Lay down, lay down, antlers fallen from
the crown. A king falls, a doe dies, and wise
the mouse who makes his house in the moss!
O the cost of this solitary life —
paid out in blood and mountaintops, the coin
of misunderstandings. The warbler
cannot understand the mockingbird’s
almost-speech. I’m tired. I’m talking in code.
The deer’s wild heart beats its mighty last.
This too shall pass. The vultures crack the bones.
by WHITECATGROVE
© All rights reserved 2025
Full of life, now, compact, visible,
I, forty years old the Eighty-third Year of The States,
To one a century hence, or any number of centuries hence,
To you, yet unborn, these, seeking you.
When you read these, I, that was visible, am become invisible;
Now it is you, compact, visible, realizing my poems, seeking me;
Fancying how happy you were, if I could be with you, and become your comrade;
Be it as if I were with you. (Be not too certain but I am now with you.)
by WALT WHITMAN (1819-1892)
Public Domain Poetry
They say: Be afraid. I regard the nettles
with their hard sting. The toothed hawthorn. Brambles
that grab your pantleg and refuse to let go.
Songbirds strafe the mighty hawk, drive him
branch to branch, then out of the sky. A swan
flexes angel wings and breaks a man’s arm.
A pebble does not relent, nor a splinter.
Thorns of a white rose can topple a king.
They say: Be afraid but the maddened doe
lashes with sharp hooves and the hunter goes
hungry. A cavalry of geese arrives
and no nest will be raided by serpents.
by WHITECATGROVE
© All rights reserved 2025
The way her silky garments undulate
It seems she’s dancing as she walks along,
Like serpents that the sacred charmers make
To move in rhythms of their waving wands.
Like desert sands and skies she is as well,
As unconcerned with human misery,
Like the long networks of the ocean’s swells
Unfolding with insensibility.
Her polished eyes are made of charming stones,
And in her essence, where the natures mix
Of holy angel and the ancient sphinx,
Where all is lit with gold, steel, diamonds,
A useless star, it shines eternally,
The sterile woman’s frigid majesty.
by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE (1821-1867)
Public Domain Poetry
i feel most like myself with my lipstick smudged
headphones on
wind in my hair like a prayer half said
the sky’s bleeding peaches and cigarette smoke
and i swear
god has been ghosting me again
i light one up with trembling hands
flick the ash like it means something
like im someone
the musics soft
but it drowns out the memory of her laugh
almost
theres no one watching
but i still pose
like the world is a movie
and im the girl who never makes it out of the last scene
smoke drips from my lips like secrets
i will never say out loud
i dont know who im supposed to be
but at golden hour
i almost remember
and i keep dancing with ghosts in the glow of the streetlights
kissing memories i shouldve let go
i wear heartbreak like a starlet
but no one ever shows to the show
sunsets the only thing that stays
so i let it paint me red and gold
by LESBIHONEST
© All rights reserved 2025
unbolt me 