Mike Hauser
Mike Hauser
Mar 13, 2013

I started out this morning

Not intending to write a trilogy

One subject that I failed to pick

Is right in front of me

Keeping the air waves free of debris

Is why I dig so deep

It's better to pick what's between my eyes

Than what's behind between my cheeks

Lauren Ashley
Lauren Ashley
Apr 8, 2011

she placed her fingers upon the seed of distrust
so distraught was her own intoxicated mind
he didn't find her beautiful, he loved her not
he wasn't there to define her boundary lines
she placed her hand around the bottle's curves
hope put in a better place that satisfaction finds
knowledge that someone would find her beautiful
knowing that someone would love her at least for tonight

See Holmes
See Holmes
Jun 16, 2013      Jun 17, 2013

"I'm sure we were meant
to grow this uneven,
a seesaw of sorts
with me down
below
ever crawling up."

We can love like this...

"I'm sure we were meant
to love and to lose,
a flash of something
beautiful and
noteworthy only
because of its extinction."

I shouldn't hold on to you so...

but dammit,
I'm still calling
you mine.

(seeing you hold on to him,
it's time to let go)

drunk on dandelion milk:
this dragon-fly, cotton-cloud haze
dulls my ears to each petal's cry
as I seek a flower's counsel in love.

Picking up trash is my dance agony.
janis tsai
Aug 12, 2010

The summer heat in Ypsi pounds my back
drumming notes of sweat into my clothes.

My song of labor for all to see.
Yes, I did it. Yes, this is me.

How my muscles contract and move in time,
One, two, trash
One, two, trash
Picking up trash is my dance agony.

A dancing soldier-I step and I bleed.
I look up at the sun-my source of melody.

The sun is my musicbox
-my tune and my clock.
I cannot stop dancing until the sun stops.

As her Majesty lays excitedly crumpled
in my pocket, I dance down the street
amidst rubber masks and credit cards,
hoping that I will find you between the
shadows, the pantomime villain I have
come to love.

Blueberry picking was no chore.
Ormond
Ormond
Jul 6, 2012

Blueberry picking was no chore.
In the hoary-head of blue things,
Stuff was easy, and ripe for the picking,
Bunching blue-baubles in baskets over-ripened
Of berries.   On special mornings, due southwest
In lazy hills, round my home, — bells  
Were breaking, in quiet sections of the Canton,
Massachusetts woods, and playing by them,
We rounded blue notes, some friends and I,  
Plucked-out tunes to the breeze, on leafy-
Instruments, and pulled our weight, into moil-moisted  
Bushels, (one batch of blue was more than a ton  
Of any other fruit!)   
Toiling, till the sky would peek  
And spill its hue.  Foragers were we, as teaming
Minnows round a polk-a-dot reef, feasting on some great  
Blue-Fin’s roe, brave savages, painted in the glow of ember-
Light, of burnished yellows, and bushy-blanched browns
Drenched by dew and dappled in the stipple
Of sun-brushed fire, all the colours making patterns, even  
Box Turtles knew.   How merry it was we made our labors,
Why it was wicked!  And muggy from the heat of cool  
Indigo stars, we squenched our thirst, in glugs  
Of kisses, each following the greatest by far,  
And one soft day, we did notice the crown
Of a Princess, set on top of each full  
Noble-blooded faery-pearl dropped
As if to commemorate all  
The things that were worth  
Knowing, stuff that was ripe,  
Easy, and rapt
In blue.

Lotus
Lotus
May 6, 2013

Leave me here,
By and by the misty oaks,
Those boast and cower through seasons.

Leave me here,
By and by the sun-touched,
Pebbled paths that led many pairs of feet.
For here my eyes do spy those
Ivory petaled bells of flowers.

Leave me here,
By and by,
Where I will pick these flowers,
And furnish my day with scented simplicity.

Blueberry picking was no chore.
Ormond
Ormond
Sep 9, 2012

Blueberry picking was no chore.
In the hoary-head of blue things,
Stuff was easy, and ripe for the picking,
Bunching blue-baubles in baskets over-ripened
Of berries.   On special mornings, due southwest
In lazy hills, round my home, — bells  
Were breaking, in quiet sections of the Canton,
Massachusetts woods, and playing by them,
We rounded blue notes, some friends and I,  
Plucked-out tunes to the breeze, on leafy-
Instruments, and pulled our weight, into moil-moisted  
Bushels, (one batch of blue was more than a ton  
Of any other fruit!)   
Toiling, till the sky would peek  
And spill its hue.  Foragers were we, as teaming
Minnows round a polk-a-dot reef, feasting on some great  
Blue-Fin’s roe, brave savages, painted in the glow of ember-
Light, of burnished yellows, and bushy-blanched browns
Drenched by dew and dappled in the stipple
Of sun-brushed fire, all the colours making patterns, even  
Box Turtles knew.   How merry it was we made our labors,
Why it was wicked!  And muggy from the heat of cool  
Indigo stars, we squenched our thirst, in glugs  
Of kisses, each following the greatest by far,  
And one soft day, we did notice the crown
Of a Princess, set on top of each full  
Noble-blooded faery-pearl dropped
As if to commemorate all  
The things that were worth  
Knowing, stuff that was ripe,  
Easy, and rapt
In blue.

Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Seamus Heaney

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

 
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