If You Still Read Me | Short Poem No. 114

If you still read me
Photo by Giulia Bertelli on Unsplash

If you still read me,
Don’t be uneasy to let me go.
I know that I wilted up long ago.

If you still love me, then let me go soon.
If time was life, then your clock has struck noon.
You have a chance to find better-than-me.
Before it is night. . .And you become keen.

Can I babble, like a man who is lost?
I haven’t read you as I turn and toss.

If you still read me,
Don’t be uneasy to let me go.
I know that I wilted up long ago.

The Setting Sun Moves On

© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2019, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.

The Setting Sun Moves On | Short Poem No. 113

You’re dead; gone like the setting sun moves on.
Vacant seats on holidays feel lonely.

The setting sun moves on
Photo by Max Ostwalt on Unsplash

What if I forget you as time moves on?
Or should I just . . .Should I just feel lonely?

Unlock My Book

© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2019, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.

Unlock My Book and Read Me | Short Poem No. 112

Unlock my book and read me.
Dare yourself to decipher
soul and emotions
and deep, deep notions
that may, or may not,
thrive under calloused skin.

Unlock my book and read me
Photo by Dynamic Wang on Unsplash

My heart will grasp my impressions
and encrypt my perceptions as they leave.
Solely the one who can unravel
will feel me as I bleed.

Short Poem No. 111 (Untitled)

© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2019, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.

The Seas are Deep and Mysterious | Poetry Remix No. 52

The seas are deep and mysterious. Erratically terrifying. Bound by nothing but the flood, you have no bearing where you are. Just a compass to tell you where to go. The fierce sun or furious clouds may be above you. Below you, bewildering depths.

But, then again, the sea is not a destination, it’s a journey.

The Seas are Deep and Mysterious
Photo by Amit Shaiwale on Unsplash

This sea full of life . . . and death. Plunge deep, find another’s tomb. . . or maybe their lost treasure. At dusk, paradoxes magnify. The moon gives shadows only, not clarity, and you’re left conjecturing on whether the strange notes you hear are the kind creatures of the abyss, or the sirens of malintent. . .

But, for me, I rest in this ocean, stray in this sea. I’m adrift in this briny air, with the sea-birds orchestrating their charming cacophony to the rhythm of waves.

Yes. . . I’m lost. . .strayed. . .adrift. . . not in the ocean. . .not in the sea. . . because yes, they are deep and mysterious, just like I’ve described. But, truly, this most deep and mysterious place I’m in. . . is a place called love. . . And I’ve just hopped off my boat.

Silky Flowers. . .Epitomes of You

© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2019, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.

Silky Flowers. . .Epitomes of You | Poetry Remix No. 49

Silky flowers . . .epitomes of you.

Decorated in delicate dresses.

Silky Flowers. . .Epitomes of You
Photo by Nikhita Singhal on Unsplash

I’ll draw you in pastures of loneliness.

Suns Rise to Parch Tears

© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2019, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.