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 Jul 2020 - Alice Liddle
 Jul 2020 - Alice Liddle
Who ever thought
I’d be wishing for a flashback
 Jul 2018 - Alice Liddle

The tears of a rose
Will soak and stain
They're from her heart
They're stored up rain

They come from heaven
To flow down thorns
They sing in screams
From her lips torn

They can be acid
To burn the bloom
They can be crystal
Reflecting moons

The rose will open
In dead of night
The tears from petals
Refract the light

They cascade down
Drop from the leaves
For her soul
She sits and grieves

For her soul
The drops fall down
They feed her roots
Under the ground

They bring her back
The legend goes
There's healing in

Tears of a rose

(C) 10/3/2017
I was talking to a friend this evening. Praying with her. She just endured a tremendous life setback. Said she couldn't stop crying. This metaphor came to my mind. This poem is for my dear friend. It is my sincerest hope that it brings healing.

I'm really sorry i haven't been reading. I have excellent reasons, of which some of you are aware. I just don't want you to think that I don't care. I do. I just have a lot on my plate. Thanks for understanding.

does the moon get tired?

~for the children who never tire of moon gazing upon the dock,
by the light of the fireflies,
till the angels are dispatched by Nana,
to sprinkle sleepy dust in their eyelashes so long and fine~

while walking the dog I no longer have,
a happenstance glanceable up over the River East,
there you were, mr. moon, in all your fulsomeness ,
surrounded by a potpourri of courtier clouds,
all deferentially bowing, waving,
passing past you at a demure royal speed on their way
to Rebecca's northern London,
of was it south to grace of  v V v's Texas^,
in any event,
the cloudy ladies, all bustling and curvaceous,  
all high stepping in recognition of your exalted place,
Master of the Night Sky

the word careless, poets excessive,
sometimes called silly poppies, old men,
left footed, still crazy after many years,
most assuredly poets false all of us,
without a proper prior organized thought train,
bludgeon blurted,
an inquiry preposterous and strange,
strait directed to the sombre face,
to mister moon himself!

tell me moon, do you ever tire?*

the obeisant clouds shocked
as that face we all uniform know,
unchanged anywhere you might go  to gaze, be looking upon it,
watched the moon's face turn askew.

He looking down at our rude puzzlement,
with a Most Parisian askance,
a look of French ahem moustacheoed disbelief,
while we watched as the moon cherubic cheeks
filled with airy atmosphere,
then he sighed

so windy winding, was it,
so mountain high and river deep,
that those chubby clouds were blown off course,
from a starless NYC sky
all the way past Victoria Station,
only to stop at Pradip and Bala's
mysterious land of
bolly-dancing India,
on their way to Sally's Bay of Manila,
magic places all!

Mr. Moon looked down at this one tremulous fool representative  
(me) and in a voice
basso beaming and starry sonorous,
befitting its stellar positioning,
squinting to get a closer look at the
who in whom
dare address him in such an emboldened manner!

Mmmmm, recognize you, you are among those
who use my presence, steal my lighted beams, my silver aura,
my supermoon powered light, borrow my eclipses,
reveal my changeling shaped mystery without permission,
only mine to give, you tiny borrowers who write that thing,
p o e t r y

head and kneed, bowed and bent,
I confessed
(on y'alls behalf)

we take your luminosity and don't spare you
even a tuppence, a lonely rupee, no royalties paid
to you-up-so-highness,
and we hereby apologize for all the poets
without exception,
especially those moon besotted,
only love poem writing,
vraiment misbegotten scoundrels....

with another sigh equality powerful,
mr moon pushed those clouds across the Pacifica,
all the way to the  US's West Coast,
up to Colorado,
where moon-takings from the lake's reflecting light
so perfect for rhyming, kayaking,
and moonlight overthrowing,
once more, the moon taken and begotten,
as heaven- freely-granted

yes, I tire
and though  here I am much beloved,
usually admired though sometimes even blackened cursed,
seen in every school child's drawing,
in Nasa's calculations,
of my influential gravitational pull,
moving human hearts
to love and giving Leonard a musical compositional hint,
and while this admirable devotion is most delighting,
would it upset some vast eternal plan,
if but one of you once asked,
you fiddler scribblers
my prior permission,
even by just, a lowly
mesmerizing evening tide's tenderizing glance?

yes, I tire,
even though my cycles are variable,
my shape shifting unique, my names so at variance
in all your many musical sing-song dialectical languages,
my sway, my tidal currents so powerful a deterrence,
unlike my boring older sunny cousine  who just cannot get over
how hot looking she is,
I,  so more personally interesting,
yet you use me as if I were a fixture,
on and off with
a tug of the chain string,
never failing to appear,
even when feeling pale yellow and orange wan,
and worse,
mocked as an amore pizza pie,
do you ever ask how I am doing?

yes, I tire,
of my constant circuitous route that changes ever so slowly,
but yet, too fast for me to make some nice human acquaintances, especially those young adoring children
who give me their morn pleasurable squeals when they awake and my presence still there,
a shining ghost of a guardianship protector still
watching over them

how oft in life do we presume,
take for granted
grants so extra-ordinary
that we forget to remember
the extra
and see only the ordinary

how oft in life do we assume,
the every day is always every,
until it is not,
only an only
a now and then,
till then,
is no longer a

oh moon, oh moon,
our richest apologies
we hereby tender and surrender,
our arrogance beyond belief,
what can we offer in relief?

silence heard loud and clear,
mr. moon was gone,
a satellite in motion,
so our words burnt up in the atmosphere

we did not weep
nor huff and puff,
blow those clouds back to us,
for we knew
the extraordinary
would return tomorrow,
we will be ready,
better another day,
to prepare
a lunar composition,
a psalm of hallelujah praise,
for mr. moon
of which
mr moon will never tire,
for filled with the perma-warmth
of our affection
for the one we call mr.moon
False Poets is a collective of different poets who write here, in a single voice,
hence the confusing interchangeable switching of the pronouns.    sorry bout that.

^ HP - give them back the claimed  V name!
 Oct 2017 - Alice Liddle
There is a certain Beauty in Brokenness
And Purpose in Pain.
Everything we were can be reduced to an incomplete kiss. We had the chemistry, but not the formula. We had the moment but it was taken by a blink of my eyes. We had our lips begging, but for different touches.

We had the perfect picture, but our idea of gradient was not the same, my was composed by different yellow tons and you simply can’t stand this color.  

Maybe this one fact could explain all that situation. I’m too much yellow to your color palette. I’m the color that gives you vertigo while you…

You were the mix of my favorite colors.
Now all I can see is gray.
You're my heroes
you showed me that I'm strong
even when put down,
or when I'm hurt or wrong
You're brave,
risking your life in order to save
13 weeks of hell
blood, horror and flack jackets
an honored purple heart
you helped me come out of my shell
I'm proud to call you my family
my relatives, my blood.
going through a calamity
from Paris Island Soldiers to Vietnam Vets
You're Marines.

One day I'll stand in my dress blues
proudly walk through the door
fresh out the corp

I'll have stories for my children,
and I'll watch the military channel with my dad

but first I'll disregard death staring me in the face
and the sudden urge run
and I'll put up gun
and aim for the dream
of being an American Marine.
Remake of my other Marine Poem
 Sep 2017 - Alice Liddle
You're a dream
That crawled into my bed
And never came true

You're a laugh
          About to burst into tears

What you are
          Is vague
                And beautiful
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