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It was my birthday,
Sixty Five years turned to grey hair.
My love and I, and two old school
friends on a breezy Fall day.

Over Tea and a lovely frosted
three layer cake, we cajoled
and joked about our age,
all turned senior citizens that year.
And yet in truth, we all agreed,
none of us had ever been as happy as then.

The cake was sliced onto china plates,
Each piece served flat on it's cut side.
I noticed something then as we all
took our first bites.

Our forks all started at the thinnest corner,
on the bottom layer's side, gradually
excavating the two lower levels of fluffy
cake, saving the best for last, the top layer
where all the sweet frosting remained.

It occurred to me then that indeed life
is like a three layer cake, the last top layer
can indeed contain the sweetest bites.
That rather than gobbling life hurriedly whole
it should be savored more like patiently eating
and enjoying a three layer cake.
It is not my birthday today but thanks
to those of you nice people for the good
BD wishes. It relates to everyone's aging.
More of a metaphorical assessment of
a universal theme. Actually, I'm a Taurus.
(If you know your signs, perhaps that explains
a lot about me.) :-) And sadly I'm well past
being 65.
 Oct 2016 Nitsua Asemed
Stephan

I draped you in passion,
found hope in your eyes
In a weathering fashion
neath October skies

When life once was showers,
love hidden from view
I collected the flowers
and gave them to you

In echoes I’ve listened,
alone in the shade
Where sunlight does glisten
on dreams now displayed

Today I stand weaving
this threaded design
Of smiles believing,
you’ll always be mine
 Sep 2016 Nitsua Asemed
Banana
You like me better when I'm high,
I like you best when you lie;
I guess that's why we're friends.
#high #lie #like #friends #fake
 Sep 2016 Nitsua Asemed
Sofia
I suppose if the arts had any real power
Michaelangelo's David could have healed my brother
Rimbaud could have saved Hiroshima
Monet could have painted the world in shades of peace
Desiderata could have protected me
But this is the real world
And where poetry once grew comes the art of fabrication
Dali's obras are no longer enough to make me forget
Moonlight Sonata never warned me of this hurt
The waltz never healed a broken family

I suppose if the arts had any real power
Beethoven wouldn't have gone deaf
Van Gogh would have been happy
Hemingway would have loved better
And Ginsberg wouldn't have been afraid to love

Yet here they all are
When the only light I see is on hundred year old canvas
When the only solace I have is a dead man's words
When the only thing that keeps my heart thundering
Is the promise of a Boticelli ending in Picasso figures
All colors, beauty, light and metaphors
The promise of a Renaissance gleaming in the ashes of prose

This is the real world
I suppose if the arts had any real power
It would heal more than just my heart
It would build me a new Garden of Eden
And I'd pave a way to nirvana
So the world could join hands
And start anew

But it's saved me for now
That is enough.
Magic comes from the hearts of curiosity.
The “what ifs” of the peoples soul.
Magic is the place where hope originates.
The“some how”,
The some way,
The defying the odds,
The impossible,
Or maybe,
It comes from the foolish
The illusion.
The lies,
The ignorance.
Perhaps magic comes from the fools within us.
The spin of the tables,
The rabbits that never came out of the hat.
The people who weren’t ever that noticed,
So they decided to make a coin appear from behind your ear
Just to make them ask
“how?”
So we could feel human again.
So we could get up on stage,
Take a huge bow,
And receive the applause we never received.
Maybe magic comes not from good intentions,
But a sinister plot to rule the world,
One trick at a time.
What if magic was the reality the wanderers hoped for.
Could we be living our lives wrong?
Magic being real,
And reality being fake,
Mirrors as lies,
The snake being god.
And our lives
An entire simulation.
Just magic
Right?
I am the moment before the sun
I am the light you see on a dark moon
I am the eye of a typhoon

I taught the birds to fly
I taught the child to ask why
Who am I

I put the steps into caterpillars
Showed the leaves how to fall
Tore down every wall

I ran with the Buffalo
Dove with the whales
Know who I am then do tell

I am the dirt beneath your feet
The sky so tall
I am the fly upon your wall

I am the ache in your head
The pain in your heart
I know when to end  , when to start

Who am I

— The End —