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 Apr 2016 Leaetta May
Morgan
I'm rain
but not the kind of rain
people drink coffee and stare at
from studio apartment windows
and under pretty white gazebos ,

I'm rain
but not the kind of rain
that falls soft at first,
and then harder,
and then soft again,

I'm rain
but not the kind of rain
that smells sweet
and makes flowers grow
in the spring time,

I'm rain
but not the kind of rain
that collects in pretty puddles
in the pavement
so that toddlers in rubber boots
can jump in and splash
their parents,

I'm rain
but not the kind of rain
that lulls crying teenagers
to sleep in their warm beds
or makes lovers miss one an other,

I'm rain
but not the kind of rain
people watch and listen to
with gentle acceptance,

I'm the kind of rain
that falls fast and hard,

the kind of rain that is cold
and hurts sun burnt shoulders
when it hits them,

the kind of rain that washes
pretty chalk paintings off of
drive ways in suburbs
without a second thought,

the kind of rain that
seeps through ceiling tiles
turning cozy little homes into
chaotic whirlwinds of
anxiety and destruction,

the kind of rain that
makes your joints ache
and your eyes red,

the kind of rain that
gets the kids out of the pool
and sprinting inside,
cold, wet, and uncomfortable,

the kind of rain that
washes leafs into
your gutters,

you curse it all week long,

the kind of rain that
only wanted to touch the earth,

to feel some semblance of warmth,

but the kind of rain that
doesn't know how to
leave the thunder at home,

the kind of rain who
breaks the things
it loves,
no matter how
hard it tries to be
gentle...
 Apr 2016 Leaetta May
Bill Higham
This is the flower
Which you lay upon,
And this is the vase
Which I put it in,
These are my thoughts for tomorrow,
Here are your clothes,
Take them.

This is the tree
Of the winter leaf,
And this the train
That won't stand still,
These are my fingers bitterly cold,
Here is your heart,
Thankyou.

This is the castle,
And this the rock,
This is the river
That can't be crossed,
This is a jar and there are the tears,
Here is a clock
To count the years.

This is a picture,
And there's the sun,
This is a pillow
To pray upon,
These are the stones that cross the sea,
There is your future,
Leave.
Am I changing my mind
Am I thinking of the greater good
A vague being that's moving in motions
aware of my own dread and lack of purpose
It's like I'm dissolved and shapeless
I've always wanted to learn French
I want to go to Canada and
leave the American dream to contort
Sleepy all the time
My crystal ball's so cloudy
Shedding into nothingness
It's like I'm disappearing
I can't articulate my emotions
I can't tell what I'm feeling
I'm staring through myself
a black hole in the mirror
Every thought ending in periods
thinking in absolution's
The brightest smile of the day
Is early morning sunshine

                                            By Phil Roberts
That neighbor of yours is a sunflower stealer,
No doubt about it,
And I think they made a grave mistake,
Picking flowers like that,
Because they missed the most beautiful one of them all,
You know,
Because when they picked them, they let you go.
Part of a poem booklet I made for my friend's birthday.
O lovely chance, what can I do
To give my gratefulness to you?
You rise between myself and me
With a wise persistency;
I would have broken body and soul,
But by your grace, still I am whole.
Many a thing you did to save me,
Many a holy gift you gave me,
Music and friends and happy love
More than my dearest dreaming of;
And now in this wide twilight hour
With earth and heaven a dark, blue flower,
In a humble mood I bless
Your wisdom—and your waywardness.
You brought me even here, where I
Live on a hill against the sky
And look on mountains and the sea
And a thin white moon in the pepper tree.
Now that I've lived all these years
And experienced so many things
With my march to Oldfartdom
On it's inexorable way
I've been thinking about the things I've learned
Perhaps to pass on to others

Well.......
It's like this
Life is wonderful
And life is ******
Love is elating
Love is devastating
Birth is a true miracle
Being a parent is scary
Money is a blessing
Whilst wealth is a curse
So......
What do I know?

                              By Phil Roberts
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