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 Jun 2017 BG Bunny
Emily B
I tried, Lord,
I tried.

I protected him as often
and with what
little strength I had.

He punched me
in the stomach
when he thought
the neighbor wasn't watching.

And his eyes said
plain enough
that he could **** me
before mom got home
and I would barricade
myself in my room
til she pulled in the driveway
and act like every
thing was fine.

When dad died
he called the funeral home
and threatened
everybody.

I can't keep him anymore.
Even if
his blood cries to me
from the ground.
And Cain talked with Abel his brother: and it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel his brother, and slew him.

9 And the LORD said unto Cain, Where [is] Abel thy brother? And he said, I know not: [Am] I my brother's keeper?

10 And he said, What hast thou done? the voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground.
 Jun 2017 BG Bunny
Nat Lipstadt
punto / contrappunto (patty m /nat)
(on the why of messaging, on the Underground HP)

none can fly,                          all can fly
except in words,                   in deeds, indeed,
yet others turn                      those who believe turn
lead into gold,                       golden faerie dreams real,
penciled in the salvation     hints inked upon the skin
of the host, the blessing       are the blessings of the host,
of solving great puzzles.      deeds of salvation solutions.

Yet unbeknownst for many.  known to all
its jiggling all the quarks,      the clashing of the neutrons
spinning electrons that          within all of our protein protons
affect many,                             effected upon each,
invisible all is hidden.            where all was hidden, now visible

the message that isn't             let our acts speak ever louder
transmitted,                             realized,
holds no power, yet it             a time for action
remains a black screen            for each message, now an action    
in the catacombs                      in the clarity of daylight
waiting, waiting there,            no longer waiting,
millions of little pieces            each action a deed
when finally viewed                the summation total
                 
                                 grows gargantuan
                               funneling radiation
                                     from the sun.

Climbing roofs,                       to the streets leaping
sliding down drainpipes       knocking to open all doors
to the street,                             filling the stadiums & squares
I'll wait with you,                   no laggards, all in attendence
            
                                         they will come,
                                         poet after poet,
                                    spreading the word,
                              words to deeds, each of us
                           a messenger and a conductor,
                            orchestrating the symphony
                                        of revelation.

              Patty m.                                                       Nat
patty m › The Underground of HP
none can fly, except in words yet others turn lead into gold, penciled in the salvation of the host the blessing of solving great puzzles. Yet unbeknownst for many its jiggling all the quarks, spinning electrons that affect many. Invisible all is hidden
the message that isn't transmitted, holds no power, it remains a black screen in the catacombs waiting, waiting there, millions of little pieces when finally viewed grow gargantuan funneling radiation from the sun. Climbing roofs, then sliding down drainpipes to the street, I'll wait with you, and they will come, poet after poet, spreading the word, while you my friend orchestrate the symphony of revelation. Bravo.!
hugs
Patty

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Jun 3
 May 2017 BG Bunny
Vale Luna
All poets
Are in love with the moon
Romanticizing the mystery of outerspace
On a cold, lonely eve
To look up at the night sky
And sigh
At the glimmer of friendship
The sliver of hope
The reflection of love
Hanging next to the stars

Sometimes, I sigh
Remembering
The moon is nothing but a rock
Stuck in orbit
Stealing a poet's love.
A lot of poetry (including my own) is written about the moon or outerspace.

P.S. THIS ISN'T SUPPOSED TO BE OFFENDING TO ANYONE WHO WRITES ABOUT THE MOON! (I do it a lot)

Just some depressing thoughts...
 May 2017 BG Bunny
James Court
.                                      m                   m                   m
                                      a                     a                    a
                                    ­ e                     e                    e
                                  ­  t                     t                    t
                                   s                    s                    s

                               BOAT           BOAT           BOAT
                              BOAT           BOAT           BOAT
                             BOAT           BOAT           BOAT
                            BOAT           BOAT           BOAT
I'm a boat I'm a boat I'm a boat I'm a boat I'm a boat I'm a boat
    I'm a boat                                                             ­     I'm a boat
        I'm a boat                O         O         O               I'm a boat
            I'm a boat                                                  I'm a boat
                  I'm a boat I'm a boat I'm a boat I'm a boat toot toot I'm a boat
I'm in the middle of a serious depressive episode right now

If you're on your phone turn it sideways
 May 2017 BG Bunny
Summer Edmonds
I missed the stars like they were experiences I would never have,
like homes I used to live in.
I wanted gravity to let go of me so I could float back to where I came from.
So I could be reunited with myself.
I wanted to swallow constellations like little seeds growing inside me,
make a new universe inside of myself and birth a new place for all of us to belong.
Hiraeth(n): a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.
 May 2017 BG Bunny
Miss Honey
I’m in the strawberry’s secret seeds
hiding from blue in the red
before my pink becomes entirely grey
and muted
and suddenly everything stopped
and the lights went dark
no, the sun went down
but I’m still hiding while the others
crawl out of their caves
to sing praises to our moon
and kiss each other in whole holy love
I don't know what this is!!!!! I can't write anymore!!!! I'm frustrated (let's not talk about it)
Such a shame it is,

To be a writer.

We feed on sorrow and pain

We romanticize the tragedy

And live off on the agony

Angst is what fuels our days

Love is something we love to illustrate

Through magical words

Which are written in calligraphy across pages

Heartbreaks become our muse

Lover’s betrayal becomes our passion

We claim to devote our time to writing

When the truth is that we are constantly just fighting!

Living in a mental battlefield

Where the conflicting thoughts

Trigger our rage and grief.
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