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 Jun 2016 Justin G
Breeze-Mist
Fire
 Jun 2016 Justin G
Breeze-Mist
I burn
Sending light to the sky
Warming and burning
Those who pass by

I blaze
Devouring my fuel
Both a force of nature
And man's tool

I simmer
My coals leave a path
Those who don't think
Will suffer my wrath

I flicker
Sending out rays of light
Cooking and torches
Remind men of my might
 Jun 2016 Justin G
Mike Essig
We still meet
as friends
in rooms, but
not the home
we shared for
thirty years.
My sadness
is not for
what we lost.
My sadness
is for what we
might have been
and won’t.

mce
 Jun 2016 Justin G
Mike Essig
A poet writes
what he writes;
the reader reads
what she reads.
The real poem,
the poem
of the mind,
exists when
the two collide
and belongs -
exclusively
- to both
and neither
of them.

mce
 Jun 2016 Justin G
Mike Essig
This morning,
I saw a bird
that doesn’t exist.
It vibrated one
pregnant instant
in my fluttering head
and vanished;
by far the loveliest
I have never seen.

mce
 Jun 2016 Justin G
Mike Essig
Seat a great philosopher,
mathematician, physicist,
and theologian at a table
at a swank outdoor cafe.
Have a lovely, graceful woman
approach to take their orders.
I can tell you exactly
what they are not thinking.
They are not thinking about
Physics, Math, Philosophy or Theology.
Big issues expire in the face of beauty.

mce
...
That lonely tree Jarul(জারুল)
Standing as a witness of the century
In the crop less **** field
Near to his feet
New tidal waves come down
at the young Hari(হরি) River
Leaving the impression of simplicity
On her outskirts
Life mingled with the distant cemetery
Afar in the bend of dream
without boatman a lonely boat
Maybe waiting for someone
who is attracted by
the downstream song
.....
@Musfiq us shaleheen
....
Share your Comments...
....
 Jun 2016 Justin G
David Adamson
Forgetting is the only clarity.*

It was a day of forgetting.
No unquiet dreams or
casual reunions with the dead
who wander the halls of sleep,
the bodies of someone else’s loss.
No ghosts in the gazebo.
No echoes in the fading light.

Exiting sleep’s empty waiting room,
She woke. Blue sky blinked into her eyes.  
The room’s climate began to clear.
There was writing on the wall.
Old fragments came to closure.
The windows slowly turned to mirrors.

She fiddled. She soared.  
She played with her ancestors’ building blocks.
She lent a myth to god.
She stood in a garden with five black stones.
She foretold an eclipse,
Burned the witch of winter,
Stepped in the same river twice.

The moment froze.
Then there it was.
The compound inviolate paradox
at the heart of things,
the answer flickering in light and shade,
to the sound of a child’s voice,
then the roaring wind.
She chuckled as it faded to a point of light
then vanished, like the picture on an old TV,
Like the moon shrinking into the alarm clock’s face.

Her breath brewed clouds above her forehead.
She sat aloof in the empty air,
Alone in the immense morning,
At rest in this inviolable disconnection,
the clear cold innocence of now.
Lucid dreaming is the doorway
        to the unconscious.
So dream.
Do not stay closed
        behind cement barricades
        blocking the moon
        from shining.
Live.
Each second is for you.
The tumbling of life
         does not promise
            anything.
In one breath
you can have
        a time table
        handed to you.
A distinct framework
        of how much
        longer you shall be.
Stay in illusion.
Keep in mind
that very little
is worthy of
being screamed about.
Politics
        and
people games
        are not
         the substance
        of existing.
Picture colourful images
         that flutter
          playfully
            across the
           mental horizon.
A traffic light
      will
       blink
red, yellow, green.
A noise
        will dominate
         the shading sky.
These mean nothing.
Moments of distraction
        soon
         gone away.
Focus on fantasy.
Allow yourself
the freedom to
         celebrate
        the essence
        of harmony.
When you die,
       it will be
         your dreams
         that are
          remembered.
Breathe.
It's just
      a bad day,
      not a bad life.
 Jun 2016 Justin G
David Adamson
The table was set.
The morning was fine.
The world lay reflected
in two glasses of wine.

An empty plate
reflected sunshine,
The morning compressed
in two glasses of wine.

What did she see
in undulations of wine?
Were the shapes a portent?
Was there a design?

Were the glasses a mirror
or shadowy sign?
Perhaps they were more
than just glasses of wine.

She and a friend
sat down to dine.
Their reflections drank deeply
from two glasses of wine.
This was inspired by a gorgeous photo that I wish I could post on HP.
Here's the link on Instagram.
https://www.instagram.com/p/BGgWsniDIxR/?taken-by=candacesmithphoto
Dead heads stare from the wall

one can't tell if their glassy eyes
hold the relics of past life
or the sadness of having lost it
to the fires of royal pastime

tiger eyes look pathetically pleading
for re-stitching the stripes on the bones
leopard head growls only in anguish
of his spots being soft spot for target
the open jaws of the croc
can't still swallow the stuck bullet
awed eyes of deer is yet to sense
the muzzle that ruptured its innocence
the jackals, birds, langurs, civets
all frozen in the suddenness of the ***** out.

The hunter's head peeps from a dusty frame
having got his place of pride
among his game.
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