Hai
The ball rolls across the schoolyard grass,
mesmerizing the boy who chases it—
kicking until the afternoon snags on the hanging moon,
kicking until the morning sun climbs up to watch;
even Pelé comes to gaze from the veranda,
shouting in a jubilant, midnight dream.
The ball bounds wildly in every direction;
clutching it, he roams the streets to challenge others—
any open space becomes a pitch,
kicking until summer sun and spring rain fade away;
even Messi would be astounded
to see a childhood kick soar high in the dead of night.
The ball travels through school days,
rolling past hills, mountains, rivers, lakes, and distant seas;
with a single strike, a rain of blossoms falls—
an offering to the boundless realm of form and void.
Waking at midnight to gaze across the ten directions,
he sees a thousand clouds drifting past the sun’s rosy glow.
The hot sun of summer sets loose our passion
and once more our thoughts turn to love
seeking the same warmth from a lover
filling us with joy as our cups overflow.
Making this beautiful world shout
coming to life with dainty colour
the shades set our hearts wildly beating
as we thrill with passionate feeling.
Hark listen to nature's cries of cooing birds
the sound of animals crashing through overgrowth
as they beat a path to the one they desire
blazing with a mass of passionate senses.
Once more our hot passions rule our heads
we step forth without the usual caution
all in the desire to replicate ourselves
to bring forth to life a new generation.
A lonely, thick stream of rain, as if carrying all the pain of the world,
Wakens the dark morning sleep hidden within those softly spread clouds.
An autumn-dark rainfall rushes down, as though to comfort our grief.
Even that single bird cannot defy the power of nature, they say—
A force that still slips past our reaching hands.
Wrapping around this darkness once more, that pitiful stream of rain—
Whose sorrow is it carrying, that it wishes to dance so wildly before the poor?
Is it trying to hear the silent, twisted outcry of the voiceless?
What kind of tears are gathered inside this rainfall,
That it tries to hand down its tear of sorrow to a new life striving to live?
Embracing the pain yet again,
Where is this foolish touch of the rain heading now,
Carrying these vast, wide tears as if to soothe those who mourn?
A trembling bird, having surrendered to sorrow,
Drifts away silently down the river.
The reason the unstoppable rain rushes toward us—
Could it be that, within the silent outcry left behind by the waves,
It wishes to wash away, to take away, the other "You" weeping inside of me?
Like frosted glass is this night.
Daylight’s clouds - restless like my love -
and scattered wildly heretofore -
somehow made a pact
to nimbly rearrange themselves.
Congealing in this chilling autumn eve -
translucent -
the clouds have blended in with dusk,
obliterating stars. . . and even shadows.
Luna, sad like me,
cannot transmit her moonlight
to cheer me.
Oh, to be again - enraptured!
To see your unique come-hither smile;
to hear the sound of honey in your voice;
to feel that splendid tingle within me
as you shine your gorgeous eyes -
radiant upon me!
Where are you now, my love -
my sweet, alluring boy?
And where are the stars
that blazed for me within your eyes?
Where is the crystal nightfall
of my fondest dream?
Oh, to feel again. . . enraptured!
But not even the smallest gleam
of you remains.
And not even Goddess Moon
can penetrate
this deep abiding gloom.
All days whip wildly along as if they have intention.
The hammer, nail and saw, tools of its master,
doing daily deliberate work, will foster grand expectations.
The master's craft proven over seasons of practice
brings a well learned lesson.
Head down, target on task, the constant refrains,
these will echo dreams.
But where is my breath, my air — hear my confession.
My masteries seem to be missing their mark,
the hammer and saw my limbs and muscles.
This honored craft, not as it appears,
rather cruel intentions, the witchcraft coming clear.
I am no master, but the slave of the dream.
As I view others and their quests,
they too have limbs and muscles put to the test.
Our fine craftsmanship, not for us at all,
but the very few from another team.
It is time to put this dream to bed to sleep forever.
I will lay down these tools and uncover my being.
A true carpenter's hand at work will always endeavor.
There is a higher calling and it is always freeing.
The midnight bell chimed through
the empty halls.
Dust settled softly over trophies
on the walls.
Lockers slammed shut with a
metallic, sudden boom.
As freezing air flooded inside the
history room.
Footsteps echoed sharply down
the dim West Wing.
Through no one was there to hear
the sirens sing.
A phantom chalkboard wrote a
single name in red.
The roster of the students who
were long since dead.
I hid beneath the desk, my
breathing sharp and fast.
Trapped inside a prison built of a
horrific past.
The heavy smell of smoke began
to choke the air.
As phantom fire crackled wildly
down the stairs.
Then shadows stretched out from
the dark gymnasium floor.
And skeletal hands began to rattle
every door.
The guidance counselor's door
swung slowly, widely wide.
Revealing teeth and glowing eyes
that waited deep inside.
The hallway lengthened out into a
endless maze.
As glowing red eyes locked into my
terrified gaze.
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