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.


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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


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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


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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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drawing perfection, by Aaron Osowski

-drawing perfection

 

She was there,

and he,

entranced.

staring at her elegant figure,

her curves,

her skin.

soft and angelic;

pure felicity.

so he drew.

a white, beautiful canvas,

made spectacular by her,

and her body.

 

Aaron Osowski

Click on his name to read more of Aaron’s work.  Thank you, Aaron, for sending us your wonderful poem!


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On Poetry and Gratitude

I used to think that the metaphors and ideas in my head were merely ways I entertained myself.  That the imagery and games I played with words were child-like ways I had of viewing the world.

And maybe they are.  Maybe all I am doing is spinning wheels and creating horses out of thin air and so much sand.

But maybe … maybe there is another reason.  For those of us that write poetry or, for that matter, create any kind of art … Maybe we are supposed to write or create and make havoc and merry.  Maybe we are supposed to create something out of nothing.  Beauty out of pain.

Maybe through art we find our shared experience, our sense of community, a common bond.  I think of this community and I am awed by the fact that we wrap ourselves around the globe, yet so many of your offerings resonate, or teach.

Someone told me I was a poet, finally.  He’d read enough of my writing and train of thought and he looked at me and said it as if it was as plain as the nose on my face.  And once my beloved Poet told me that I was a poet, I felt something click inside.  A piece of the puzzle locked into place.  Or the world unhinged and swung open.  Or both.

I believed him.  I believed him, embraced it, take it seriously and I am all in.  I am committed to the work of becoming a better writer, a stronger writer, to write bravely when I feel afraid.  I am equally committed to lifting other writers, other artists, to give them a voice and a space to work on their craft.

I haven’t been writing lately like I should, and the reasons why are many and as varied as flavors of ice cream, or shades of blue.  But knowing you are here inspires me.  I see the magnitude of your work, this outpouring of time, effort, energy and creativity  that is rich and vast and interesting and unexpected.

This place, and each of you, make me happy.  You delight me.  You feel like family and neighbors.  I am always glad to see each and every one of you.

I hope you find nourishment here, too.

I believe in saying thank you but perhaps I do not say it often enough.

Over here in America it is the season of thankfulness, a gentle time to let the people in our lives let them know how much we appreciate them.

So thank you, contributors, followers, and readers, from the bottom of my heart.  I am thankful for you all.

Melissa


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Sarah’s Challenge

 

Writing without being present to give

life to the words and sounds to the senses,

a child writing forever, through a sieve

of adulthood. Writing, no defences,

no beginning, no end. Explanation?

Should writer need ask for reason – enough

to say driven by some aberration

of gene, Muse or some other mystic stuff.

Not author not playwright not a poet

no description encompasses this drive

to express the very nature of it –

Better part of me writing to survive

than all those thoughts be stuck inside my head

and I be sad, unfulfilled till I’m dead.

 


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Bridges

I walk along the rivers
Which sources lie between
The pale white clouds in the sky
Which ends anywhere
Its tail a snaking wisp of smoke

I want to cross
The rickety wooden bridge
To the other side,
An uncharted mysterious terrain where
Strangeness is subjective.

January, and with it comes new courage,
New light,
New heart.
I finally cross it.
The raging rapids conquered
Connections, bold
And strong.

 

www.sorrowsinaserenade.wordpress.com


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Song of the Star

Dear children,

I am the star -
No, not the enchanting, twinkling stars
In the dark night sky

Those, are for dreamers.

I am the star -
Glittering, alluring
The lamp to your future.

I am the brightest.

Come to me, dear children.
Into my world – your world – of A-Stars.

There are only stars, and the
Occasional
Shooting star.

There are no rainbows here for you to chase,
No fruitless quests for that pot of gold.
Child,
those, are for dreamers.

Join me in my song,
The chant of many -
Star, star, star.
A perfect, melodious harmony
Trembling with desire. Perfection. Rings in our ears.

Come to me, dear children.

I am the star that you need.

Not the twinkling stars in the night sky -
They are blind and dull.
Those,
Are for dreamers.

www.sorrowsinaserenade.wordpress.com


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The Photocopy Machine

Green glow consumes the person.

Churning, whirring,
White papers with black dots, white papers with black dots, white papers with black dots
Again.
The same blots on the same purity.

Hours and hours and hours. Again.

White blouse. Black skirt. White nails.
Permed black hair. White ring. Black boots.

Hello,

How do you do?

Please pay,
$x for one pristine replication.

www.sorrowsinaserenade.wordpress.com


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other voices

Sometimes I
admire the
moon for it
cannot match
the sun’s glory
so it finds
it’s own patch
of sky to
brighten.

Sometimes I
admire the
nightingale
for it is drowned
out in the shrilly
shouts of other
fowls so it
finds its own
silence to
liven.

Sometimes I
strive for the
sun yet I
can’t reach it,
so I aim for
the twinkling
stars instead.

Somewhere
over the rainbow
the colour black
is weeping,
but then she
realizes the
mysterious beauty
of the night.


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Winter’s Nocturnes – A Sestina

He sits down.

Melodies unfurl with a twitch, a light trill,
And the man leans back, savouring every note
Cloaked in black, and stained with tears,
Winter’s gifts a forgotten sight. Under the stars,
He bows his head, straightens his back, and the haunting
Begins. He slams on the piano keys, sorrow a dark cloud.

He remembers lying down, watching the clouds,
He remembers the chirping birds’ magnificent trill,
He remembers her – her bright green eyes haunting
His own. Her hand, knotted
With his. He remembers lying down, watching the stars
As each twinkled, then faded, merely a tiny tear.

Yet her soulless body besieged his mind, tattered and torn.
Each passing bar, a doubtful cloud.
He sees not the stars.
He hears not the trill.
But only senses the funeral of the notes.
Like death angels chanting, dancing, haunting.

He plays to hunt
Her spirit, to guide her to fill the tear
In his heart. Each note
Forms her silhouette, dimly glowing against the black clouds,
Against the wintry mist. She smiles at each familiar trill,
Her eyes are gold, like the stars.

The music makes the fair moon and stars
Weep, for its haunting
Siren beseeches attention. Hark! Music flows like a rill,
As his fingers dance over the piano. Too abruptly, it stops. The air tears.
He hovers on the piano, like a cloud,
Contemplating. contemplating. contemplating. Too soon the notes

stop

for your reference:
Word 1: trill
Word 2: note
Word 3: tear
Word 4: star
Word 5: haunt
Word 6: cloud


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A Broken Umbrella

We’ll dance a waltz in the rain.
Let
the twirling raindrops breeze past us
And the lovely patters sing.

We’ll grow our roses in the rain.
Let
the soothing winds fondle our creation
And blooming petals rise.

We’ll spin our umbrellas in the rain.
Let
the vibrant colours splash the blue
And the silent promise ring –

Our love flows like the rain
A shower of wealth
Sparkles of effervescence

And the cold, cloying tang of pain.


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Fishermen’s Song

Gnarling fury,
Menacing wrath!

From Poseidon’s clutches
Deliver thy torn sail!

Warping whirlpool,
Growling gale!

Hear thy cry,
Wailing screams
Echoing – ing.

Winter’s splash
Strikes cold.

We
Await
The
Coming
Of
The
Peace

like it? I appreciate demand constructive criticism! >:)


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Of Beauty and of Sorrow Deep (a Rondel)

Of beauty, and of sorrow deep

A poet simply has to write

On cheerful day, or lonely night

The words inside, she cannot keep

~~~

Though smiles abound, or though she weep

She crafts her words and gives them light

Of beauty, and of sorrow deep

A poet simply has to write

~~~

Both wide awake, or fighting sleep

Though she may try to hold them tight

The thoughts inside, they just take flight

And to the page, the words do leap

Of beauty, and of sorrow deep

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