poetry Hot

stevencudahy, to poetry
@stevencudahy@mastodon.scot avatar

the blade isn't an answer today
wasn't an answer then, for me
heated to sterile because the drama of fire
licking the steel was cinematic
though predictably gauche
and i choked
lacking blood enough
to restore the scorched sands to life
lacking the conviction
i could ever be clean enough
to not infect the knife

#Poetry #Writing #vssPoem Thanks @worded_art for the prompt - sterile.

davemark, to poetry
@davemark@mastodon.social avatar

One of my favorite all time poems, apropos of nothing:

"Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality."

-- Emily Dickinson

eurobubba,
@eurobubba@mastodonczech.cz avatar

@davemark … which can be sung to the tune of the Gilligan’s Island theme, as someone recently pointed out.

davemark,
@davemark@mastodon.social avatar

@eurobubba I will never not hear that now!!! 😝

stevencudahy, to poetry
@stevencudahy@mastodon.scot avatar

this is the prize game
played for art as embodied
in the warpaint built from joy
and raw practiced skill
surgery of light and shade
colour as scalpel and graft

Thanks @worded_art for the prompt - contour.

seanpatrick.phd, to poetry
@seanpatrick.phd@seanpatrick.phd avatar
The best of life is left unlived:<br></br>the mass of moments absent mind,<br></br>explosions over in an instant<br></br>that leave a trace of warmth behind.<br></br>An afterimage of<em> la petite mort</em>,<br></br>the comfort of oblivious sleep;<br></br>the edges of experience blur<br></br>and hint at blisses we can’t keep.<br></br><br></br>The best parts lie just out of grasp,<br></br>we tell ourselves; we keep content<br></br>to live beyond the reach of joy<br></br>until our lives are fully spent.<br></br><br></br>These fleeting things that sight can’t bear,<br></br>these haunting ghosts of ecstasy,<br></br>leave deep lacunas lingering<br></br>in yet-unwritten history.<br></br>They leave the dreams of coming days<br></br>dyed in inverted afterglows:<br></br>the ache for something yet to be,<br></br>a secret glee that no-one knows.<br></br><br></br>So this, it seems, is pleasure’s form: <br></br>a blip upon the radar screen.<br></br>Chased with dauntless vigor, <br></br>but hardly ever seen.<br></br>

https://seanpatrick.phd/2024/05/21/afterimage/

Aphelion, to poetry
@Aphelion@mastodon.sdf.org avatar

You can only
walk through a
minefield
so long before
you become the
inevitable
explosion.

stevencudahy, to poetry
@stevencudahy@mastodon.scot avatar

keep it low level
and subdued
enough below notice
people don't
but are changed nonetheless
creep in like mice
and chew wiring
no one knows they need
until it fails
do not ask permission
commit violence
quiet and soft
as snow falling
outside the window
changing everything
secretly

Thanks @worded_art for the prompt - subliminal.

Aphelion, to poetry
@Aphelion@mastodon.sdf.org avatar

Your absence
So complete
It voids the songs
In my throat
Until I choke,
And frightens
My blood into
Retreat.

stevencudahy, to poetry
@stevencudahy@mastodon.scot avatar

like the bunched duvet
you left behind to haunt me
memory of wood
sucked dry by the thirsty flames
left ghost, a haunting
shaped from the fire's soft grey tears
collapses empty
beneath the settling structure
we carefully built
later i'll make the spare bed
leave ours your lost body's cave

8 May 2024 - ash.

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