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Trinkets Jan 25
you have a secret don’t you
like a coin in the hand of
a beginner magician
well hidden for any who
never really pay attention
Sara Barrett Jan 22
Our first snowfall
two teenagers driving through Maryland’s quiet streets,
snowflakes soft as whispers,
pausing the world, binding us in its stillness.

Years later, Montana welcomed us,
its snow blanketing base housing,
our son’s laughter rising like smoke in the cold.
Soon, we welcomed our daughter,
her presence as gentle as freshly fallen snow,
our family growing beneath the frosted skies.

In New Hampshire, snow wrapped us as four,
a family held close through a winter of unknowns,
its quiet presence a reminder of resilience,
of love weathering every storm.

And now, in Florida—
where the sun reigns and snow should be a stranger,
it falls again.
Five hours of wonder cascading from the heavens,
a gift from the elements,
blessing this home, this moment, this us.

Snow has followed our beginnings—
each new chapter marked in white.
It shields, it cleanses,
a quiet protector cloaked in frost,
a sacred pause to reflect, to remember,
to hold close the warmth of our bond.

May it always find us,
this quiet magic,
this pure renewal,
reminding us that wherever we are,
we are blessed,
we are whole,
and we are home.
This poem is a reflection on the role snow has played in my life and the connection it holds with my husband and our journey together. From the winter of 2007, when two teenagers fell in love on snowy Maryland streets, to our first snowfall as a family in Montana, snow has always found us at the start of something new. Now, 17 years later, in the rare magic of Winter Storm Enzo in 2025, we sit together in the Panhandle of Florida, watching 8 inches of snow blanket our world. It feels like a quiet reminder—of love, resilience, and the way snow has always invited us to pause, reflect, and cherish each other as we write the next chapter of our lives.
Zywa Jan 18
He's unsure and can't

do magic, yet he can do --


magical thinking.
Poem "[Week] 9" (2022, Gerda Blees)

Collection "Specialities"
Jay Jan 14
Breakups don’t make sense to me. Am I just supposed to feel nothing now? To erase all the time we spent together, the memories etched into my mind, the quiet promises whispered in the dark? Am I meant to set it all on fire, pretending you don’t cross my thoughts with every breath I take? As if love is just a fleeting phase, something that vanishes as easily as it began. Am I supposed to suddenly hate you, to force down the feelings still rooted in my chest? Forget the warmth of your hand in mine, our fingers laced together against the chill of the world? What about the dreams we built, reshaping our futures to fit one another? Is “moving on” some sort of magic trick? Or is it a spell no one’s ever taught me, some dark art that hides the ache beneath tangled overgrowth? Do the feelings ever really die, or do they just lie buried, choked out by weeds where flowers once bloomed? The silence left in their place is deafening, and I can’t understand how hearts can simply unravel. How love, once so vivid, can close its eyes to everything it defined. How am I supposed to walk away when the echoes of what we had still call me back?
so-
A    mb-
        re,
       Sw-
       a-
      n's,
    cu-
    rl-
ing,
ne-                Rarely,
ck. takes, the time, to, longingly,
straighten out. If, it, took, a honking
step, toward; a banal, straight line. Wo-
uld, Lir, hear, his children's; swansong?
Or, pinion feathers, flip, on breezes, as,
              they,
                  flap, about?

© poormansdreams
When I was small I always thought I'd be turned into a swan by my evil stepfather. But, I've warmed to the proud honkers in my old age.
Raven Kuhn Jan 5
I got my letter but I didn’t read it,
Just followed along with my kin;
I wouldn’t let the Sorting Hat touch me,
And claimed to all I was Slytherin.

I never liked the other colours,
But green seemed to fit, and I felt like a snake!
Plus, when I’d want something as much as I did,
I was more than willing to be fake.

I didn’t try with witches or spells;
I missed class on purpose, and it stung my pride.
My Patronus, the crow, still crouched in my shoulder—
But even he’d known I’d lied. Now I’m trapped inside.

My life’s about art and academia, dark...
So I’ve poured over books behind secret walls.
An INTP means something to me,
Now I’m staring, completely enthralled.

I got my House but I didn't fit in--
At least not to the same degree.
Maybe I earned it for all that I was,
But now it doesn't feel like me.
I'm not a fan of Harry Potter, but I went to the theme park in 2017 and of course my family did the quiz. It got me thinking: if you begged the Sorting Hat hard enough, would it really put you in the House you wanted at the time, even if it wasn't who you'd turn out to be?
This is not meant to be a poem.

Never delete what you were. Even though it doesn't reflect your current being. You must be proud of what you were because it got you until now and it prepared you. It gave you the tools. It WAS you and hence it IS still you.

Never be ashamed of the love you felt and gave. Instead. Grow in love and grow the love.

And if things did not go the best possible way. Well. What even is the best possible way? Things went the only way possible. You learn from what happens and live the way you think is best for you. Maybe learning from mistakes too.

There are no true immortal beings, but immortal are the feelings we feel and the ideas that we bring to others. This is because ideas and feelings will move through generations as long as someone is willing to talk about them. Share them. Write them. And speak about them with other people.

This is magic.

I guess that's all.
मैं आपकी तरह छिपा हुआ नहीं हूं, इसलिए कृपया मुझे लिखें या संदेश भेजें। मैं आपको उचित उत्तर देना चाहूँगा
Orion Mistral Dec 2024
The old folks chant a madrigal,
Of a warlock answering creation’s call.
His hands craft from void the light,
Weaving worlds, writing history bright.

The wizard’s glance shoots sparks—drip-drop,
Sets stars to brawl, to shine nonstop.
Planets rise from fairy's dust, to Chaos's scorn,
Entangled in a cosmic dance, from dusk till dawn.

Gaps gape, gaudy,
Mountains mound, massive.
His breath hisses, lovely,
Through the ****, aggressive.
“You oceans, you airs—roar and quake!
All that is, was, and will be moves with my shake.”

The mage declares: “The beard makes the man,
And I am the one who holds time in hand.”
He counts the hours, souls flutter spellbound—THNX!
And sets every rule with powerful pranks.

He grins at numbers, theories, and light,
For it’s sorcery and mystery he speaks, alright?
Shadow, shimmer, soul, sense, salt, scent—Wow!
Without him—Bang! ***!—blown by now.

The old New falls, as the new Old flies,
Being may fade, but Be never dies.

For real?
Seize the logic—Infinity’s ordeal.
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