The Peace Of Writing In The Night

by Regina

Sunday eventide, on the slope of the fire-hued mountain,
owls emerge from the pines' shelter of boughs,
I'm sitting by an open window,
the peace of writing in the night.

Hunters moon, so settled and goldenrod,
the young days of autumn's presence,
sipping cinnamon hot cider,
baying hounds in the smoky valley,
songbirds taking an evening vow of silence.

Things

Things

Our clothes tatter, our shoes smell,
our wood decays, our paper brittles,
our marble chips, our silver tarnishes,
our drives corrupt, our food rots,
our steel rusts, our wine sours.
Faded and faltering

Some things are nice, some necessary
Some liked, some lusted after
Some longer lived, some longer liked.
Some adored, some abused,
Some displayed, some defaced,
Donated and discarded

Lingering

Along the stone-tipped buildings, glass reflects
The water ripples flowing near, where home’s
A memory uncorked and lost, complex
As photos seen in every road one roams.
Now winter’s worn the road some fifteen years,
The covered clouds are broken by the sun
And wind-whipped rain blows on till pathways clear
With breath blown in from cold where there is none.
Above looms fog that wafts up from the shrubs
Where herons gather in a game of chance
Along a path where holy men proceed to scrub
The frozen customs free in wartime dance.

vouloir

by archer

I want to not exist.
I want to be a spirit, free and guiltless and light.
I want to feel the sun warm on my skin without the warning of sunburn.
I want to be on the coast of Mexico without suicidal thoughts.
I want to feel the way I felt on the plane ride back to Sacramento when the plane surged from turbulence and my heart leapt and I thought about lightning.
I want to lie upside down on the park bench, deafening music in my ears.
I want to ride my bike in the cold, unable to feel my fingers and ears.

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