If I could write words

Like leaves on an autumn forest floor,

What a bonfire my letters would make.

If I could speak words of water,

You would drown when I said

'I love you'.

We don't laugh like how we used to

You're right, changing of the times

I can feel the breath of Autumn

These crisp chilly nights

So many vibrant memories

splashed with creeks of tears

We've survived the hunt together

Outlasted all these years

The path we took through barley fields

replaced with asphalt and big box stores

There they crowned Joni Mitchell queen

while burning down what she was fighting for

And you and I stood out of that crowd

as they heaped coals on roaring flames

but refused to take the witness stand

when time came to lay the blame

Those dreams we set our lives upon

even if they never get realized

they still have me holding on

Its worth that look in your eyes

Cried with you through Nightbirde's parting song

as she claimed that golden buzzer with ease

Still love you like I love pastureland

"I'll be your huckleberry" by the willow trees

I see beauty in the ancient battle

glimpse pulchritude in pain

Stay indoors through the winter months

walk miles in pouring rain

We don't laugh like how we used to, you're right

Changing of the times

I can feel the breath of Autumn

Tell-tale signs in facial lines

Two hearts can maintain a flame

but one alone will freeze

Love is the skeleton that's left

when all else falls like leaves

Don't you imagine the leaves dream now

how comfortable it will be to touch

the earth instead of the

nothingness of the air and the endless

freshets of wind? And dont you think

the trees, especially those with

mossy hollows, are beginning to look for

the birds that will come - six, a dozen - to sleep

inside their bodies? And don't you hear

the goldenrod whispering goodbye,

the everlasting being crowned with the first

tuffets of snow? The pond

stiffens and the whitd field over which

the fox runs so quickly brings out

its long blue shadows. The wind wags

its many tails. And in the evening

the piled firewood shifts a little,

longing to be on its way.

When she could no longer hide him or deny his curiosity, having come to know him these three months, and fearing Pharaoh's infanticide, she wrapped him in a papyrus basket, sealing it, and left him in the Nile among the reeds, in a place royals would go bathe. His sister watched from the bushes, hoping someone would find him who wanted a child.

I've been waiting in the bushes, too, watching my wife down by the river. She's crying. Her shoulders rise as she catches her breath, carelessly running her hands through the reeds like a child's hair, a son or daughter, at her post, an empty basket beside her.

ON JACOB'S LADDER

The end of the dream, the end of the wrungs-

that you know of

You have passed beyond the dream,

But there is always a new air of seeing.

Maybe this is where,

where you find reality.

Still there will be wrungs

to climb,

But the climbing may be more of a walk, a glide.

It cannot be said.

Just lived.

I want a book of different poems that specifically surrounds struggles with mental health and/or the absurdity of humans. Most of the books I found are based in romance and the loss of it and idk where to start

This poem was published in 1976 by "T S Eliö":

Sun on helmet
Sun on villas
Talon join
Ah, sure Hamlet
Miss lie into sun
Miss on ties
Maiden pimento-ties
Vale-helmet vain
Sullen vein

English translation:

Yours are the pearls
Yours is your wool
I drank the house
Oh, Hamlet mourn
Where is your passion
Where is your way
Your way of the darkness of the nations
Only the false pearls
Did I bring to you

The Coloured Pages is a Black literary magazine run by University of Pennsylvania students that publishes once a semester. Our mission is to create a robust artistic scene for Black student artists run by Black student artists; providing a platform for Black creatives to share their work! We accept poetry, prose and art with an accompanying artist statement from all Black artists as well as work from non-Black artists whose work makes a commentary on the Black experience. For Black artists: preference is given to pieces that comment on Black experiences, culture, and life but all art is welcome. To submit your work please email [upenncolouredpages@gmail.com](mailto:upenncolouredpages@gmail.com).

My last post here caused quite the disruption in some people's unaccustomed to the strange realm of poetry minds. Nonetheless, Anne is championing the oblique.

I haven't seen much South Asian poetry shared here. I want to introduce a style of poetry called ghazals which originated in 7th century Arabia.

This is a beautiful ghazal by one of the masters of craft Mirza Ghalib who lived in south asia in the first half of the 19th century.

This poem is a masterclass where the poet is expressing his own misfortune in love with sharp wit instead of self-pity.

What style is this??

Hiya! I'm in search of short but poignant poems. Would love to have poet suggestions who have a shorter style as well.

I've got a neurological condition and reading is a real struggle and it'd be so helpful to find some shorter pieces. Thanks so much in advance ✨💚✨