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To enjoy the past without the need
Of moving there with trunk and suitcase.
To recall any tragic times gone by
Without the gasping tears of sorrow.
To relive the many precious moments
But not put up a tent and stay there.
To fight the long ago won battles
Once again without the hate and malice.
To revel in the youth and vigor
Of another long gone time and day,
But only stop by for a visit there,
To spend a pleasant while and leave.
To travel back to now and be content.
Remembering the purple velvet petaled pansies,
And the roses in the silver moonlight,
But then go out and water the petunias of today.

ljm
A lot of petunias in my world lately.
Can’t you feel it?
The change?
The light is different?
Less intense
The air is getting cooler
Calming breezes
The season is upon us

Crisp nights
Colors coming
Reds, yellows, oranges and golds
Trees showing their best
Apples abound
Smells of cider and cinnamon
The season is upon us

Sweaters in stores
Fall coats
Warm socks
Blankets
The season is upon us

Hot chocolate
Soups
Apple pie
Bright colors
Hypnotic scents
The season is upon us
 Sep 2018 Busbar Dancer
Nonah
It
 Sep 2018 Busbar Dancer
Nonah
It
It keeps me awake
then
It keeps me asleep

It seeps like well water
as
Virginia vines may creep

It is who I am
yet
Not at all

I am defined by it
though
I am in control
the ages of all these things,
The pipes are unknown to **** ages
Do not be a willing party, the smoke of zero,
     the radius, the robot;
it is the very beginning,
to kiss my feet out of the city, in the garden,
make a fortune, once the glory &     the daughter were flickering;
They have blown the sand of the natural ******;          Maecenas
the former a son of a stripper,
holding ponds;                          He is the loving impulse,
               but do not rely on him, the pond in itself a ****** shape;
            Christians should not be;
a little of the skin of the Muses,
fingers buried; she fell,
Remember,    warmed,
                         let him be unjust to them,    
                        whom the master
                        had gone against the wishes of the ages
                                   of all these things, to understand,
                      Guns were made to **** in ages unknown
                   & do not smoke in the rays of the robot
                said to be the deserted corners of the city,
once to kiss his feet,       and the fate of the garden;
& gypsy, daughter skinny ******
blown sand; Maecenas given to Abraham's side
in the form of a daughter,         the tenant is a stripper in the Chinese
                            fashion;
Do not imagine that the decline in lovers,
The Christian            showing not a little skin, muses
                                     fingers buried; and fell
Remember the warm adversary, to understand,
has been unknown to all the ages of this,   **** guns,
they smoke the robot with the radius it is written in
                   the town is called the Lord of the angle
of the stream of languid sleep,               kissed him,
& the fate of the garden of a gypsy,
the daughter of the skinny ****** of wind,      sand,
Jack, a Latino mom's mouth,  is for the appearance
of the daughter, holding down the Chinese stripper,
turning to imagine the lover was the Christian Church,
skin, muses little fingers buried are fallen,
Satan draws herself, sweltering she remembers;
understand this is unknown to all ages
to **** with guns,   do not smoke when the rays
of the robot             it is called the town of
****** corner of the deserted kiss
his feet, & the fates of the garden, & gypsy,
the daughter of skinny
****** & blown sand; Jack Abraham,              at mom's side;
                    is the form of a daughter,
      holding the stripper is Chinese;
Turn not to the image for the lover                           is in the
Christian church, not a little skin muses
fingers buried; & they fell,
Remember that draws hot Satan
 Sep 2018 Busbar Dancer
Woody
I still dream of my father
crossing the pastures
on his one-eyed tractor
mowing acres of sorrow
heading east of a moon
that'll be gone tomorrow
turning one last time as
if to say: so long my son
there’s going to be days
of sunshine and plenty
more of rain as he went
along his way, and my
sadness waved back like
grain in fields of long past
summers and summers
before that, so long a time
ago I can remember only
on lonely nights of heat
lightning and the low
rumble of distant thunder.
A nice surprise on this Monday evening.  Thank you all very much for your reading and very nice comments. Please know that I appreciate all of you and your kind words. Thank you.

* To Ravinder Kumar Soni: Opinion entitled to and noted. Thanks for taking the time to read.
IT
I didn’t offer, but you took it anyway

I still wanted it - you didn’t care

You had no use for it - I did

I tried to get it back - I failed

You always knew I needed it -

That didn’t bother you

You saw the empty space it left

And looked the other way

You didn’t take good care of it

You let it gather dust

I had to watch it wither

And suffer your neglect

You are a rogue and vagabond

And have a humbling debt to pay

For what you did to it and me.

ljm
Probably not about what you think it is.
 Sep 2018 Busbar Dancer
Harsha
Atomic energy is a good thing contemplated the good scientist
But only for us good people to forget
Lincoln's, Hemingway's and Madame Curie's silent voices echoes from the sidewalk
Where people idly passes by; lost in tall low fat Frappuccino’s
Looking and hoping then ultimately wishing for a visit from Benjamin Franklin
Unwittingly employed by all the dead presidents
These days’ people know the price of everything
But the value of nothing
Makes me gallivant; my own memory warehouse
As I pose this question towards my own psyche;
What is the worst thing I have ever done?
In the name of personal achievement career elevation and prosperity
All everyone ever wants to be is successful rich and richer
Oppenheimer colleague put our modern society in to perfect perspective
Post detonation of the Trinity project - after the first nuclear test
When he gracefully quoted
"Now we are all son of *******"
post-detonation quote of Kenneth Bainbridge, the director of the Trinity project: “Now we are all sons of *******.” It is often put in contrast with J. Robert Oppenheimer’s more grandiose, more cryptic, “Now I am become death, destroyer of worlds.”
depression is often compared to falling down an endless hole.
but
it’s actually more like a hot air balloon,
launched by those who tell you to change.
change your looks, your personality
be yourself, they say
not like that, they say
you let them launch your balloon
believing they’re trying to help you fit in
and you watch them grow smaller
as you slowly rise into the atmosphere
until the oxygen grows as thin
as the strings holding together your sanity
and you panic and scratch at the balloon
trying to poke a hole, thinking only about descent,
and your fingertips begin to bleed
and your wrists are cut on the harsh nylon ropes
and you collect scars because you can’t collect your thoughts
and all you want to do is fall
so you jump
and as you’re falling, you feel good.
you feel free.
but as you plummet towards earth and you can see the ground you begin to regret and spread your arms, desperately flapping but it’s too
late
and you hit the floor with a sickening,
bone shattering
crunch
then you float back up to the sky that ended you
and you see
your family
friends
teachers, everybody who’s ever loved you and maybe even hated you feel the ripples of force as you hit the ground
and they scream and rush to your side
trying to help
trying to do what they tell themselves they would have done
if only they had known, if only you had told them
but you felt silly and invalidated and you didn’t want anybody to see
and you didn’t think they would have saved you
so you kept it in and stayed in your balloon until it was too much
the oxygen was running out
with your will to live
but those who are alive cry
tears falling as quickly as you did from the sky
hitting the ground with splashes nowhere near as loud as the crash
that cut your life short
running their fingers over the scars that you hid
the pain that you endured up there in the atmosphere, hidden among long sleeves and fluffy white clouds and fake smiles
and they wonder why they allowed
you to go up in the balloon in the first place
and they begin to blame
not each other, but themselves
and some launch balloons of their own
telling themselves that they’re just grieving,
just wanting to see what you did in your final moments
but their balloons spiral out of control and
they find themselves falling
just as you did
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