art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
Hey Buddy Let Us Work. Content Warning.
This is the last part of the series about The Boy Who Lost His Soul. This is a sci-fi horror fiction story created by Vicki. Outstages Cafe Production is a virtual Cafe offering time travel, different scenarios, banana milk, and music. Little spooky!
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 28 days ago in Poets
Mostly Water
Thyme and sage Wisdom on page Not a philosopher Barely a poet Switch blade Suicide Not a philosopher Rarely a footnote List. List. To sea. The s ea Not a philosopher As the waves c rash free from r ock poo ls and buoyed la goons (They consume.) Early destructor Trying to make 75% (water)whole When. Of water S ource m eets ve ssel Facilitation is takenNot offered. As I sit by the waters edge, fee ding pig eonsreminiscing I feel a clarity e mergefrom beneath the b,(r)each of the fog. Survival is as much within grasp as total era sure Not a philoso.
By Paul Stewart28 days ago in Poets
Refusal
Bullshit . This is bullshit . This That . Old jazzy analogy where the gasps and gaps hold importance . . White space empty . As important as your poesy prose eroticised linguistics . . How the page commands and dominates . The words . Butchered . For consumers Feasters . . Fervent poetry junkies Getting their fix Ravenous . . There’s always some motherfucker waiting to tell you what you can’t do . Spread it wide spread it thin i will . Lose or gain meaning . fuck and clarity . you . in the spaces . up . . .
By Paul Stewart29 days ago in Poets
Whispers of the Old Woods
The villagers said the forest had a memory. Not the memory of men, who forgot quickly and argued loudly, but a patient, listening memory, older than the river, older than the hills, older than the stones lining the village square. It hummed quietly at night, a sound like wind brushing against the trees, or perhaps the echo of old voices. No one ventured deep into the woods after dusk—not without reason. And those who did often returned changed, carrying the strange weight of stories they had not told themselves. Elara was not like the others. She had grown up on the edges of the forest, her window facing the trees that seemed to sway even without wind. Her grandmother would warn her, “The forest listens, child. It remembers your footsteps. Speak carefully, or it will answer in ways you cannot understand.” But Elara had a hunger for stories, a thirst for the unseen. One autumn evening, when the sunset painted the sky in molten gold, Elara walked along the familiar path into the forest. She carried nothing but a small lantern and her notebook. She wanted to hear what the forest had to tell her. The air smelled of wet leaves and moss. Shadows stretched long, reaching for her feet like dark fingers. And then, just as she reached the oldest oak in the heart of the woods, she heard it—a voice, soft and melodic, like someone humming an ancient lullaby. She froze, her breath forming tiny clouds in the cool air. “You come for stories,” the voice said. It seemed to drift from the bark of the tree itself. “But stories have their price.” Elara swallowed her fear and nodded. “I will pay it.” From the darkness, shapes began to appear—figures that were neither fully human nor entirely shadows. They danced slowly, circling the oak, their movements silent but precise. Elara realized they were the forest’s memory made flesh: the ones who had been lost to time but remembered still. “Long ago,” the tallest shape whispered, its voice like the rustle of dry leaves, “a child like you wandered here, seeking tales of courage and folly. She spoke, she laughed, she cried. And in return, the forest kept her, just as it will keep you, if you are not careful.” Elara’s hand gripped her notebook. “I seek only the stories,” she said, “not to be taken by them.” The figures paused, their eyes glimmering like starlight. Then one stepped forward, extending a hand made of woven branches. “Very well,” it said. “Listen closely.” And Elara listened. They told her of the fox spirit who outwitted the hunters, leaving only riddles behind. They spoke of the river maiden, who wept pearls into the stream and taught mortals the language of water. They whispered of the old king of the forest, whose crown of leaves had turned to ash, leaving only the wind to carry his commands. Each story twisted in her mind, strange yet familiar, like remembering a dream she had almost forgotten. Hours—or perhaps minutes, for time had little meaning here—passed. When she finally looked up, the figures were gone, and the oak stood silent, ancient as ever. But in her notebook, the stories were written, as if her pen had moved on its own. She returned to the village at dawn, carrying the forest’s memory with her. When she shared the tales, the villagers listened with wide eyes. Some laughed, some wept, some shook their heads and muttered about imagination. But Elara knew the truth: the forest had spoken, and she had heard it. Years later, when her own children grew old enough to walk among the trees, she would tell them to listen carefully. “The forest remembers everything,” she would say, “the good, the bad, and the forgotten. It speaks to those willing to hear—and sometimes, it answers in ways you cannot foresee.” And at night, when the wind rustled through the leaves, she would hear it: faint whispers, like the echo of a hundred old voices, singing stories meant for those who dared to walk beyond the edge of the known. In the forest, stories never die. They only wait, patient as stone, ready to find a listener willing to remember.
By Jhon smith29 days ago in Poets
