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 Mar 2018 Lyda M Sourne
Morgan
What is your escape?

Maybe it is writing all the words out on a page
The ones that haunt your thoughts
And hurt too much to say out loud

Maybe it is drawing your dreams on a canvas
Taking the faces and monsters from inside
And letting them escape with the flick of a brush

Maybe it is running far away from your reality
Feeling the sweat drip down your face
As you leave everything that once was, behind

Maybe it is singing all your hearts desires
Hearing the notes take on a life of their own
As they drown out all of your worries

Maybe it is dancing to the beat of your own drum
Feeling your body tell its own story
And changing the ending so it is yours

This world is full of
Hate, rage, dishonesty, and prejudice
Just to name a few

But it is also full of
Love, kindness, hope, and respect
Too

The world has its’ own reality
And it is up to you to decide
If the worlds’ reality will be yours too

Everyone needs to escape from the world
Taking the time to think about no one
But yourself

Is it selfish?
Yes but in order to show compassion
One must first learn to be selfish for the right reasons


So take the time to love yourself
So you can learn to love other people too
And tell me

What is your escape?
Just a thought I had while in English class today. I don't know what I would do if I didn't have an escape. I hope it is the same for all of you too.
I am a lonely book
On a dusty shelf
I am full of stories
Patiently waiting for a reader
To hang on every word
Read every line
Get lost between the pages
In my spine
 Mar 2018 Lyda M Sourne
CA Smith
"The tallest poplar I'll grow to be,"
said the young tree.

"Standing above the rest,
I'll be crowned the best.
Fortified and grown,
the forest will be mine to rule alone."

Ripped from the roots,
and cut down by a man in boots,
the dreams quickly faded.
"There's not much to make of me now"
Thought the tree,
whose complexion quickly changed
from wide-eyed to jaded.

Hauled onto a truck  
Off he went.
To the lumberyard,
the young tree was sent.

Chopped to pieces,
stripped of his bark.
Our young poplar was afraid his life,
would never leave a mark.

"Some wooden crates they'll make of me"
"The peaks of the other trees I'll never see"

"I'm useless, I'm broken"
"In the forest my name will never be spoken"

The story doesn't end though,
it's only just begun.
For the life of this tree,
is one that's not yet done.

The lumber was chopped, cut, and carried.
To a town of a man named Jack,
who was poor but newly married.

"I've got little money, but I make good shoes"
"I've got to take care of my wife, I've nothing left to lose"

"I'll open a store, and become a cobbler"
"And with the money I make, I'll buy my family something proper."

So Jack took his life savings.
And off he went, to open a store,
To make enough money to pay the rent.

Our poplar was still together,
chopped into many pieces.
Next to some hardware supplies,
and a vendor selling fleeces.

"I'll take that lumber, it'll do the job."
"Just take my money, and I'll be along"

Years passed by as Jack labored hard.
A few kids came along, a house, and a fenced in yard.

One day a special man came to town.
Not the type of man that you see every day,
for this man wore a royal crown.

"Wooden clogs I need for my feet"
"To keep them dry as I walk along the damp street"

A chance to make shoes for a king,
this was enough to make Jack sing.

He looked through his supplies,
they weren't enough.
To build shoes fit for a king,
would be quite tough.

"I have just the wood, "
he thought to himself.
"From when I first built my shop,
there is some left on the top shelf.

So he took the remaining scraps,
and he made new shoes.
Shoes for royalty,
clogs fit for a man more special than me.

And now our poplar finally got his chance.
To join in the royal dance.
And on the king's feet he stays.
Helping him rule the land for the rest of his days.

So, if you find yourself cut down before you grow.
Just remember, and make sure you know.
Your chance will come, sooner or later.
To become a part of something greater.
 Mar 2018 Lyda M Sourne
atr
Amidst the smoke and light and laughter
Along the smiles and cheers thereafter

A sound is bled, wrung free from strings
It bounds and treads and wholly sings
Inside each song, a secret’s moved
Not right nor wrong or frequent proved
The message dances from bow to ear;
A coded trance of love and fear
From left to right the story rings
Of death and light the Cello brings
The covert tale engulfs the room
It vibrates truth to those who loom
The Cello knows for why it’s played
Its secret lost, both gone and stayed

In the smoke and light and laughter
Music lies and cries thereafter
There is no more painful love
than unrequited love
A heart that is open
pouring out to another
but an empty space
like a vacuum
with nothing in return

Like giving a gift
‘Tis better to give than receive
And the heart offers freely
all of its wonderful presents

Free of expectations
when truly filled with love
It blindly releases itself to another
With a simple creed
‘I am for you’

Like the wall of a dam
suddenly letting go
A deluge of emotions
Thoughtful, interest, caring, warmth, love
A flowing waterfall
of Niagara proportions

However, without intention

which goes without saying
since the truer the love
the blinder it be

The vacated space
creates a sudden vacuum
A sharp, deep pit left
where once all of itself was housed

For a brief time
the heart is unaware
still glowing in the warmth
from the happiness and joy
of the love it gives

But slowly the glow fades
And the presence of the empty space
becomes more obvious
and apparent

A coldness sets in
An addict looking for a fix
The heart desperately seeks
in return what it has given

Never intending to give with strings
but so it finds itself
now tied to another
with the strongest of bonds

The intense fulfilling feeling
once experienced
Replaced with anguish,
longing, loneliness and pain

The mind and heart begin
an epic civil war
Feeling the torment
and seeing the destruction
the mind invokes all its resources
to break the bonds
the heart has created

But with hope that is
almost sad and pitiful
the heart refuses to let go
So sure of the ties it made
And fighting back with all
of its might to defeat
any attempt
the mind has
to remove the bonds of love

A man at war with himself
will find himself at war with others
And so, the inner conflict
resonates outwardly
displayed aptly with defiance
and destruction

Like a pebble in a pond
each action creates ripples
Slowly at first
but then with exponential speed
a life is destroyed
leaving only a broken
and beaten shell

And after all the destruction
and loss
All of the pain and suffering
The tears and sorrow
At this moment
standing on a pile
of nothing but debris
The mind,
with a sense of arrogance
and certainty,
confronts the heart
and pointedly asks,
“Do you see now?!
Do you see the
error of your ways??
Look what it has cost us!
Do you see the
mistake you’ve made?!”

Without hesitation or waiver
the heart responds
with a steady certainty
that is calm and cool in nature,
“No. Love is a risky venture.
One always, ‘takes a chance at love’.
But I will not admit
fault for trying.
When I love
I love freely and openly
I offer all of myself
without expectations
It’s only when you get involved
and create conflict within
that we have problems
To love is to love
It brings joy and happiness within itself
If it is not returned
then it is not returned
but an open and loving heart
can not feel emptiness and pain for it is filled with love
And there is no greater reward
than finding that love in another
and having another
find that love
in you
Written: March 4, 2018

All rights reserved
In midst of our childhood,
When I found you,
You were devilish of all,
With child-like evilness,
but being purest of all,

For you hold a candid heart
beneath your devious sheath,
Always looking to outsmart
With your crooked teeth,

For even today, squabbling and quarrels are not unorthodox,
And have become our natural crosswalk,
Tell me, have you been more of a rival or a friend?
Hard to comprehend,

For what is evil in you is good in me,
And what is evil in me is good in you,
Though we are holding on a same anchor,
Still, we are being of different color,

For which I remember, grade 4 being the preface and spring of our friendship,
And grade 5 of our common infatuation,
Then, innocence ceases never to outstrip,
And you never ceases to being reasons of my irritation,

For you who is unnoticed season
Always laugh without any reason,
For you who is a lost star in a boundless space
Longing for an arms to embrace,

For you who knows my zenith, also knows my nadir.
 Mar 2018 Lyda M Sourne
Nora R
Slouching at a dusty table
By the company of a candles light
There is a lonely writer
But he has no words to write

Plots and characters in his mind
Seem to escape his fingertips
Most likely they were washed away
By the whiskey on his lips

In the dim room he stays
Staring into space
The paper waiting in his typewriter
As blank as the expression on his face

He sits and smokes
Upon his withering cigar
While he weeps inside his head
Wondering where the words are
Is a poem
also a short story
but in a language
of a different complexion
about life
in every unique facet
and phase
its mystery, poignancy
its joys and tears
its sorrows and tragedy?

Every poem then
is a plot
the poet charts
his territory
where man looks
at himself, at others
at the world and universe
in awe and wonder
in fear and terror
in clarity or ambiguity-
the human heart
he explores
nothing escapes
his unflinching scrutiny-

verily
a poem
is a short story.
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