haileyelliott
The leaves lifted their edges, showed me green regrets. Cased in pollen I was listening.
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Written by haileyelliott in portal Poetry & Free Verse

To the lonely

You are lonely. The trees tangle in your hair. They offer no words to coil in your ears. They cannot lean in against your back, wrap you from behind with leafy bluster, tickle your neck with a pink tongue.

You are lonely. I see you. Don't worry. Things will change. This is the nature of everything we know. You can open, and let in the light. The trees can call your name, in a thousand voices, high and warbling. The soil can feel you through twining white mycelium. 

You must let them. You must let me. You must let your sister, your brother, your mother, your friend. You must trust your mouth with love. You must trust your eyes with their eyes. You must feel the breath on your neck, as your lover sleeps, they are what they are, you are what you are, this is the key. 

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Written by haileyelliott in portal Poetry & Free Verse
To the lonely
You are lonely. The trees tangle in your hair. They offer no words to coil in your ears. They cannot lean in against your back, wrap you from behind with leafy bluster, tickle your neck with a pink tongue.

You are lonely. I see you. Don't worry. Things will change. This is the nature of everything we know. You can open, and let in the light. The trees can call your name, in a thousand voices, high and warbling. The soil can feel you through twining white mycelium. 

You must let them. You must let me. You must let your sister, your brother, your mother, your friend. You must trust your mouth with love. You must trust your eyes with their eyes. You must feel the breath on your neck, as your lover sleeps, they are what they are, you are what you are, this is the key. 
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Written by haileyelliott in portal Micropoetry

1. Morning

The dense beast of night

turns its white belly upwards

presses handfuls of mountain 

into the pale fingers of dawn

breaks the morning light

into a thousand trilling voices

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Written by haileyelliott in portal Micropoetry
1. Morning
The dense beast of night
turns its white belly upwards

presses handfuls of mountain 
into the pale fingers of dawn

breaks the morning light
into a thousand trilling voices
#naturepoetry  #morningpoem  #dailypoem 
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Write a pair of haikus, one describing how each lover feels for the other.
Written by haileyelliott in portal Haiku

Two lover's voices - Haiku

I walk through the day 

Following the leaves you left

riding your tailwinds

Something is broken 

The owl cries through the night's chill

you should have tried more

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Write a pair of haikus, one describing how each lover feels for the other.
Written by haileyelliott in portal Haiku
Two lover's voices - Haiku

I walk through the day 
Following the leaves you left
riding your tailwinds


Something is broken 
The owl cries through the night's chill
you should have tried more
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Written by haileyelliott

2.

The two yellow feet

that cross each other

in our enamel sink

no longer white but 

filled with distinct pieces of 

a tiny rooster's body - they are special. 

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Written by haileyelliott
2.
The two yellow feet
that cross each other
in our enamel sink
no longer white but 
filled with distinct pieces of 
a tiny rooster's body - they are special. 

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Written by haileyelliott in portal Micropoetry

1.

When a friend tells you

that they lost something

it is good to ask them 

was is special?

 

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Written by haileyelliott in portal Micropoetry
1.
When a friend tells you
that they lost something
it is good to ask them 
was is special?
 



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Write a poem about something you have no control over and how that lack of control makes you feel.
Written by haileyelliott in portal Poetry & Free Verse

acceleration

The trap door of

morning falls open

I hang, suspended 

on the threads 

of sleep

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Write a poem about something you have no control over and how that lack of control makes you feel.
Written by haileyelliott in portal Poetry & Free Verse
acceleration
The trap door of
morning falls open

I hang, suspended 
on the threads 
of sleep
21
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Written by haileyelliott in portal Stream of Consciousness

Seeds for You

I see you, staring down into the pool of your light filled machine, gazing, your own reflection obscured by words, these words, which you are reading, entering your mind, via the cortex, visual, being patterns, recognized, being categories, categorized, placed, as on parchment, as though to be dried, as though for collection, collecting, you trickle through, aware, of these words, falling, falling down if I say falling, tripping, your tongue is involved, but it is a, backseat, driver, its only job, a minor flexing, for inward pronunciation, inside, above it, sounds which it will never, itself, form into complex and uniform vibrations which would be put into the world to be caught, exclusively, that is, for only the ears, specifically your ears, specifically, my ears, which will not catch anything, except the tipping sound, keys going, which I can hear, but which will, by the time you are seeing this, be over, expired, this will be no longer a process, it will, cease to be, in motion, it will be a record, of the event, of my thinking, the cortex, again, I think, but not only, it is, a whole body, it is, a whole mind, it is visual, black and white, symbols, it is, thought, it is, distilled, a distillation, I am reaching you, am I reaching you? 

I am trying, typing, to get through some membranous barrier that exists, inherently, between us. This inter cyber web that has the both of us snared, me, on my end, putting in, you, on your end, gathering out, getting something, somewhere, or, are we? Maybe not. I have a feeling though, it is not from here, the cortex, which here is merely the translator - translating for us, from me, to you, this feeling, so that you might come to see it, read it, understand, and through some strange human from of transmutation, come to feel it, too. The feeling is of seeds, gathering, and ripely, and about to spill, from the grassy fist, of their mother, and about to burst, and what will come of them, the progeny, the bursting forth, the new life, as solitary, they become, another, this is how my thoughts are, now, and if they land on your soil, then perhaps they will bloom, and so, I say them again, and again, silently, and you pick them up, if you like, and gather them, save them, put them by, for future use, in your garden, which, in this case, is your cerebellum, and I say that I want you to have these seeds, and I say that they are seeds of something good, and that is because, what I want you to know, is that perfection, it is impossible, and creation, it must be made free from the tyranny of 

perfection's grasping groping choking distorting disorienting fist, because perfection,

is only a concept,

and concepts,

only have power if we give them power

and creativity

is not a concept

creativity is a force

of nature. 

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Written by haileyelliott in portal Stream of Consciousness
Seeds for You
I see you, staring down into the pool of your light filled machine, gazing, your own reflection obscured by words, these words, which you are reading, entering your mind, via the cortex, visual, being patterns, recognized, being categories, categorized, placed, as on parchment, as though to be dried, as though for collection, collecting, you trickle through, aware, of these words, falling, falling down if I say falling, tripping, your tongue is involved, but it is a, backseat, driver, its only job, a minor flexing, for inward pronunciation, inside, above it, sounds which it will never, itself, form into complex and uniform vibrations which would be put into the world to be caught, exclusively, that is, for only the ears, specifically your ears, specifically, my ears, which will not catch anything, except the tipping sound, keys going, which I can hear, but which will, by the time you are seeing this, be over, expired, this will be no longer a process, it will, cease to be, in motion, it will be a record, of the event, of my thinking, the cortex, again, I think, but not only, it is, a whole body, it is, a whole mind, it is visual, black and white, symbols, it is, thought, it is, distilled, a distillation, I am reaching you, am I reaching you? 
I am trying, typing, to get through some membranous barrier that exists, inherently, between us. This inter cyber web that has the both of us snared, me, on my end, putting in, you, on your end, gathering out, getting something, somewhere, or, are we? Maybe not. I have a feeling though, it is not from here, the cortex, which here is merely the translator - translating for us, from me, to you, this feeling, so that you might come to see it, read it, understand, and through some strange human from of transmutation, come to feel it, too. The feeling is of seeds, gathering, and ripely, and about to spill, from the grassy fist, of their mother, and about to burst, and what will come of them, the progeny, the bursting forth, the new life, as solitary, they become, another, this is how my thoughts are, now, and if they land on your soil, then perhaps they will bloom, and so, I say them again, and again, silently, and you pick them up, if you like, and gather them, save them, put them by, for future use, in your garden, which, in this case, is your cerebellum, and I say that I want you to have these seeds, and I say that they are seeds of something good, and that is because, what I want you to know, is that perfection, it is impossible, and creation, it must be made free from the tyranny of 
perfection's grasping groping choking distorting disorienting fist, because perfection,
is only a concept,
and concepts,
only have power if we give them power
and creativity
is not a concept
creativity is a force
of nature. 






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Written by haileyelliott in portal Micropoetry

Beneath the Oak

I filled my mouth with leaves.

My face became the dirt.

My hair started blooming.

Strange seeds went drifting.

I hope you don't catch them.

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Written by haileyelliott in portal Micropoetry
Beneath the Oak
I filled my mouth with leaves.
My face became the dirt.
My hair started blooming.
Strange seeds went drifting.
I hope you don't catch them.
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They say things look different in the morning. Write a story where you wake up in the morning and things look REALLY different.
Written by haileyelliott

The day it broke open

Before I opened my eyes, I was thinking of the rice that I left out on the stove. I was thinking of my friend, and her boyfriend, and the argument they had, and if they could speak more gently, and if it would help them. I was thinking about walking, about how I should walk more, about my shoes, if they only kept out the rain. I was thinking about my work, and the problems there, and how they each might be resolved, inventing resolutions that could never take place, resolutions that made use of laws that do not exist.

I am always dong that, in the space between waking, and opening my eyes - turning unsolvable problems over and over in my mind until they melt from the heat and turn to new problems. 

The morphing list of unsolvable undefinable challenges continues until my mind wakes enough to catch itself in the act, again. 

This morning I opened my eyes to a problem I had never even considered. 

I can't say that I gasped. Actually, I don't know what I did, because my awareness of my own body vanished. I entered a state of supreme unselfconsciousness - for me, this is an extreme and rare condition. 

The light was different, I should have noticed that before I opened my eyes, maybe I did, maybe that is what brought a final halt to my thoughts. 

It was like the whole world was dilated, like the pupil of the sun had burst open, and without eyelids, could not suppress its own blinding eruption of searing light.

I squinted, I do think I squinted. 

And it all changed. A reverse explosion. An implosion? A blink? Is there an eyelid? As though all this time the earth has been sleeping. As though it had just woken. As though the sun, watching over all this time, breathing life into its dreaming child, had just spoken.

And the light, now, softer, more white. 

It beams down on everything like sheaves of comprehension. 

As though while we have spent our lives not looking at the sun, it, finally, 

is looking back at us. The loneliness of the dream state, where each of us travels again and again in our own private universe, how it falls away at realities gentlest touch. 

So the loneliness of that giant old dream, separate form the sun, from the earth, a lonely cell not able to feel its part in the body, it fell away just as easily. I see you now, and I feel you. I hear you, through the sun, with its infinite touch. We are inside the same other dream, all together now, and your hurt is my pain. 

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They say things look different in the morning. Write a story where you wake up in the morning and things look REALLY different.
Written by haileyelliott
The day it broke open

Before I opened my eyes, I was thinking of the rice that I left out on the stove. I was thinking of my friend, and her boyfriend, and the argument they had, and if they could speak more gently, and if it would help them. I was thinking about walking, about how I should walk more, about my shoes, if they only kept out the rain. I was thinking about my work, and the problems there, and how they each might be resolved, inventing resolutions that could never take place, resolutions that made use of laws that do not exist.

I am always dong that, in the space between waking, and opening my eyes - turning unsolvable problems over and over in my mind until they melt from the heat and turn to new problems. 

The morphing list of unsolvable undefinable challenges continues until my mind wakes enough to catch itself in the act, again. 

This morning I opened my eyes to a problem I had never even considered. 

I can't say that I gasped. Actually, I don't know what I did, because my awareness of my own body vanished. I entered a state of supreme unselfconsciousness - for me, this is an extreme and rare condition. 

The light was different, I should have noticed that before I opened my eyes, maybe I did, maybe that is what brought a final halt to my thoughts. 

It was like the whole world was dilated, like the pupil of the sun had burst open, and without eyelids, could not suppress its own blinding eruption of searing light.

I squinted, I do think I squinted. 

And it all changed. A reverse explosion. An implosion? A blink? Is there an eyelid? As though all this time the earth has been sleeping. As though it had just woken. As though the sun, watching over all this time, breathing life into its dreaming child, had just spoken.

And the light, now, softer, more white. 

It beams down on everything like sheaves of comprehension. 

As though while we have spent our lives not looking at the sun, it, finally, 
is looking back at us. The loneliness of the dream state, where each of us travels again and again in our own private universe, how it falls away at realities gentlest touch. 

So the loneliness of that giant old dream, separate form the sun, from the earth, a lonely cell not able to feel its part in the body, it fell away just as easily. I see you now, and I feel you. I hear you, through the sun, with its infinite touch. We are inside the same other dream, all together now, and your hurt is my pain. 

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Written by haileyelliott in portal Poetry & Free Verse

I Woke up Searching

And if there really is no one

who invented all this, 

which it seems like there isn't. 

Then how did the loon

get her daring jacket

of black and white?

And the Merganser with

his rakish poet look,

did he gather it 

beneath the years?

Where did the kingfisher acquire

his blunt handsomeness

which speaks so openly

of the sea?

The barn owl its heart shaped face

of white set in 

gold, 

when did it received that 

from the night?

And how was the gold finch 

crowned by the morning?

With its fingers of light? 

And in what thin crevice

did the winter wren 

find its tiny scolding monologue?

And how did the robin, 

pull such cheerful music

from deep beneath the ground?

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Written by haileyelliott in portal Poetry & Free Verse
I Woke up Searching
And if there really is no one
who invented all this, 
which it seems like there isn't. 

Then how did the loon
get her daring jacket
of black and white?

And the Merganser with
his rakish poet look,
did he gather it 
beneath the years?

Where did the kingfisher acquire
his blunt handsomeness
which speaks so openly
of the sea?

The barn owl its heart shaped face
of white set in 
gold, 
when did it received that 
from the night?

And how was the gold finch 
crowned by the morning?
With its fingers of light? 

And in what thin crevice
did the winter wren 
find its tiny scolding monologue?

And how did the robin, 
pull such cheerful music
from deep beneath the ground?
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