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    S. Libellule wrote a new post

    Unrung Bell

    I. Forged SilenceIn a furnace of patience,bronze becomes melted memory—ore drawn from dark veins,forged in the gorge of impermanence.Each hammerbeat molds intention;flame licks the cusp of silence.Metal softens toward surrender,its glow rehearsing stillness.Hands withdraw from the heat,letting the fire...

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    S. Libellule wrote a new post

    In No Michi (The Way of Ink)

    I. Genesis of Ink (墨の創世)  In the lull before meaning, I waited—paper pallid as forgotten horizon.No words dared their first footfall,no quill still believed in its spill. Silence rehearsed its own exhalation,a specter of half-formed thought.Ink, my pilgrim of persistence,stirred beneath...

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    • Brilliantly penned, S. The life of a writer and her adventures, excellent write my friend. Appreciate you.

      Damian

    • Libellule, this poem spoke to me to the depth of a quiet when the poem discovers itself as you write. The truly felt like a spiritual exploration of the words born out of silence. There is so much here that took me into the quiet to experience in a brief time how the muse awakened to a quiet space that felt like a butterfly to me hovering and feeling the resonance the Japanese poetry Basho felt in his famous haiku. But your poem took me even deeper into that soundless resonance that only a poet of your spirit that take the reader into.

      John

  • Cavemans Breakfast

    I long to be a caveman,at least for just a day.To crawl out of my stinking cave every morning and enjoy a cavemans breakfast 'a piss and a good look round'.I long to be a caveman, at least for...

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    • Now that is a thought. No distractions other than living your life. Very, very simple life

    • What I write! And done on the toilet! Lol
      This is quite the masterpiece. I enjoyed all the back and forth. Like reading a tennis match.
      Caveman vs the 21st century.
      Well done!

      Loved the ending!

    • I am somewhat jealous; my toilet poetry is usually flushed because of the brown streaks. You write of the ying and yang of individualism, the brown streaks versus what once was. We humans have lost touch with our origins. We once made cave art, danced and howled at the moon; where it was women who ruled the campfires. And in some ways, we were more intelligent than we are today. We could talk to animals and create myths about the formations in stars. We will never get back to this, but I do think we can create a society where we once again talk to animals and reach for the stars.

      Your poem is thought-provoking and appreciated. Thanks for the share.
      -Curt/redzone

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    Pandy wrote a new post

    My Lullaby in the Sky

    <span;>Whether the welkin is painted in shades <span;>of blue or obsidian, <span;>the moon's <span;>ethereal<span;> candlelight <span;>has always dawned a quelling kiss atop <span;>my often somber laced mind, <span;>and smiles to eagerly anticipatory eyes.. <span;>... As " in these moments...

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    • Aww. The way you feel about her as a sacred and heavenly is beautiful

    • Your beautiful and tender ode to la luna is much needed and appreciated by these weary eyes. To sit out late at night beneath her pallid light while the world goes on oblivious, is true poetic medicine. I praise your use of, welkin, something mystical about that word. Gorgeous write, my friend.

      Clay

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