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 Sep 9 LL
Luyanda
I stood there
alone,
as I was before you—
and now,
after you.
 Sep 1 LL
Kalliope
I climb mountains
Camping along the way
Taking my time
Planning the play

Sometimes its hours
Maybe even weeks
Stuck in one spot
Cloud gazing from sheets

Taking these breaks
Barely even deserved
Numb in many ways
Unable to find words

Then realization hits
And its the part that kills
I've been stalling all this time
Just to walk over hills
I overpack for everything
 Sep 1 LL
Zywa
Exactly the same

people walk the same circles --


on the holiday.
Novel "Kind tussen vier vrouwen" ("Child between four women", 1972, Simon Vestdijk, written in 1933)

Collection "Inmost"
 Sep 1 LL
Kiki Dresden
Infidelity (noun) \ ˌin-fə-ˈdel-ət-ē \
Betrayal of a vow. Or whispered otherwise, the first time Coyote tasted the salt of my wrist, when lightning seemed to have waited to arrive. Grandmother would call it shadow-marriage, the reminder that paper rings and courthouse oaths cannot bind the spirit. It flowers soft and fragrant, sweet as mesquite after rain.

Myth (noun) \ ˈmith \
A traditional story, especially one natural or social phenomena. Or in another tongue, to be called Inanna while pulling my hair back, as if the goddess herself had crawled from shadow to breathe on his neck. I laugh because I’m no goddess- just a woman with cracked nails and unpaid bills. Still, myth enters flesh like fever, and we burn until the walls drip with story.

Body (noun) \ ˈbä-dē \
The physical vessel. Or in broken voice, the altar on which every promise is tested. My body knows what paper cannot: the way desire bruises, the way grief leaves its thumbprint. Flesh remembers long after the mind has lied itself clean.

Eros (noun) \ ˈer-ˌäs \
Passionate love. Or named differently, a hunger that follows, like a stray through desert parking lots, its tongue bright with need. Eros offers scraps, sometimes nothing, and still I remain, hollow with wanting, certain one day I will eat from his palm. He is no child, he comes like a jackal-god- wild, luminous, not easily bound.

Pulchritude (noun) \ ˈpəl-krə-ˌtüd \
Beauty. Or carried on another breath, the ache. I see him sketching a body not mine, tracing hips that could belong to any girl at the bus stop. I know beauty is a weapon sharpened against me. Still, in his eyes I find fragments- cheekbones my father gave me, hair dark as my mother’s shame- briefly holy, before the mirror cuts again.

Unravel (verb) \ ˌən-ˈra-vəl \
To come undone. Or in another telling, the way every thread between us shivers like a web in prairie wind- fragile, trembling, already near to breaking. Spider Grandmother whispers that love weaves and unweaves in the same breath. The art lies in knowing when to let the strands snap, and when to hold fast, even as your hands begin to bleed.
 Sep 1 LL
Heart hacker
There are stories in my chest
no one has read—
pages inked with tears,
and words pressed down so hard
the paper almost tore.
I’ve smiled in rooms
where my soul was breaking,
nodded to questions
while my heart screamed answers
no one would understand.
Yet here I am—
not because the road was kind,
but because I kept walking
even when my steps
felt heavier than the sky.

Some days,
my strength is just breathing.
Other days,
it’s daring to dream again.

And through it all,
my heart still beats—
a quiet rebellion
against everything
that tried to silence it. 🫀
 Aug 28 LL
Zywa
When you come back I'll

share with you my sorrow, which --


will then be over.
Film "Avaz-e bughalamun" ("Turkey song") / "Une langue universelle" ("Universal language"), 2024, Matthew Rankin  (Iranian song)

Collection "Em Brace"
 Aug 28 LL
Zywa
Yes, I fantasise

here, by the sea, about men --


wearing a good suit.
Collection "Blown sand"
The trees have kept some lingering sun in their branches,
Veiled like a woman, evoking another time,
The twilight passes, weeping. My fingers climb,
Trembling, provocative, the line of your haunches.

My ingenious fingers wait when they have found
The petal flesh beneath the robe they part.
How curious, complex, the touch, this subtle art–
As the dream of fragrance, the miracle of sound.

I follow slowly the graceful contours of your hips,
The curves of your shoulders, your neck, your unappeased *******.
In your white voluptuousness my desire rests,
Swooning, refusing itself the kisses of your lips.
 Aug 23 LL
Thomas W Case
There is a beauty that
comes from walking a
clover laden field, or a
path in the woods and feeling
the autumn breeze and
smelling the wildflowers.
You are so alive.
There is an aching pain
as sharp and vivid as the
beauty, some knowledge in the
fiber of your spirit, that you
won't hold it forever.

Death walks with you silently.
It bides the times...so patient.

You are aware, so keen to
the fact that if you could
consume the beauty, the
honeysuckle, clover and brilliant
orange and pink of the sunset,
you might put death off for a while.
You do it in the heartbeat of your
sweet green youth, and you
keep walking, eyes wide open.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VsFfqF7Cuhc
Here is a link to my you tube channel where I read from my recently published books, Sleep Always Calls, It's Just a Hop, Skip, and a Jump to the Madhouse and Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems.  They are all available on Amazon
 Aug 20 LL
Yonah Jeong
Until now, no one—
parents
wife
children
friends
brothers and sisters
relatives
colleagues—
no one has ever called my name
in their sleep.
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