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C. A. Singh • Small Intimacy
4-30-22
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chicken little (20220429)
at my foot
a small blue stone
a piece of the spring sky
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Mountains, castles, and cathedrals rise
Up from the sea-damp and sandy shore,
Their bulwarks imagination's prize.
Fleetingly they stand, and then no more.
Bitter wind will batter fragile walls,
And come scrape the sculptured edge away.
Still in the time until vision falls,
Small joys are found where the sea holds sway.
A shell window, hole an empty door,
Fingerprints a crennelation high;
Gull's feather tree from lost land before,
White and proud beneath an ice-blue sky.
Echo of a tower holds no bells
To sing out the hour on Sunday morn.
Mountain keep is far from all its dells,
Sole image from some loved book reborn.
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I DID IT Y'ALL ❣ A Granny did it❣❣❣ I completed my 1st 30 day poetic one liner challenge and I'm so proud of me 🥰 . This project coming out later this year 🤗 . #NaPoWriMo #NationalPoetryMonth #napowrimo2022 #author #poetry #poetryslam #poeticgranny #elegantgranny https://www.instagram.com/p/Cc_WGnBucwY/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
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Gasping Amen // Tagged by @jesthepoet for @fallspoetry #aprilfalls22 “scars and stars” and “gasping amen” Happy last #napowrimo all!! • • #MBS #poem #poetry #poetsofinstagram #poetrycommunity #poetsofig #poetryisnotdead #napowrimo2022 #day30 #poet #writer #wildwondrouswords #writingcommunity #writersofig #writersofinstagram #writtenword #writerscommunity #spilledink #spilledwords #instapoet #instapoetry https://www.instagram.com/p/Cc-sJnGO2Gk/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
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I believe that all life is precious and should be treated as such. I have known several men who served time on death row. Because of the changed individuals I've seen—men who are truly remorseful and sorrowful for their past actions—I stand firm on the belief that there should be an end to the death penalty.
I have never had a loved one killed, so I cannot understand the grief a family who has experienced such may go through. What I can say, however, is that the killing of one life doesn't revive the original life lost. On top of this, are we any better than the convicted killer if we strive for their execution, ending their life?
At some point, humanity must believe in itself and strive for betterment. Rehabilitation should always be the goal. I have watched lives be transformed behind the razor wire enough to say that change does exist—that the way people think and act and view life can change. If you don't believe such change exists, then you must not believe in change at all. If you don't believe in change at all, then you are nothing more than the sum of all the mistakes and poor choices you've ever made in your life. Doesn't sound fair, does it? Grace and love overpower condemnation and hate every time.
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let me stay,
dancing like fae among flowers
lost to the breeze
and summer sun-showers
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the aftermath // Instagram: @_lexmwrites ✨
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2/30. can you tell i was hungry while writing this lol.
text id under cut.
OUROBOROS
April, a month of hunger and renewal, licks my skin
with its warmth, drooling rain & snow over me
like a feral dog—coveting field strawberries a month away,
greenhouses shorten the wait to mere weeks before one can bite
into firm juicy sweet flesh that isn’t the either of us.
I’m rotting fruit—fermenting but not in the sweet way, and you will
ripen by the end of this poem. Hold my name in your mouth,
what becomes of me in a day, a fortnight, a month?
Am I mead, or soft fruit macerated for the purpose of consumption?
I have no opinion on the way you choose to consume me—but lord, let it be gentle,
let it be soft, bite into every part as one does soft-shelled crabs,
get to the marrow and tell me it rivals foie gras,
tell me the suffering rendered me something worthwhile.
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I will call you my birthland
because you are not home.
You're a handful of old lovers
and a pocketful of dreams.
Green fields,
grey seas.
Lost selves and scars
and opportunities.
I will call you my birthland
because you are not home.
But you are me
and my history.
A census filled
with past lives.
Seven beds
where I lay my head
and four hearts
where I left my mark.
I will call you my birthland
because you are not home.
You are paths not taken,
and endless railroads
where I found my self.
You can take the girl
out of the birthland,
watch it follow her
everywhere she goes,
like a shadow
that sometimes casts light.
I will call you my birthland
because you are not home.
You're an unfaithful friend
and a devil I know,
a mirror of past mistakes
and chapters closed.
I'm not coming home
because I have none,
but I have a birthland
with no birthright.
- AzureOblivion
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———
C. A. Singh • Shadow and Form
4-27-22
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convenience store (20220430)
the words are a different lexicon
or maybe a foreign language
an alien tongue
licking alien lips and rolling
over whatever passes for teeth
on alpha centauri
the words, oh the words,
they squirm like flagella in
an electric petri dish
refusing to stay still
refusing boundaries and definition
if a dictionary could only speak
and read my mind
and tell me what i'm thinking
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Dark and warm as the womb of the world,
And vulnerable as a wound
Is my heart's kingdom.
I descend to my hideaway down a long stone stair.
The caves of my soul harbor living gems,
But its citizens are ghosts and memories,
Visions of maybe-worlds
And misfit monsters.
My teeth shall be stalactites to defend them.
I came by this kingdom by leaving
The sunshine and flower-children
For the safety of deep night and bioluminous stars.
I do not regret it, though the juice of my choices is bittersweet.
Though our springs run yellow as citrine,
Our fruits gleam of garnets.
I will not be sole princess of this land.
My monsters and my ghosts are heirs and sisters,
Adopted monarchs of the caves we roam.
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Day 30: National Poetry Month #NaPoWriMo #NationalPoetryMonth #napowrimo2022 #author #poetry #poetryslam https://www.instagram.com/p/Cc-sAtruDl7/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
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It begins (late)
Day 1 prompt:fresh start
Late night radio static,
Stars that cry when the road yawns out ahead of us
No traffic
We are two
The only two in the world
that bites to tear us away
And swallow us whole
I don't cry
barely speak, I'll fall asleep
To the sound of the static
And your fingers tapping against the wheel
Hold back
Sounds in waves, rage of the sea still
Ringing in my head
The storm that shook it out of me
The world that won't stop breathing to let us live
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