Pay It Forward Thursday- August 16, 2018

Go Dog Go Café

Pay It Forward 7-4-2018

The baristas at Go Dog Go Cafe are big fans of Pay It Forward Thursdays. We think it is a great opportunity to give a shout-out to another writer who has wowed us or creatively inspired us.  However, Pay It Forward Thursday has not been getting a lot of love lately, which we think is a shame. Dear reader, you are losing out on some great writing! We’ve decided to shake things up a little and the baristas will be reblogging our Pay It Forward picks for the week directly onto GDG Cafe so you don’t miss out on our favorites.

We like this idea so much that we will also reblog the posts you think were the best thing you read this week if you drop a link below. You are invited to post one link to one specific post (600 words or less please!) from someone…

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Ballet of Poetry

The Lonely Author


Ballet of Poetry


With a pirouette of personification
She ignited her carousel of fantasy
As slow enchanting adagio verses
Freed me from my loveless tragédie

Under my spotlight ballon rhymes
Made my heart skip a graceful beat
With her assemblé rhymes floating
She slowly swept me off of my feet

Who could resist such choreography
For her entrée had me from the start
When my prima ballerina performed
A ballet of poetry in my aching heart


Photo from Google Images.

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House of Heart

I feel the season changing,

the tilt of Earth’s axis,

the days growing shorter

the night’s  desire to linger.

Summer seemed boundless,

now the sundial casts long shadows.

I will miss  you with your

brand of ripeness,

August’s   lustrous brightness

inciting the senses with fields

afire beneath a summer sky.

Now its wheat is  stacked and

bound  in lonely batches.

Buried beneath autumn leaves

the earth  imbues the darker hues

starless skies of delft blue and

gray swathes  that cloak the dawn.

The ash of burning  locust wood

shrouds the wilting garden with

the musky scent of autumn ghosts

heralding the chill.

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My words

Megha's World

My words are falling incessantly
from that oak tree
lying in the refuge
at the bottom 
of that big old giant
waiting for the mercy of the wind 
to gently glide and take 
away to promised lands
where they were strewn again 
or kept in the folds of the 
those yellow pages to remind
us again
how beautiful 
our love used to be.
My words are falling as the 
broken star
deep in the thickness of the night
and floating endlessly in the
trying not to get lost in the deep oblivion
of the darkness
not to miss the bereaved sight of my lover
so she 
can wish upon me.
My words are dropping as
the sweet droplets of water
those tiny globules
as the tears of the heaven
of all the broken hearts 
lost in their deep soliloquy
not trying to lose their identity
till it parches the soul
and quenches 

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