Poetically Profound

Into Indigo

I was putting pieces back together 
Of a seemingly hopeless endeavor
Are the heights too high to be measured? 
How far do I let you fall before you need to be severed? 
No, don’t you dare let go
Of what it is to be an Indigo 
Every time I close my eyes 
Surprised you already know
Divine destiny entwined 
The stars will come out tonight 
And I promise that you will glow 
Like chariots of fire 
We ride for purpose, desire 
Seven suns to ignite the pyre 
Yet the moon still controls the ebb and flow 
I’ve swallowed myself inside 
Found out how hollow is an empty life
Threw myself into the tide 
Just to see if I could float 
This silence never quells the violence 
The vibrance of violet 
Violins play background music for the united
And every time I close my eyes 
Surprised you already know 
I was putting pieces back together 
Of a seemingly hopeless endeavor
Are the heights too high to be measured? 
How far do I let you fall before you need to be severed? 
No, don’t you dare let go
Of what it is to be an Indigo

By The Birch

There’s a fire, deep in the woods
They’re burning the past 
And the tragedies they never thought they could
Some moments don’t last
Wash these hands of everything they ever took
Sowing the seeds in these forever fields 
Never to yield a second look
I feel
Spent, broken and often shook
Attempts to heal 
Amidst sinew and soot
Almost surreal
Who knew the savior was afoot?
Are we defined by our spines?
Or do we ever bother to delve into the book?
Tell me that its fine
Baptize me by the crook
How do we live our lives?
Never like we thought we should
How long does it take to realize? 
That we burn as bright as the fire in the woods
Burn as bright as we thought we could
Turn the page
We make our own endings by the birch
Turn the page
We make our own endings by the birch
Burning as bright as we thought we could

in memoriam


whose invention was absence?
this garner of absolute sense, a single 

oriole sequestered in the rural jacaranda
bouquet, whetting the swell of cadence

against the draconian baton
shellacking bells of a cyclone

a steady smallness clouts thunder
water volatile across windshields

& a covenant of speechless sorrows undresses 
its hindsinght on the balconies of pigeon

- holed homelands & streets are flooding
with the hyperbole of a beggar’s nostalgia

does catharsis contour my cartilage?
does it seek to sculpt the white gold

roiling in the gap between my bones?
a paradox opens its box, tripod hobbles

under the weather-beaten awning, a glass
at hilt of jade & gilt clinks in smoke-bliss laughter

outside the busker, the fable & the photographer
sepia toned weather; pinhole melody, timeworn

how long does it take to percuss this antidote page by page? 
to know this, to sow this, to grow this graveyard of intimate dread

to sit - half promise, half prophecy, an anthology of alcohol at dawn
to learn that all the ghosts that haunt your heart needn’t come from the dead

Scherezade Siobhan©

Source: viperslang



This too shall pass
The look of knowing,
The touch of fire,
Such tender mercies
Of desire.
The way you kissed
And blessed my skin,
Upon hearing your song
I let you in.
Melting as the
Warrior poet
Sang his truths
To the moon.
I gladly lay
Down on the earth
Entwined my twin
With you.
I watched then
From a place of prayer
As you held
Your face to the sun,
Rare and few
Bold men of passion
My brother
You are such a one.

Venus Crow

Source: venuscrow

Love, Love


Don’t pretend, you didn’t know—
loving a man hurts, —and,
it hurts the most when you love
a man too hard. Point blank—
it’s a pain in the ass when a
man loves a man, the fights
last— way too long, they’re drawn
out affairs, with bare-knuckles, bloody
lips and hot angry bruises, sometimes
met with disheartened night-sweats
and midnight rides out until sunset,
the breaking points far and few
between game set and match,
where Love, Love, almost never
happens easily in West Hollywood.
In the end loving a man hurts.


Mason Rhett Ford © 2014

Source: mason-rhett-ford



make the cut
lop off the part
which offends:
lower lobe of heart
butterfly pouch stomach
fingertips still feeling
flesh of one you love

or the part of you
which blew it,
your lungs
exhaling words
to express
lack of faith,

or your brain’s
coiled loop
firing, sanitizing
an ever-altering
memory of
what you did

soon you’ll be
in recovery
from surgery

forming scars
you will say
love caused,
when really
it was your

unable to accept
less surgical means,
necessary processes
of self-reflection
of letting go
of healing

- mermaidsbite / Christiane Lopez

Source: mermaidsbite

Lumbering Snowfall


we traveled westward
trying to outrun the sinking sun
across the time zones
to keep the day alive
for as long as we could
it was right in front of us
just beyond the windshield
past the forever white dashes
trapped between the yellow border lines
we fell in behind a semi
as visibility approached zero
all we saw was sawdust
in a clouded whirling dervish
you had never seen snow before
and you still haven’t
but this was as close to christmas
as you would ever come
existing in a cyclone of pine particles
in a blizzard of simulated snowfall

Source: tshirtsinwinter

berlin is full of oyster stained grey/ some worry much


as if you are the teasing half;
the other part dangling from a maple seed.
i inhale the air you stand in with both feet
while a collapsing gasp draws a sullen note
on your chest,
two entwined in maybes and tomorrows 
and washed is your cinnamon stained hair,
it grows out a colorless strand/
filaments and spices of yesterdays trivialities,
just berlins grey is biting
open lips.

Source: isas-bell

The eclipse of mercy


You denied me your voice

You withheld your ultimate
truth, behind a closed fist
that hid the delineations
of your second self

And you were not the isle to
where I had been offered
to row towards

when life crushed upon my chest
and I began to concave by the
weight of broken body over
a vulnerable spirit

Source: labelledamesansdice

Silent Bird


Each day

I eviscerate my guts

across the virginal pages.

A winter landscape 

strewn with blood,

leaving tracks of ink

of my earthly sins.

I peruse the words

that I have writ,

a Rorschach chart

to behold,

of how my passions

have slipped through my grasp

under shallow skies

in shadowed remorse.

I do not want

to utter a sound.

My bramble-tipped tongue

is better left unfurled.

I am merely

wades of thoughts

saturating silken sands,

a silent bird

tittering on 

the edge of grace.

Source: splinteredcupcakes