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prasannawrites · 21 hours ago
under the moon
the moon hollows itself out under the cover of clouds, as one weary owl hoots as dusk falls. the stars seize their chance to reign over an abandoned sky – the fireflies already took the crown.
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aaronawbra · a day ago
Try to read someone else’s poem with as much interest and intensity as you would if you were reading your own.
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aaronawbra · a day ago
Overgrown Fence Rows
I walked along the old fence row today.
It’s totally overgrown with pin oaks
and sycamores again - just like it was
forty years ago.
My mind drifted back - that long
forked pole that he cut, how he hooked it
up high in that tree then handed it to me.
“Now son your job is to push on the tree
with this pole.
It’ll take all your might, sometimes
even more than you think you have.
I’ll be down there with the saw cutting it
as close to the ground as I can.
You’ve got to push it so it falls away from me.
Do you understand?
I nodded that I did, and as he moved toward
the tree he turned to me again.
“Remember Son I’m counting on you,
if the tree falls forward It will fall on me
and the chainsaw will be running...
you know what that could do.”
I was ten and I pushed every tree
away from him that day without fail
because my father, my hero,
the “man of steel” was counting on me.
I wonder sometimes as I reflect on my life
if the “man of steel” always skips a generation.
Aaron A Brauer 2021
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prasannawrites · 2 days ago
nostalgia is picky
there you were – still casted in amber, sunlight still sprawling over you like hibiscuses in the summer, and for that i must apologize. i was not truthful - i took to the past with rose-tinted glasses and have forgotten about the periods of dormancy, and the periods of growth – well not that, i've forgotten per se, but rather i could not bare to live them again. you were always a sunflower, so i've painted the past as the summer of sixteen, at the disservice of you – equal parts beautiful and brooding, you’re meant to be admired in full.
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aaronawbra · 3 days ago
Utter Contentment – A Daydream
I daydreamed us once in a little cottage on Cedar Creek, just a stone’s throw from the bank, with a covered porch that faced East. Deer had entered the field in the long shadows of evening. We were sitting together in the swing, probably October - drinking coffee, intertwined, though not touching, just watching the deer feeding in silence. No words passed, yet neither of us had the slightest doubt about where we were, or where we wanted to be. Utterly content in that moment and with our future.
Moving forward to July, I came home from a hot day in the hayfield. You met me at the door with a tall glass of ice water. Gulping it fast, some ran down the front of my shirt. You smiled and took my hand, quietly leading me down the path to the creek. Standing on the gravel bar you pulled the dirty shirt over my head, your hands lingering on my chest as your sundress fell to the gravel. Mesmerized by the sight of your golden body, the afternoon sun illuminating your profile. I saw for the first time the slightest fullness of our child growing inside you. I cradled my priceless treasures and carried you down into the cool clear water. Our long kiss, the sweetest of duets blending every dream and desire into perfections harmony. At that moment utter contentment wasn’t enough to contain my love.
Aaron A Brauer 2021
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prasannawrites · 3 days ago
a mirage
picture this – you are bound to her, blossoms and all. she is reticent but her eyes tell all. she clings to her books, dons a white dress and tells you that she is here to stay. and you believe her. one day, you will blink. you know nothing of her anymore. she is a familiar melody you hum once every blue-moon. she is of star-dust now. you try to picture her once more: her dress is a freshly blossomed jasmine that envelops her, her hands are stained with ink, and tells you she is back. what changed?
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aaronawbra · 4 days ago
Ghosts In My Hayfield
In the coolness of morning I stand at the edge of the hayfield. The locusts siren is more urgent now and the grass, in full August parch seems brittle as the last beads of dew vaporize into tiny cyclonic zephyrs.
Added to the mystery of the present is the history of my hands upon this soil. Within the morning harmony of this rain thirsty meadow are faint whispers, the soft voices of long forgotten faces.
Do I stand atop this stack of hay taking in all that’s familiar within my hazy river valley? Is this wagon wobbling slowly toward the barn? Did I grab these wild cherries as the tractor passed beneath the tree?
Through the blurred window of time the future presents itself. New seed will fall here and take up root for a season, and on some distant summer morning the echo of my voice may transcend the quiet of another mans thoughts.
May he recognize the necessity of this place, the toil of rural generations put up reverently in second story lofts, fed out to hordes of impatient cattle on a snowy winter hillside.
May he experience the pleasure of this elegant field of grass; It’s morning dews and lofty sycamores and the drowsy rhythm of a sun-scorched tractor.
May he appreciate the sweetness of freshly mowed clover, of earth-rinsed breezes teasing rain. Of midday heat, wavy and thick and the tired contentment of bales stacked neatly in a barn.
Aaron A Brauer 2021
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heartofmuse · 5 days ago
Every minute lived is a responsibility. I feel the weight of it more than most. I don't know why.  I just understand how precious each second we have that is full of health, that is full of life. For those who didn't get to live though they were by far more worthy, sometimes I ask God, "Why me? What is so special about me? Why do I get more time than those who died far way too young?" I feel His arms so gentle around me as He whispers," Because you have lives to touch, and people to love." I don't really know what is the impact of just one life in the grand scheme of things but I so feel my fragile mortality. I just hope that when it's my time to go, be it soon or far off, that I can say that I loved as much as I could, that I was a light and a gentle soul that brought beauty into this world, not to make glory my own, but to give back in some measure what God blessed me with and put in my heart so the glory be His for His dadivosity.
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poetdreamerfool · 5 days ago
diamonds are forever
no one told the fly in buttermilk that cream rises to the top and chocolate drops-- plop! the labels don't stop; poor, black, criminal-- those in power pick the names we choose to die with we live guilty and die innocent-- they'll shoot Bambi's mom then praise god for the venison One job should be enough picture a diamond shinning in the rough only to be told that it gives off the wrong kind of light so you hide from sight only to behold the next one shinning your type of bright what was wrong is now right because the diamond shinning is white? when you break your heart pick up the pieces but remember it's OK if the they don't fit together quite like they should sometimes a few pieces missing is good sometimes you find them all play jigsaw but when you finished the picture has changed and the pieces are in different places and you don't recognize the faces-- good. you can't move forward while you're looking back. you can't grow focusing on the things you lack.
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aaronawbra · 5 days ago
Wading Bear Creek At Daybreak
Stepping in at daybreak
takes the breath away
once water gets to the mid areas,
those intimate parts
accustomed to warmth.
Even in July springs cool the water
and the water the blood
as thin trails of fog rise
only slightly above the surface
then vanish.
A fish breaks the gray surface ahead
and any remnant of uncomfort
is replaced with the possibility
of a heavy bodied bass or black perch.
The ultra light plug
is quickly flipped ahead
beyond the circles
disbursed by the splash.
Before it sinks
a heavy strike is met
with instinctual hook set.
The resistance and the sound of drag
peeling from the reel is proof
that wading waist deep in chilly,
murky waters of daybreak
will yield its reward.
AAB 2021
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anjo-umbra · 5 days ago
The beacon blinks one last time A sailors toughened face caressed by time and salt air that lingers Burying under the skin into the blood-stream Carrying on a line in sea shell shanties In the croaking groan of weathered wood
The beacon blinks one last time No need to steer a course The stars sprinkle over the bay, waters calm A pool reflection of the night sky The moon brushes soft oil paint colours Away from rough edges
There, standing on the very end of the pier A shadow and a lamp-post no light, no witness The shape of skipping light dancing Weaving  essence into waves into the endlessness Into the unknown ripple of wave, ripple of a life The beacon blinks one last time Then is gone.
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michaelbogild · 6 days ago
It’s awfully praiseworthy and all sorts of magnificent how a great many poets have acquired the golden art of distilling their outer world of romantic love into the wine of powerful verses; how their deep-seated and often rather frustrated emotions have been transformed into words on the paper, words chained to carefully selected words, sometimes as a rule aiming for the harmony of the rhyme, sometimes opting for the aerial anarchy of the free verse, but always in the end pushing strongly towards the very real creation of a new sort of universe originated from the illuminated thoughts and emotions of the naked poet, thoughts and emotions which in their linked function with images and metaphors in turn will open within the reader a portal into a reverie that might weave itself into a stored memory that ultimately and ideally could ripen into the great and giving experience that is called inspiration. The poet’s experience of romantic love (requited or not) will nearly always have shades and colours that are internally recognized by the absorbed reader, yet it is the singular and idiosyncratic perspective or take on the amorous experience that will ultimately add and contribute to the depth of the reader’s cognitive and emotional framework of that glorious (though for many often disappointing) phenomenon, romantic love.
@michaelbogild (poet and lyricist)
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