#ode poem

[dialectical--revolution]

\ Sound the Trumpets now 

For they will be gone anyway

You are not alone.

But you feel alone 

Sound the trumpets loud and proud

 So you don’t feel alone

For now we go to battle

 Arms raised to the sky 

There is no escape.

The toil 

Oh, the toil 

It never really ends.

But with you on my side 

I can never lose 

Can I?

We met so long ago 

At a hotel 

You were there 

We connected 

We were family 

At last…

I still miss you

 Now that you’ve gone… 

But I still feel you with me

Your soul…

 It’s with me.

I feel you

 I feel you with me 

When I struggle

 When I cry 

You hold me up 

You never bring me down

You inspire me

 To do better in my life

 To be a better person

 A better woman

Even though you’re gone

You still inspire me

 I’m still inspired

Even though

You’re gone.

I’m a better woman…

Now…

“Ode to Priscilla” by Ann Marie

[eidolons]

For the Gods

Thank You Eosphorus,

For bringing us Dawn and Morning

Thank You Apollo,

For the Sun, ever-bright but never scorning

Thank You for

The Music and Arts that guide us through the day

Thank You Aphrodite,

For Beauty and Love, one of which will never sway

Thank You Dionysus,

For Pleasure, for what is life without a little Fun?

Thank You Mother Gaia,

For without You, Nature would never have begun

Thank You Zeus,

For the Sky where clouds and shades of blue live

Thank You Poseidon,

For the Sea, full of wonders and all it has to give

Thank You Hestia,

For Family, because no place is ever quite like Home

Thank You Hesperus,

For bringing Dusk onto our heavenly, ever-moving dome

Thank You Nyx,

For giving us Nighttime, its darkness comforting and light

And Thank You Artemis,

For bringing out the Moon each and every single Night.

I thank all of You and many more

On behalf of my fellow men

I love all of You, to the very core

Of Humanity itself, and I hope my pen

And my words may express this.

— C.C 25/7-2020

[stormaggeden]

An Ode to the Rockbridge State Park

Autumn orange do wreath you well and cold fall winds do make you chime Your wrinkled, crinkled, dried up leaves are like bells Clanging together to create the melody of sleep The small creekish river that runs through you Adds to the chorus A bubbling, babbling, tinkling song It pulls me deeper in And I know if I lingered to long I would never return home

Fall is when I visited you most and so it is in Fall that I remember you now Your branches hung heavy with the weight of dying wet leaves It rained a lot those distant childhood days The smell of dirt and vegetative decay clung to my nose Staying with me long after I had gone home Curled up in thick blankets I would breath deep and feel close to the Earth

Emerging from the winding road Your parking lot, like a secret glade An ordinary entrance hugged on all sides by trees Your black concrete-like scorched obsidian Your trail maps bleached yellow from the sun That upon seeing my heart was always filled with such joy Knowing I would soon be swept up in you Visiting you was more than just an hour excursion It is a lingering ember that I keep in the furnace of my heart Memories of you keep me cool when I sweat under the desert heat Your gravel and dirt paths I can hear it now My crunch, step, crunch, shuffle, crunch an added percussion A marching tempo Leading me to a fork One goes deep into the woods on a ten-mile-long hike The other leads to a wooden stair, where at the end a cave Like my own real-world Choose Your Own Adventure book

The wooden stair I remember well Always out of breath it left me Drenched with perspiration and determination I always felt so much accomplishment walking those stairs As it snaked up the craggy hill Trees clung impossibly to boulders And the river cut holes To get to the end goal

Devil’s Icebox Your usually flooded or bat-filled cave I remember when I first laid eyes on it Moss hung onto the rock walls as I descended the stairs The temperature dropped as I reached the mouth like entrance Back then I didn’t need to dip my head to enter I hopped from rock to rock over the low season tide cave stream Holding tight to my flashlight I ventured further in And came face to face with a real-life bat

It was small and brown No bigger than the palm of my hand I looked up and saw hundreds more Most asleep but some stirring from the noise of the rowdy school kids I backed up in awe My hands steadying myself on the caves slimy cold wet walls A sight I will never forget I wish I could have stayed longer

[mintytoastypoetry]

The Silent Counselor

November 2017

My bed is my silent counselor

He is there when I softly whisper in my sleep

He is there when I whisk my own tears from my cheek

My bed is my silent counselor

He is there when I read my books so grand

He is there when I hide my contraband

My bed is my silent counselor

He is there when I hide my face

He is there when I feel like a disgrace

My bed is my silent counselor

He is there to listen to my murmurs as I sketch the dreams

He is there to comfort when my parents let their anger loose

My bed is my silent counselor

He is there the guardian to the lost dreams

He is there for the younger ambitions in the aethereal river

My bed is my silent counselor

He is there for the basic ramblings

He is there when it’s just all scrambling

My bed is my silent counselor

He is there for every lie and every truth

He is there to keep and transfer my tooth

My bed is my silent counselor

There is no substitute

To honor him is my resolute

[mikans-notebook]

Enchanted

How can a being so pure and good not see

Their own beauty and talent for what they are?

You recognize yourself as cursed, but you

Enchant my very soul.

[saltwater--veins]

ode to trichotillomania

oh restless fingers, spinning round and round; hair twirls around as if the winds of a tornado carry it across deserts — faster and faster and out of control. you don't let me feel the tingle that most people do — the sharp, easily recognizable pinch of your hair being yanked out one strand at a time — just a soft tug. tufts and locks and chunks fall to the floor with hardly any realization as to what has just happened; what is still happening every goddamn day. every second of every minute of every hour filled with the burning itch in my fingertips to twirl, twirl, twirl play, play, play pull, pull, pull; the agony never ceases to exist — why can't i stop playing with my hair? ple

[withwhisperslikepoetry-blog]

MY ODE TO HIM I like everything about him his hair in waves curls around my fingers the same way his reassuring hands do his eyes so bright they could lead me to shore and home his smile curves a line so perfect God himself sins with pride his touch as magnetic as a compass that I want to anchor myself to him the smell of him left on his clothing is as calming as watching the sun go down he's pretty however there are different types of pretty there's gorgeous pretty, like flowers, or like girls, girls are pretty but then there's beautiful pretty like watching the rain pitter patter on the street and having it's smell engulf me once it's died down, or waking up at dusk when everything and everyone is still. Nothing dares make a sound. he's that type of breathtakingly beautiful he will be the last prayer I make before going under and the last song I'll sing always hopeful and always thankful he'll make it a duet

Leslie Campos

[suchpoetrymuchwriting]

Ode to Road Trips

Freedom, on an open road

No plan, no where to go

Sun setting behind us

As we drive off in the distance

Keep each other busy

As the miles go up

And our home town thoughts

Escape further and further

From our ambitious minds