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The Chosen One

At the horizon I see the clear sky melting
into an azure mirror of the ancient sea
I take a smooth rock, carefully selected
break the silence by throwing it away.

An exercise in torpid deliberation,
I ask of the chosen stone to make me proud
and so it does, skipping, walking on water,
my own personal Jesus.

Wandering along the beaches of yesterday
I reflect on the past and pray in isolation
that the worries of the world will dissipate
like the ebbing of the tide.

Ghostly fingertips of salty coolness
caress my face and entice me to turn.
But when I look back, all I see
are my lonely footprints in the sands of fate

At that moment I realise the stone and I
have a situation in parallel
Both of us falling in an ocean of sorts
Each of us worn down by the elements of our existence

Once I skipped and danced the waves,
The breakers a force to ride to shore.
But now I fear my momentum has ebbed
And I’m sinking, drowning in self doubt

Submerged in my depths I find peace,
no longer at the mercy of ethereal forces.
Still. Tranquil. Undisturbed.
I whisper a silent prayer.
That I will soon rise again.

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Collaborative poem by:
@brudberg @MyVogonPoetry @vivchook @jdubqca @troublegummer @Permabloom @afcoory

Painting by Anne Frandi-Coory

 

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POETRY OF LIFE

A gentle tug, and the spent cucumber
relinquishes its hold on the fertile soil.
Broccoli at hand to fill the space anew
To mark the change of season.

The smell of fertile soil reminds me
of hopes I had in early spring
when planting my selected seeds
and the joy of harvest disappears

Each new cycle demands renewed faith
for abundant rain and a favorable climate.
For things beyond our control that
determine our continued survival.

Let the rain roar gently on thirsty crust
Let the earth’s mouths drink dry the sky
In brazen lust for the barren seeds to cut loose,
Sow the sweet fields, impregnate the future.

Existing, but unbegun, our future lies silently waiting beneath the surface
Beneath a watery blinding morning sun and a Western painted sunset
And rolling clouds and darkening skies,
Then Winter steps in as Autumn steps back

The shovel’s blade cuts through impressionable ground,
reawakening sleeping giants from centuries past
and producing miraculous yields capable of
continuously feeding malnourished children

‘Neath the ground and above it, teems life billions fold nourished;
defying heat, wind and all that gods and men cast down.
Even fire greedy and savage, though blackening and smothering,
will not yet forever extinguish that which sustains earth’s breath.
….
The poetry of life will never cease until the poet dies.

Twitter collaborative poem by:

@afcoory @brudberg @jdubqca @troublegummer @MyVogonPoetry @Permabloom @vivchook

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I remember only living at night, unable to differentiate the real;
To wake was pain, to sleep was pain, to forget was horror;
And to remember was pain…
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But as a child, I always picked at my scabs.
Sometimes they bled again, but seeing the new pink flesh was
Reassuring. Is this what I was doing now, in remembering?
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How many times have I heard the adage: what doesn’t kill you
makes you stronger? I always thought it seemed somewhat trite,
but now find it intrinsically real.
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How much stronger then? How much more torment?
Nauseated with supposedly ever-empowering ache,
I lean on the looming horror of forgetting…and invite it in.
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In the fog I search for an essential component of me that’s missing.
Like a ship with no rudder, forced to go where the wind dictates.
My only solace is to drift unprotected and pray for calm.
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I’ve seen you, tumultuous sea, suddenly give up the fight
Joining hands with wind and clouds, to settle the waves.
Should I lay down now, allow death’s arms to soothe me?
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But as I wait, I feel that with each wave my pain recedes
from deep inside I gather strength to raise and meet a hostile world
I turn my back and leave
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I can face the world with strength from hardened scar-tissue

Collaborative Twitter Poem by:

@Permabloom @Jdubqca @Brudberg @MyVogonPoetry @vivchook @afcoory @troublegummer

Painting by John Waterhouse: Tempest

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CLOSING TIME
It started over a simple cup of coffee.
Three creams and extra sugar to cover the harsh taste.
As we sat silently and waited for the bill to come.
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I wondered if he could hear my heart pounding
But to speak would alert him to my inner turmoil.
A choice between life and death, or merely happiness and pain?
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I tried imagining what the last ten years would be like
Without all the assurances that everything would be fine.
And that the future was looking brighter than ever.
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The deception has always been so easy,
the intoxication of secret independence and power.
This day of reckoning – it always had to come.
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The sound of my spoon against porcelain
communicated clearly my desperation for conclusion
And as I ceased to stir, the silence was ready to explode
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Into what could I release the silence to, I wondered
Sadly, oddly amused on this Valentine’s, of all days.
An alliteration of allusions? A complaisant coup de grace
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The honesty lost, the one selfless gift lies lifeless,
Both enshrouded in guilt and hidden in fraud for
what was once two hearts is now just too much.
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Forever gone, forsaken, split; the result of two souls now adrift.

Closing Time – A Twitter Collaborative Poem by @MyVogonPoetry @Jdubqca @Vivchook @Permabloom @Brudberg @afcoory @troublegummer

Photo: Brassai Le Pont Neuf

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View an ebook of our poems with beautiful graphics by @MyVogonPoetry

Last Train
The beautiful countryside of my childhood
emerged vividly in my mind
as I waited for the last train back to the city.
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The rolling fields and storm clouds in my memory’s past
Mingled with the scent of my mother’s perfume,
tentatively splashed on my wrist
as I went through her things today.
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She should have been with us eternally
But she faded gradually into those clouds
And we are left with bottled memories.
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“Cabochard”, I relearned the word,
Reclaiming her perfume’s name,
Restoring the past’s shaky grounds,
Returning to a semblance of newness.
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I cried at the train ‘oh please don’t come’
longing only for the darkness to engulf me,
to cradle me deep within its velvet softness.
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A low, sustained whistle and flashing lights
were the train’s answer to my plea as it approached.
I could not stand still any longer,
Ready or not, I was moving on. 

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Collaborative Twitter Poem By @jdubqca @afcoory @MyVogonPoetry @vivchook @Brudberg @Permabloom

Photo courtesy of @Lynsm7

The Game

 

This mystery will not go unsolved,

will not destroy what has yet to be born.

With so much at stake we all must rise

and save us all from an enemy within.

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And yet, mystery is a part of life

Not in itself a destructive force.

It’s the power of collective thought

Seeking out the imagined, the real

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The clues of this conundrum tell a story

of a contest that we cannot hope to win.

No longer playing by the rules we have memorized

we must evolve and learn a new game.

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To reach inside yourself, and confront your fear

Is often easiest when approached as if a game;

Life’s ultimate challenge is yourself – always

The enemy without far easier than that within.

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The enemy within will never leave you totally

Confronting outside enemies at day, they hide

But as it’s time to sleep, you reach inside, and find

The ugly monsters that the daylight can’t abide

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Yet by dawn’s light be brave enough to slam the door

Shut on night’s turmoil, on words and foes alike.

Consciously, if only for an hour, or thirteen,

Be lucid enough to declare peace with the unsolved.

 “Peace hath her victories no less renowned than war.”

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Doves Of Peace

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A collaborative Twitter poem by @jdubqca @afcoory @MyVogonPoetry @vivchook @Brudberg @Permabloom

 

 

 

 

 

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NOTES ON FLYING

The stray seagull flew low, five miles out at sea,

and he flew proud among a small flock of pigeons.

Looking up, I couldn’t tell if he was disoriented

or if he was comfortable not being on his own.

The birds’ insignificance and my own, engulfed my

mind there underneath a dazzling blue semi-sphere.

The ocean, beguiling in its tranquillity, beckoned

me to come stroll across its bridge of rippled glass.

As the ferry powered toward its island destination,

I wondered whether the seagull’s aerial adventure

Was a maiden voyage or part of normal routine

much like many of the passengers aboard this vessel.

The urge to go…where does that come from? Is it

An escape, or a homing in? A departure, or a return?

Does vertigo cause disorientation and influence the destination?

Or does disorientation merely cause the departure?

As I watched him, surrounded, I sensed our fellowship;

two souls gliding, carried, buoyed by other forces.

Aren’t all our journeys just part of a greater circle?

And we all still matter. Yet we all still don’t.

The seagull had not whispered any audible secrets,

But it had spoken to me just the same.

The island may isolate me but I would never be

alone as long as I looked upward and embraced life.

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A Lone Seagull Comes Into View

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A collaborative Twitter poem by:

@MyVogonPoetry @Permabloom @Vivchook @afcoory @Jdubqca @Troublegummer

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