art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
Whisper of Dawnlight
This ghazal captures the quiet kind of longing that awakens with the morning light. The beloved appears in delicate forms—sun, breeze, shadow—becoming inseparable from the world around the lover. It describes a love that is subtle, mystical, and deeply woven into the rhythms of nature.
By Rahatweb Website2 months ago in Poets
Under the Cold Shine
The things I should have said and done Are burning, tearing holes of honesty Under the cold shine of life's winter sun / Would choices be different under a gun Saving me from emotional travesty The things I should have said and done / Avoid the fate of Attila the mighty Hun Benefit from a merciful amnesty Under the cold shine of life's winter sun / From me the crowd’s eyes would not shun Would turn against fate in cambistry The things I should have said and done / Gripping the ripcord before it became a run And not suffer the stain of my tanistry Under the cold shine of life's winter sun / Could stand atop the hill as the battle is won And revel in the profane-free majesty The things I should have said and done Under the cold shine of life's winter sun
By Paul Stewart2 months ago in Poets
Someone Else's Property
This Airbnb has me lost in thought I've been thinking about regrets As so often I do when I'm awake At night in the wee small hours Or the light of day, anytime really Sitting in someone else's property Makes me think how weird it is To be sitting in someone else's property I think there's been a cat here My allergies have been triggered Hotels are designed for strangers But homes are not — unless money That's true of most things Gifts, acts of love, sex and death Become things for strangers When there's a bottom line _ Someone else’s time, their body, their mind, their heart. My nose is swollen a little — not too dramatically — In someone else's property, in a city unfamiliar That could be any Scottish city, save for the green buses and the coastal-meets-urban landscape _ The gulls are calling now, replacing the distant sirens and the calls of the delinquents and disreputes _ Not that I can judge, as my regrets and guilt and growing uneasy, and the damn allergic reaction, remind me I am not sinless or saintly. My halo chokes and I too have benefitted and suffered from the commoditisation of someone's property, visually beyond physical reach but still enough for viscera.
By Paul Stewart2 months ago in Poets
W e Of L ike F etish
It is a small offering, absurd in the scale of its appetite, yet the fire loves permission, however small; free to rise from its ashen wreath at a time of its choosing, it wants justification for the hunger of its being. An excuse to devour, untamed.
By Kristen Keenon Fisher2 months ago in Poets
