Goddess

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i am the woman
the goddess of springs and words.

watch me rise.,
through threads of raisin

like a vintage blob of sun,
a phoenix from ashes.

My mouth is covered with cellophane
of rust skins,

it knows how to unwrap of sins,
a murderous night,

Watch this body of cold moon,
a silent night made of quiet mountains.

Observe and stay with me,
I throttle along with the rivers,

I provide and love,
like a goddess of all time.

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Raindrops

 

there is absolutely an archaic music ruffling in my ear,
I call it home.
pitter-patter raindrops,
wrapping a ceremony around my waist.

There is belongingness to this body,
with nature being receptive of my patterns.
A short, polka dot marrying the tablecloth.
the small details that you often ignore.
And I surrender my eyes, amongst the worldly chaos.
The chopping of walnuts, the breaking of my patient knuckles,
as if waiting desperately for something abnormal to occur.

Raindrops/ a plural form of tears.
or a. singular verb. to soothe the reaction of popping pills.
I rest my fingertips,
whirling blue pain,
as heavy a s a cotton ball
on the drops of this waterfall.

Submit your poems now.

As you all know, I recently started an online lit mag Olive skins exclusively for abstract poetry and art and I would really appreciate if you all check it out and and submit your work. The details can be checked out here.

So what are you waiting for? Let’s hear your pain, sorrow, art anything surreal right away!

Cheers.

A song so bright

Love this. One with nature, nature & me

and you need to know
the music of love
silently, dripping from the sky.

Take your time
to know the flower,
the process of assimilation
mulberry touch of the warm earth.

Silence comes in surreal ways.
drink the nectars of blue lips.
Let it be,
the hanging clouds or your numb Cheeks.

Nature injects sweet nights often
disguised in a tunnel of metamorphosis.
Let it sit and evaporate slowly,
a skin so fresh and sublime, now.

A murder of a cold night
for grief is a slumber of dead skins,
unkept, insoluble.
The whole of purgatory is a lie of pale belching mouth.
Sip the nights now,
A tomorrow so bright, hanging on your verandah’s rope now.