20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers


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Better Ending

Better Ending

Oceans are a continuation of sky

drenched and impatient

with brine

in its teeth

 

On brackish waves

whispers are lost

 

While sacrifices                 never forgotten

* * *

Stream and rhythm

are one in

morphological past

 

And there are other words

from dead languages

seen only in

memories of transliterations

passed over.

 

No language is dead

so much as hidden.

 

Words like to run

and do best

when detached from

black skin of text.

 

Clay left with stylus pressings

are footprints

of sounds getting away.

* * *

Mist is metaphor

being carried

with a tribute to Eurydice

and Lot’s wife.

 

Tired of song and sermon

salt seemed

a better ending.


1 Comment

Books, by “Ardent Bowel”

-Books

Darkness gorges on lutescent light,

Deep sapphire water and sage woods encircle.

Lush sylvan vegetation coughs angelically,

Sprinkling aurulent dust upon moss and grass;

Fantasy collides and abolishes night.

 

Rough paper melts into bliss,

Glassy eyes wander, hopelessly, wonderfully lost;

Passionate fingers flip,

Cinnamon aroma burns nostrils,

And electrified mind lofts reality,

As eight-horned fairies lick moonlight lakes,

And vermillion hued suns burn cerulean skies.

By fellow WordPress poetry blogger  Ardent Bowel


East North Street by Pamela Wells

Perched up high upon my steep slanted roof

tiny feet wearing red playground dust

clinging to warm shingles

sparkling in mornings light

breaking through

flooding my mind

with something

like what happiness must be

like bitter lemon tamed with sugar

dripping over a soft summer day

rising fearless ruler in a peasants dress

holding a tiger by the tail

 

Pamela Wells

http://maiasong.wordpress.com


3 Comments

Untitled

If I had married a poet
he would sing me to sleep with simile,
march into morning with metaphor,
brew the coffee, set the table,

a woven placemat for him,
a green one with lilies for me.
The white porcelain teapot, steaming

with water for my cup, two sugars, a slice of lemon,
and his strong coffee, black, no sweetness
except for the flavor of him
across the table.

We look, see much more,
speak, don’t speak.
The air is charged.
But,

he is not a poet.
He listens to my words,
understands my simile, my metaphor.
We have combined

our differences.
He is morning. I am night,
I the moon and he the sun
who has become my poet.

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