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Boy do I have a Grumpy Gift for you…

Not only do I love writing but I also enjoy reading. So many of the amazing things I read are enjoyed by so few, as not every literary marvel is also a marketing mogul. It’s this, i care to share most.

Imagination is the reality of the dreamer.

— Scott Ringenbach.

Stay tuned, and keep on orbiting those moons.

The Weather Inside My Mind —Intellectual Shaman

the weather inside my mind

changes

like fair Easterlies

until islands of bad energy

consume my soul

and soul-sucking tasks get done

effortlessly

my creativity loves chaos

and so, cleaning closes my mind

forcing a new direction

with artificial power

unwilling to allow a mess.

I’m making the waves

as my universe shuts down

until the big bang

Where did this energy come from?

the point of no return

wasn’t there a second ago

and this chaos must be ridden

hopefully, it rolls for thousands of miles

sprinkling sand

like ideas

under a noble sunset

that smiles

until the darkness

goes down.

intellectualshaman.wordpress.com

Where the White Wolves Dance —Scott Andrew Bailey

By Scott Bailey © 2014

A ring of solid light
Hovers just above the ground
Spinning with infinity
Casts glamour all around
This is
Where the white wolves dance

It is said the be the child
Of the seed of forbidden fruit
Born from secret knowledge
Found on a hidden a hidden route
Around it
The white wolves still dance

The colour pulses wild
Blue, silver and pure white
Dragging hearts round and round
Beneath the starlit night
And so
On the white wolves dance

In a time-worn trench, they dance
Circling below the light
So deep the light they cannot see
The circle is out of sight
Yet still
On the white wolves dance

The circle has been burnt
Into their very eyes
So while the dark wolf dreams
And while the dear time flies
Onwards
The white wolves dance.

So high upon their mountain
On an island on a lake
Isolated and secure from
The world they do forsake
This is
Where the white wolves dance

scottandrewbailey.com

Branches —Emotional Notions

We sit and talk 
as you begin to explain, 
all of your brokenness
from whence it began.

I silently listen
and don’t interrupt.
I feel of it’s essence
your beauty of now.

For it all has formed you
the way you should be,
for no one escapes 
the brokenness tree.

©EN, All Rights Reserved

emotionalnotions.wordpress.com

Silhouette — Shubhangi Rawat

To my confidant,

Ever since I’m in abyss with my thoughts, I’ve conceded this fact that I’m anonymous to many and familiar to none.

I’ve been on hiatus for a while. Sometimes, I’m not able to retrieve the exact impression of you but I’m quite tenacious to your distant apparition, and these memories that I’m left with.

The entanglement of my beliefs are transcending over the analytical ability of my mind. There are times, when my sentiments makes my words wander and push me in an obnoxious state.

You once told me that adaptation is a skill of the survivor, who has a foresight of speculating the surface and moulding himself accordingly. I believe, we’re all survivors of our own doom and some of us are still scratching walls of hell just to crawl out of that void.

In the depths of this contrasting segment, I’m still researching about the variations in your words again.

I’ve always admired your intellect. Maybe that’s why I’m acquainted with my past. Your guidance is bestowed upon me, which now, I’ll carry forward, as a legacy through my words.

Your disciple,

Shubhangi Rawat

The Quiet Spirit —Ancient Skies

The quiet spirit carries a sense of oceans running within,

unlimited beauty

yet peaceful and confident,

expecting even stronger poems

hidden within,

the restoration

and rest.

Ancient Skies

Poem, and Image, Copyright © 2020 ancient skies

NaPoWriMo 12 April 2019 —Poetry TAT

most bridges don’t naturally burn
usually they just collapse
under the weight of
their own situation
or some human
pressing

The Poetry Teaching Artist Training Project is quite confusing to follow. And I have not found poetry posted since April 2019. Or even how to navigate the sight to find poetry. 😣

I always was weak in his hands —el977

I always was weak in his hands

And now I wanna be strong in my own madness

I wanna be free like my oversized sweatshirt

Like early morning in hills, like a newborn baby from the past wrongs.

Read more el977