Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Poets.
Alive
A Poem. Alive In a Morning on Sunday Oh why? Why upon the lives of men, women, and children. Screams in the midnight air. Cries through the dense fog in early morning of Sunday. The sun will not rise within the seven of hours. Canon's blasting, gunshots firing. Oh why? Why upon the lives of the unknown souls being taken, lifted, and trapped upon the earth's surface. Free but unwilling to roam beyond the stars. Do I run? No I stand my ground. Do I weep for the dead? No I stay strong and take on this challenging life. Do I give in upon my weakened soul? No because I am alive in this morning on an unimaginable Sunday.
By Kayla Roses8 years ago in Poets
The Magic of Words
Words. They are the medium by which we relate reality; a currency of intuition and thought. Toward lexiconical pools we cast our poles of cognition, weaving from our bounty elaborate tapestries of self reflection. To the spiritualist, words are aether made form. To the reductionist, words are impulse made vibration. Perhaps the beauty of words lies in the fact that they posses the power to relay intent, thus reassuring guru and scientist alike that we are not alone in the dark and infinite cosmos. Words reassure us that our senses do not lie. Remember a time when you basked in a cerulean pool under the soft light of a full moon? If you can not, make a note to do so; it produces a holistically pleasurable warmness. Remember a time when you exchanged glaces with your love? Such euphoria and understanding can not be properly expressed without metaphor. To sate our dire need of relation we cast our poles out yet again, for senses are meaningless if we can not make sense of them. Every word we use references each of its predecessors and provides context for each of its ancestors in the continuous dance of discourse by which we mediate experience.
By Zeno Antonius8 years ago in Poets
Hopelessly Confused
Take a minute and search within your heart. Your heart, not your mind. Your feelings, feel the devotion tug at your heart strings. Feel the craving and swelling of appreciation. You feel it, the light tremor of the skipping beat, the feeling of light love. You feel it, some describe it as butterflies, that turning of your stomach. The gentle push your heart gives. The push to reveal that it's pushing you, baby steps, to your other half. The patience, the many times it's felt as if it were broken, and still, it builds with time, builds with knowledge and experience. You shut down, but your heart, a miracle worker and your life's battery, you feel it, don't you? Feel the tremor, the little hum it gives off. It takes its time, waiting here for you. It aches and it still fights for you. With every gasp, you take with all those nights you hold yourself trying to convince yourself it was going to be okay. But your heart, stays together, it's little miracle working. You rise up, you feel it as you lift your head and meet a smile and a lingering look. You feel it, don't you? There, it's the butterflies, and you feel the tug. Like a bee to its pollen, the sudden craving. Then there, you'll find your heart beating alongside rhythmically to what you discover your other half. The gentle ease, and you find your heart growing tender. You've found it, the reason of that gentle tug, those beautiful butterflies dance alongside with your joined hearts. Hear the hum, the gentle beat. Because one day, together, they will rise in song towards nature and together, rise to the sky above. Then, you will hear the music they make, make your own and you too will join the choir above.
By Marilyn Rae8 years ago in Poets
