A poem made of emojis? Emojis?! Pictures are not words! How does one make a poem with emojis? Well I guess that I can try… It may not look pretty And it may not make sense, But here is a poem made of emojis. If…

I’ve never been to the Azores but they beckon me. Small, gracious, resplendent, Atlantic archipelago, fiercely independent, tiny islands of breath-taking hydrangea-bordering, green meadow, mountain lacunae, cloud-filled, like hookah puffs adrift, I breathe your lyrical language in my sleep, ever since your letter, 38 years…

The transformation came so fast At a warehouse party moving dancing laughing Shoved and pushed to the floor Stench of death hit before the ferocious gnawing Tried flailing couldn’t move couldn’t grab couldn’t claw – all numb hands stopped working Tried screaming couldn’t speak couldn’t…

I have dissipated into air. I smile at sun and shine on dewy blossoms. I look into horizons of anguish and false smiles of survival and relish spring breezes – the scent of voodoo rose. It’s been a long rendez-vu in verdant pastures of blissful…

By Ajanta Judd All Rights Reserved – 9am Australian EST Prompt 11: Write a poem about or set in a place you have never been to. It could be a real concrete location, or something more metaphorical, imaginary or fictional – somewhere over the rainbow…

I stretch my spirit into blue, catching the breeze, l let my self fall and drift, with its breath. There are some moments we move as one the flow, the dip, the trust, in fine bone and feather, tracing invisible stories over and through sunrise…

Blue skies shine bright White wispy clouds smile A summer delight If only awhile White wispy clouds smile Over specks of sandy shells If only awhile Playing in the turquoise swells Over specks of sandy shells Dancing my cares away Playing in the turquoise swells…

I have never been to Ireland, though I’ve heard its bonny song; Folks who look like me and Grams; the place that I belong. Red ringlets, tangled, twisting, as the breeze jaunts jolly by. Small and simple gardens, wind-rippled, rose-wreathed and blithe. Cobbled streets, and…

I imagine a cafe On the Champs-Elysees Sipping tall glasses of French wine At sunset   I imagine a walk along the Seine Hands held tight The sun going down The moon coming up City lights reflecting over and over Like a fairyland   I…

Porridge   We sit on the porch and swing, legs pumping, small breezes coming from beneath our feet. We just finished reading the story of the three bears, my own little bears mesmerized at the porridge, the beds, the cottage that seems just like ours…