#liquidpoetry

[tasteoftaboo]

Unveiling the Dark Allure: A Gothic Masterpiece with 666spicynoodle

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Unveiling the Dark Allure: A Gothic Masterpiece with 666spicynoodle | Taste of Taboo - Magazine

Unveiling the Dark Allure: A Gothic Masterpiece with 666spicynoodle by Taste of Taboo - Magazine on Patreon. Join Taste of Taboo - Magazin

[sammelk]

Rivers: Nature's Liquid Poetry and Sacred Arteries

Ah, the rivers, those enchanting veins of life that weave their way through the tapestry of our world. 😍💧 They possess a captivating beauty that stirs the deepest recesses of our souls, drawing us into their timeless embrace. 🌊✨ With each gentle ripple and melodious babble, they whisper secrets of the past, present, and future. 🤫💭 Their waters, like liquid poetry, glisten under the golden kiss of the sun, reflecting the dance of light and shadow, as if a thousand diamonds were scattered upon their surface. 💎🌞 But it is not just their aesthetic allure that captivates us; the rivers gift us with their bountiful benefits. 🎁 They are the lifeblood of our planet, quenching the thirst of sprawling forests, fertile fields, and diverse ecosystems. 🌳🌿 Their flowing currents carry the stories of civilizations that have flourished along their banks, nurturing communities and fostering cultures. 🏞️🏙️ They provide us with sustenance, for fish and aquatic creatures thrive in their depths, offering themselves as a feast for both body and soul. 🐟🌱 And let us not forget the sheer joy they bring, inviting us to plunge into their cool embrace on a sweltering summer's day, offering respite and rejuvenation. 🌊💦😌 Oh, the rivers! They are the symphony of nature, their melodies guiding us along their serpentine paths. 🎶🌍 They connect us to the Earth, grounding us in the rhythms of life and reminding us of our interconnectedness. 🌏🌟 Let us cherish and protect these sacred arteries of our planet, for in their beauty and benefits, we find solace, inspiration, and a profound sense of belonging. 🙏💚🌊

[moontowerguru]

LOVE

[liquidpoet-blog]

The mind quiets as the soul quickens to creation. With the fleeting clarity of a sail cast from its mast, catching in it the winds, ideas flit about pristinely preserved like butterflies caught in the floss of a net. Noticing how it easy it is to drift, sipping back gulp of Aegean blue air. Meeting beauty with madness and all of its flair for “what is” would lie listless were it not for the twists that allow us to marvel at all it could be. Symi (Thrown Drapery) // David Legare

[liquidpoet-blog]

A lazy walk down Mango Lane. The rush of the day best enjoyed without rushing nowhere fast. Another slippery day slides by, peeling away at a juicy day that trickles from the corners of smiles so wide sidelong bananas wouldn’t even need a squeeze to be swallowed sideways. Licks of lemon yellow light make everything bright, sweet and sticky. Nectar dripping from tanned skin, cooling molten masses through the pores. Sharp tropical tang inflating the spoken tongues so that words hang loose like a ready fruit ripe to bop someone on the head. A pulpous orange sun bulges in a crisp blue sky like men with hearts in their bellies, hungering only for their fill of another golden day.

Passing Through Mango Lane // Neville Legall

[liquidpoet-blog]

You came over me like a cool and cleansing wave. I cannot contain you, yet I am contained in you. Land and sea. Land in sea. Anchored. Rooted. Etched into me in the traces of backwash ripples. The salt still churning in my mouth, but like milk to butter, the taste is bitter-sweet each time you kiss my shores. Sediment plumes of rich sentiment. You are the azure relief, writing and re-writing our story as you wash over my contemplative beaches.

Stèles // André Pitre

[liquidpoet-blog]

Take a dip in the big blue. Wade across milky afternoon skies. Watch as bellow a single gentle wave unfurls like a sigh. In the midst, refracted sunlight glistens in silver ribbons across the shallow mounds of the shoal. Let the pull of the tide take hold as if floating in turquoise air. Swim out. Let the busyness of the beach become a tiny detail, and for a time, it will be easier to see the bigger picture.

Swimmers of Rio I // Joshua Jensen-Nagle

[theadventuresofashes]

I've missed writing. Words were dearer than life to me as I grew up. I tore through books when I was a kid - like I was lost in a hot barren desert and those smooth inky pages were the only thing that could assuage the undying thirst. The only thing that could carry me to far off lands and make me forget the sun on my burnt skin and the stifling heaviness of the air I breathed.

Poor mom couldn't buy books fast enough to keep up, so I became a regular at the public library. In middle school my kindred spirit Amanda and I joined a writing group at the local library, in which our peers were roughly 20 to 70 years older than us (and what a motley crew of entertaining characters they were!). I looked forward to those meetings with the same fervor my cat holds for the sound of the can opener. 

In high school, after moving to Marietta, I took gifted creative writing classes. Amid the chaos that is high school life, I was lucky to have a literary outlet with other my own age. There were so many talented writers in that class and I learned a lot from them.

In college, my writing shifted in a more "serious" direction - I became a reporter and photographer for the school paper. I enjoyed every little bit of it. With every assignment I was meeting new people and learning things I'd never known. I also still read books and poetry whenever I could. But something happened with that shift. Something was lost. The fire that had once burnt so fiercely ebbed to ashy glowing coals, longing for a breeze to stoke up the flames but too tired and drained to become a blaze on its own. My essays and articles and papers were undeniably creative and witty. But everything was forced. It was a formula designed to get the grade or make the deadline. 

Writing for the sake of just writing was sadly largely missing from my life. Words no longer constantly bubbled at the surface of my mind. There was no longer effortless poetry waiting to flow into existence from my thoughts to my fingertips. Stories filled with dark, interesting, complex characters no longer sprang to mind while people-watching in coffee shops. The door to countless realms of imagination had shut, and I was left with just one world - the world of everyday life.

And then a few weeks ago, without a hint of warning, the words returned. What once came so easily to me began to trickle forth again, without so much as a squeak from the rusty spigot.

To say I've missed writing would be the greatest understatement. 

I have no aspirations of becoming the next great poet or novelist. 

But I do aspire to continue writing, and to never let it slip from my life again.