Posts in: Poems

Treasure-Mount Trash

I wonder if any part of my being perceives rain as tears Or if any part of the collective’s does It’s a rainy evening and all the beauty of existence I’ve found the last days is gone It’s a matter of time, stardust Time seems to be shrinking as we distract ourselves from being The lifespan in a galactic circumstance I’m just a fraction of second if the galaxy is taken as the rule

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On The Artistic Reaction

Once I was told there’s no art for the art’s sake I wasn’t impacted by the statement itself rather than by where it came from The man was a poet, not a very bad one, not a very good one, just a poet on internet And he said that as if he was being forced to write I thought for a long time about what he said and I couldn’t grasp the information

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On Life’s Imitating Poetry

It’s curious how akin to poetry life is: By now, after all the golden age stardust are legends and their estate is wide, You can choose from templates of each era and lay out your words It will be easier once you’ll only have to find the (contextual) synonym with the sound that will mirror In the worst case scenario, you’ll have a hard time fitting it, But it’s granted cause

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On The Common Place

The ultimate fear of my entire existence (this and other) is the common I fear being common over death – In fact, death and me are not very different, I do not fear dath at all. And now: Friday night, – I, who never knew which day I was in (time is concept) Exhausted from a week of work, – I, who said I would never let work become work (enjoy your craft)

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Windmill Tulip Garden Path

Inspired by Monet’s Tulip Fields near The Hague 
Windmill tulip garden path Riverside aerial perspective linear North south east west 
Which way to go (physical or soul) – A quest 
Green blue white yellow green blue red No answer at my behest Light’s advent in manifest Written on 24th September 2021

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On Do-Overs and Being Over

(Write about the fallacy of being over, which is merely a do-over in disguise) I started writing this poem five days ago, it was supposed to follow a different path — and it would be very bad, taking in account what I had written: I remember the nights and days day and night As my tears become a mix of alcohol and smoke Today I was looking through my drafts folder — searching something

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White Flowers

The white unknown flower on top of a white unknown tree that blessed my view With its existence, is bending towards my window The window I haven’t looked that for a long time I, who used to wake up at sunrise Just to greet the morning breeze I think I spent all my sadness last autumn Pondering on the absence of clouds, browning quiescent leaves of grass Reminiscent from forgotten myths

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Two Last Lines

Two last lines of interchangeable spheres The untuned song I no longer know In a pattern I got from the Universe That knows about spheres more than I do That had been dreaming long before I became real Ordid I? Orchid, eye For so long I haven’t made sense I think I’m someone’s dream as miswritten As the ones I script When I decide to fit tex t books Sesquipedal words to titles that I find beautiful

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Apophenia

Saved a mantis a while ago I let it out, I saved its path into the high From its vague perspective, I was an angel And weeks later, it came back to say goodbye Already brown, darkling to night I could recognise it. I said: “Hey, you’re back, let me help you out” I couldn’t hug it or show it any affection Other than leading it to nature again And that’s how we, childless women work

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Memory

Memory is beyond physical understanding It’s the fundamental reason why we’re here It’s all we get to accumulate over the years It’s all we are, all we are to become It’s the picture we draw over time On the blank page we were It determines the next step It can aid, it can deceive And it’s under atoms Less than particles Invisible One’s inner spiral place of eternal dibs Written on 24th September 2021

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