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 May 2018 Mary-Eliz
L B
Yellow is
a high-minded mood
the extravagance of sunlight
to be touched--
before long
by colors of play
___

It is of hair
tendering golden sun
brown pennies for lemonade
__

Yellow is
bumping into the screaming end
of a lit
cigarette
___

Yellow is
dripping from the eaves
onto an empty soup can
___

It is
spindling sparrow song
from highest perch on roof
his pitch can aspire
___

Yellow is
in rattled doorknob
an infant's sweet
voice wanting – in
Reciting menu
above mattress
edges into sleep
two dark eyes
plead
for yellow
waking
Mother into morning--
“juice.... eggs”

Yellow  _
__
is
opening a car door
at the shore's
unmistakable!
Smells of life  
warmth and breeze
touching strings
those kites  
of sense
harmonics
above the tone
octaves of excitement
to see to hear to touch to taste
to know
again –

the ocean of my mother
as she calms the waves,
ignores the pouts of us
with stuff to lug out to the beach
the towels, pails and shovels
Picnic basket, cooler
lotion, comic books, her magazines

Mom looks out
She is a good swimmer
Her glasses, dark
Preside  
reflecting beauty –

“Take your sister's hand.”

Yellow are the squeals
Feet thrashing sand
of cannot wait
For my daughter, Phoebe and my mother.
 May 2018 Mary-Eliz
Lilly
What is pain

There is physical pain
The kind you feel when you fall
Or you crash your bike
Pain from being pushed
Pain from being hurt

There is mental pain
The kind from bullying
Or being forced to do something
Pain from being pushed
Pain from being hurt

"Are you okay?"
They ask
"Yes"
I say
While thinking no

Help me...hurt me...
Three letter difference

We are raised different
From each other
Yet we try to be each other

Who am I
I can't tell
I'm whoever you want me to be
I thought
You liked those kinds of girls

I was wrong
You like me
A sweet shy girl

You like me but you don't know me
And I don't know you
Thats why you didnt know
Why I couldn't say no

I didn't want it
I'm so sorry if I said I did
I wasn't ready

I want you now
I could take it now
I'm ready now
But I wasn't then

I'm sorry
If I lied
If I hurt you

Physically or mentally
Whats the difference
It's all pain
Sometimes one is so strong it's the other
I hurt you
You hurt me

Can we fix it
Can I fix it
Love me
I love you

You say you're happy
Happy you aren't hurting me more
I need to know why
Weren't we perfect
You were happy
I wasn't, but you were
Thats all that matters to me

Both of us happy
Thats new
We're new
How is life fair
To make both of us happy
Why must we hurt to get there
Hurt
Pain

Pain is everywhere
In everything
We are all in pain
Some more than others
It doesn't matter what kind of pain
Help
Help
Help
Happy
Happy
Happy

We will be happy
I will no longer be

In pain

--StoryMakerInProgress
 May 2018 Mary-Eliz
Lawrence Hall
We do not burn books in America
We just ignore them, for we light our nights
And burn away our individual souls
Upon an altar green, clean plastic grass

Come together as one unto the lights
The concept of the tablets now writ large
An electronic scoreboard – and if we’re good
We’ll see our snaggly grins all ten feet tall

Eighty-thousand dollars of education
Beaming civilization six nights each year
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com – it’s not really reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
 May 2018 Mary-Eliz
Rose
Do you remember when I was younger?
Do you remember when you would wash my hair because it was too long for me to do it myself?
Do you remember taking me to school in the morning and buying me breakfast on the way there?
Or maybe when we would go to yard sales on Saturday and you would buy me old prom dresses and costume jewelry for me to dress up in?
Do you remember when I developed separation anxiety and had to sleep with you every night?
Now, I wash my own hair because I cut the long lengths of it off.
Now, I take myself to school in the morning and buy myself breakfast on the way.
Now, I work on Saturdays to save up for my prom dress.
Now, I sleep alone, clinging to my pillow.
Now, I miss you more than ever before.
I miss when you had hair as long as mine.
I miss when you would do my makeup and tell me that I hardly needed any at all.
I miss when you would play outside with me.
I miss when you would rub my back and hold me, whispering that everything would be okay.
I miss when I had someone to talk to, someone to tell how my day went.
I miss your smile, the way your lips curled into thin lines and your gums showed.
I miss your eyes, the same deep dark chocolate brown as mine.
I miss your voice, the soft yet raspy one that would wake me up every morning.
I miss you, mom.
And I don’t think there will ever be a day when I don’t miss you.
Some days are harder than others.
Some days I can hardly function,
And others, I wake up as if there is nothing wrong.
But deep in my heart, there is a hole.
One that can never be filled.
It just slowly drips out loneliness,
And it makes me miss you more and more.
3-16-18
Right now I am
thinking in poetry

line breaks

word shapes

stack sounds in strange ways

Is this how it is meant to look?

Maybe it would look better
feel nicer
sound clearer
if i put in fewer spaces.

Do I want all punctuation?
Properly formatted sentences
can be difficult
to rhymatize.

Is rhymatize a word?
I think so.
Red squiggles underline.
Wait...
Google says no.
I still say yes.

Now I digress.
But does that work?
Should the flow of ideas be neatly outlined, or come freely as my thoughts?  Perhaps I should spill the words out all as one in unbroken strings of color and thought the way they feel in my head unsaid
occasional rhymes and occasional beats and breaks keep changing

is this poetry?

Do
random line breaks
really take
prose
and
make it poetic
or
do
I
need to do actual
work
and find a form and stick with it?

For now today
I'll lilt and play
around.

Every poem a new experiment, another chance to try something new.

To play with rhythm, feelings, and sounds, to meticulously arrange language into a perfect unbroken form,

Or to simply see where the thoughts take me.
Should my real point be what is said, or how I
am saying it?

Sometimes the saying itself is the point.
Now for something really, really experimental.  I didn't really know how this would end up when I started writing it.

For this summer, I've made a commitment to draft a poem every day if at all possible.  I've done it three days in a row now (though I haven't edited or published the other poems yet) and I thank everyone who reads any of my work most deeply.  It really boosts my motivation to keep going, so by simply reading and especially by giving feedback you really help me to keep trying and ultimately to get better.  So thank you ever so much.
Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?
Problems only We True Artists face.
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