HAZEL EYES Written By Nichole Sulpizio

GlitzyRitzyMommy

Through the darkest of days

And treacherous storms

His light shown

Radiating like the blinding sun

His eyes

Hazel

No disguise

He would stop at nothing

To love her

For there was no space

Nor time

Even through the crimes of passion

Noone could make him change his mind

He fought to have her

Sleepless nights

Days upon the shore

Seashells

With heart shaped ink

His soul knew

For what he wanted

Was her

Until they take there last breath

The Light beaming from his smile

Heaven is upon him

And the seas calm

For she is where she belongs

Staring into hazel eyes

Copyright © 2021 Nichole Sulpizio
All Rights Reserved

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You have the answers

Savvy Raj

To every question that arises

To every puzzle that confronts you.

Know you are entrusted with answers…

Deeply embedded with in you.

Simply trust in the knowing

It will deliver you the way.

The pathways will reveal itself

All in the right time and place.

All you need is trust in yourself …

And the courage to follow through.

But remember you have all the answers.

Savvy

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Some Need Fire – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

parallax

At dVerse Merril is hosting the Quadrille (44 words) with an invitation to write using the word seed.

dVerse Poets – Quadrille – Seed

Photo: a shot from the Beelu National Park, Mundaring, this section was last control burned about three years ago, thee regrown understory is great to see.

“The heart is like a garden. It can grow compassion or fear, resentment or love. What seeds will you plant there?” Jack Kornfield

Some Need Fire

The magnitude of a seed is mostly 
only noticed in death, in dying it 
rises not once, but many times, 
some need humidity, or damp 
mixed with dark, some need fire
to release their souls, which makes
me wonder what nurtures me to grow.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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High

A Faded Romantic's Notebook

 

I have been high

on the bottle,

the rich taste of red wine in my mouth

blackberry, cinnamon, tobacco, leather,

Another glass, and another.

And perhaps another.

Until all I know is crimson liquid.

Then brandy or port or absinthe.

Or all three.

Pour me out of a taxi and take me home.

 

I have been high

on acid.

Pills, blotting paper, microdots with happy, hippy names.

Colours bleeding into surfaces into shapes into light.

Music holy with new tones and textures to touch.

The revelations, the meanings, the weird,

finding a new religion in a carpet.

The warm fade and glow

of coming down.

 

I have been high

on adventure,

on exploration, on discovery, the wild, the different, the strange.

On art, on words, on music, on performance, on poetry.

On the strings of my guitar.

On winning, on deals, on negotiation.

On a high-five finish

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