In London's rain, there's a rhythm, a rhyme, A story unfolding, one drop at a time. It's the city's pulse, the beat of its heart, A symphony played on the windowpanes, a chart Of moments fleeting, yet eternally captured, In the rain's embrace, London is enraptured.
Birdsong is muffled by the weight of the mist and rain falls with gentle persistence.
oh that is some beautiful phrasing.
I love how much your poetry has a feeling of "time a place" and "geography" it picks up the reader and places them in a little scene in time. Lovely work so far Icy! Looking forward to continuing to read along this month!
you should know i am a time traveler & there is no season as achingly temporary as now
I love how your poems are so short but leave you with so much to sit with! Also the way you use the structure of 4 (where you have this lovely repetition building up in a sort of firm but gentle way) differently from 8 (where it feels to me much more about the rhythm and the story). I also loved 7, how much was contained in that simple petition, the need for that reassurance! Thanks for making me stop to consider things.
when city blossoms bloom facades muted in winter slumber come alive aromatic spices onions, chilli and overflowing drains
the streets begin to fill spilling out from living room bars they line the pavement in groups of twos and threes past bagel shops, curry houses, grafittied walls and vintage windows not even retreating when twinkling lights replace the fickle springtime sun
clutching foam topped beers they huddle together anticipating summer
In the quiet corners of my cluttered room, where dust motes dance in sunbeam’s embrace, I wield the broom, a weary custodian, Sweeping away cobwebs and memories The broom bristles against the floorboards, dislodging ashes of forgotten fires, I sweep away fragments of love and loss, As if spring cleaning could mend life’s frayed wires. The clock ticks, measuring my futile efforts, dust motes settle once more, like memories unclaimed, And I wonder if this ritual of renewal, can mend the cracks in my soul, left untamed. So I gather the remnants of nostalgia, fold them neatly into cardboard boxes, And tuck them away in the recesses of my heart, Where spring cleaning cannot reach For amidst the polished surfaces and empty spaces, lies the ache of what was, what could have been, And as I close the door on this melancholy reverie, I realize that some stains cannot be wiped clean.
Ooo!! Your poem hit me right in the feels!! It's like you're narrating my own battle with clutter and memories. I could practically see those dust motes dancing as you wielded your broom against the chaos. And oh, the nostalgia tucked away in cardboard boxes, (I've got a few of those myself, probably hidden under my bed or something) But seriously, your words capture that bittersweet struggle of trying to tidy up not just our physical space but our hearts too. It's like you're saying, "Hey, life, I see you with all your messy bits, but I'm still here, fighting the good fight!" It's a reminder that it's okay to let some things stay tucked away in the recesses of our hearts!! <3<3
•I romanticized you to the point where the knives you pressed into my skin began to look like cupid's arrrow.•
(Love that Haiku)
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