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BlueMoo Jun 2018
Your sister misses you.

She hasn't mentioned
you in a while

But I know that she washes
your name down
everyday with her morning tea

I've watched as the syllables
stick to her throat,
itching to be spoken

But she's afraid
to say your name

She knows if
she utters your name

Then the birds
she's tried so hard
to hush within their cage

Will burst from her chest,
rupturing her lungs
with their fury

And she is too tired
to capture them all

She's fought
and surrendered
to them

Too many times.

I know you thought
that no one would miss you

That the world
would go on
with one less bird

But you were wrong.

She misses you,
we all miss you

Young bird,
you were
and you are
No matter what's going on, it will get better and you are loved. Your family and friends are not better off without you, I know it hurts, but fight that voice that says you can't go on and please stay.
BlueMoo Dec 2017


I didn't mourn
my grandmother.

I used to feel the guilt
stitched into my bones

But I didn't mourn her.

I didn't mourn
the proud Yorkshire woman
who smoked a twenty pack
of Marlboros

every single day
until she dropped dead alone
at the age of 82.

She is dead,
but her words live on,
thriving and multiplying like a virus.

I cannot sweat them out.


At the funeral
my cousin read out
a poem

It might have been WH Auden
but I wasn't listening

Instead I played
my grandmothers
debut album

'How not to be a mother'

So loud
that the blood ran
down my ear lobes

Faster than the tears
of the mourners

And flooded the church.

I watched as the church sank,
like a doomed ship lost at sea.


My mother rose slowly to the surface,
spitting out the blood

And floated so gracefully
on her grief

I wanted to pick her up
and keep her safe in my hands

to catch the leaf
before it tumbles over

But I couldn't,
she didn't want me to.

She let the river take her away.


She sits by me
as I push out his head

My skin rips
like sugar paper

And he sprawls
out onto the table

and floating in my blood

But he is my son.

The midwife wraps him up
and hands him to my mother

I look up at my mother and son
As I am swept away

But my mother never looks up.

And I can feel myself
tumbling over like a leaf

With noone to catch me
as I fall.

No one to catch me as I fall.
  Sep 2017 BlueMoo
Joshua Haines
The cluster of ice in my glass
  looks like a milky fist.
I shake my cup and ask
  about the weather.
He says, 'Hasn't rained in
  one thousand or so years.'
I say how that's unfortunate;
  he says how **** happens.

This party transitions into
  something out of an art-house film;
the Cali-tens are dancing to some
  80's song you would vaguely recognize.
They bump into one another
  like bees in an electric hive.
A Russian drinking a Russian
  asks about drugs.
I say into my drink that I
  don't have that many friends.

Looking for a bathroom,
  I am bumped by hips and lips
into the former eggshell/cigarette stain wall,
where I find my partial reflection
  looking back at me in that familiar
transparent parent way.

I find myself apologizing.
  Sep 2017 BlueMoo
David Noonan
the weeping that makes me half a man
the rage that divides me greater still
are these the created or the original sin
that leads me down to the drunkards well
there it was that i had found you again
your hair changed, your dress less pretty
life lived through a jukebox country song
that preached no rights or saw no wrong

our greatest hour the one so fast to pass
leaving moments of perpetual memory
seeks a home for a weary vagabond soul
left grasping a belief for something more
full of regrets sustaining broken promises
time waits for no one and no one for us
Sunday comes down, the night still young
dance with me now jukebox country song
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