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 Aug 2020 Phil B
 Aug 2020 Phil B
Words from the maker,
we hardly could ever hear,

Bereft of love and attention,
we see the diminishing concern and care.

We still pour our hearts
into this bastion we’ve held so dear.

But, alas, the kingdom and subjects,
have fallen into neglect and disrepair.
When did HP become a broken shell, a faint ghost of what it once was?
 Aug 2020 Phil B
Sharon Ingar
Deep within
Under my skin
I am the worrier
You are the scar
Silent you are
I am the worrier
You are the scar.
 Aug 2020 Phil B
Star BG
I sing the blues
in the Key of C
for catastrophe…
with sharpen bow to self
if resolution isn’t found.

I sing the blues
in the key of D
for death
with tears as accompaniment
that stain face and heart.

I sing the blues
in the key of B
for begging
with hope someone will hear
to teach me a new song.

I sing I sing
with keys to see which door
will open for new beginning.

Singing competition begins
D and G (death to God)
 F and E (freedom inside  human existence)

What song will prevail?
Time will tell.
Inspired by Gideon Thank you
 Aug 2020 Phil B
Gary Cuming
 Aug 2020 Phil B
Gary Cuming
Life began,
as autumn fell,
And the leaves turned to ice on the pavement.
Shadows shortened,
The earth went stale
And cold darkness filled every moment

As summer arrived
And the earth turned bleak
Despair peppered the path laid before me
Water pelted the earth
And the leaves turned weak,
Littered corpses of love strewn beneath me

Lost and alone,
With a grimacing soul
Trading pieces of me with the seasons
Futures wasted on hate,
Dreams darkened in cold,
Winter ripping my mind of all reason

Night fled the sky
And the shadows retracted
Darkness left, to you standing above me
Empowering my hope,
With devotion requited
And a future that stretched far beyond me

Your hands were soft
And the warmth of your smile
Lit fires behind eyes that were lonely
Your taste and your touch
Stretched metres to miles
Giving love. Giving hope. Giving glory

All I wanted was you
All I hoped for was you,
Our lives are a journey together
From season to months
Your strength sees me through
With a love that will last til forever
 Apr 2020 Phil B
Nat Lipstadt
a woman comes to me at 2:20am,
from across the world, asking if I am that cool jew,
occupant/son of the unholy hours when death and crucifixion,
them two old friends, are waving temptation with both hands,
never mentioning heaven, offering .99 cents of sanitized compliments,
which for a fifth rate amateur writer is revolutionary,
as close as you will ever come to global recognition

that woman says, yes! you’re that insufferable fool whose
suffering keeps us awake when he should be sleeping in the
half-death state, in the unholy hours, only reporting back
what he has seen across the borderline, in these times
when a thousand-die-a-day daily from suffering
that is uniquely human, a wracking medieval torture,
granting those viral messengers, slow extra pleasure

be nice to yourself for a change, write ‘bout what they want,
broken love and suicide, mundane pain, keep it plain, short!
easy stuff that sells records, making you not whisper words
never meant to be shared, the language of the unholy hours,
a dialect unique, that Google can’t quite rightly translate,
for not every vision is substitutable, suitable, rated G for babies, so,
keep it short like a miserable life that needs a prophecy to complete

48 hours ago thought I was infected, a glide path to rocky moon-smooth,
a landing where words unique, taken away, sealing your mouth with
tubed oxygen that inhibits thinking, air that might **** all of you, not just pain, but what makes you unique, your own 10 commandments
of speech, the old testament, the source book of insight into whatever
makes your lungs breath in rhythmic to heart beating, and dying
discordant disrupts the gene sequencing of inhaling and exhaling

the editors and the critics overlooking, that sit on both shoulders,
are already complaining, no más, no más, no más!
suture that incision, close your mouth, the unholy hours
need a special silence, Ruth’s lips that move but go unheard,
make no mistake, we want to listen in, voyeurs of visions
but we need you broken, we need a break, from confronting
the repeatedly delayed, but undeniable, the clockwork orange
second coming of the ungodly hours

new york city of lips
inspired and spired  completely and totally by a mid-of-night conversation with a Lady From Manila 😉
 Apr 2020 Phil B
Glenn Currier
There is the ancient story of a shepherd boy
whose king outfitted him with armor
to ready him for the challenges of the day
and the boy could not walk
so he threw off the armor
picked up his sling
and tended his father’s flock
with peace and joy freely erupting in song.

My armor is not wealth or wit
I cannot make myself fit
into the current conventions and hype
trying to conform to the normal type
stops up the energies that yearn to flow
freely and gleefully and urge me to go
to the dawn, darkness, clouds and sun
to wrap myself in words that run
like sparkling streams
and windswept dreams.

Poetry is my armor for each day
where worries and problem allay
where I search my feelings and mind
for the word elixir loosening knots that bind.
This armor does not weigh me down
but frees me to my triggering town
where I find and create the poet me
and the landscape of my soul’s poetry.
My favorite book about writing poetry is one by Richard Hugo, Triggering Town where he says, “Your triggering subjects are those that ignite your need for words. When you are honest to your feel¬ings, that triggering town chooses you. Your words used your way will generate your meanings. Your obsessions lead you to your vocabulary. Your way of writing locates, even creates, your inner life. The relation of you to your language gains power. The relation of you to the triggering subject weakens.”
 Sep 2019 Phil B
Kyra Embers
You're the past I craved for.
The present I adore.
The future I want.
I love you.
It s better than anything I ve written so... Here goes.
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