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BÜG Dec 2015
My Dear,
in all of your years
you have let the pain make you hard.
but it was deep within
the cracks of your skin,
that I found Your love
  Nov 2015 BÜG
J Valle
Dear mamma,
Can't you see? That I'm a mess over here.
That I keep crying everyday, for that boy who broke my heart.

Dear mamma,
Can't you see? That my lungs long to be free.
That I keep words I shouldn't say, and it is killing me inside.

Dear mamma,
Can't you see? That your words are what makes me bleed.
That this scars are part of me.

Dear mamma,
Can't you see? It is not my fault, that's who I'm meant to be.
That it breakes my heart to know, a grandchild I will never give.

Dear mamma,
Can't you see? The way you stare, makes me scared, I know I'm a wreck but I'll be best.

Hush mamma,
Let me speak, I am terrified of being here.
That what is yet to come, terrifies me to my bones.

Dear mamma,
Can't you see? That I can see, how much you wish I wasn't me.

Dear mamma,
Please forgive, I know I am a mess but I'll come clean.
  Nov 2015 BÜG
A tragic tradition from times long past
Weak of wit and hard of heart
Thus pawns are born and
Circumstance plays its part

Here we stand again, aghast
Alas, what evil has come to pass!
Questions burn, anger rises
Vengeance brews on the horizon

The world has turned for years and years
On violence and wars, and bitter tears
You build - they break, you smile - they’re fake
Injustice reigns in misfortune’s wake
Struggle for some, victory for others
Caps are waved with fair-weather feathers

Who are they, who are we?
Who is safe, who is free?
Where is the heart that knows no fear?
Where is the mind that’s always clear?

An ephemeral world, a passing phase
The old, the new
The false, the true
A blink of an eye in eternity’s gaze

Yet weak-minded malignancies
Must ply their trade of misery
Dispensed with as refuse in this life
****** as bartered souls in the next
Fate’s hand is heavy and dark is the night
For the vicious heart and feeble intellect.
  Nov 2015 BÜG
Autumn Bliss
Our love has faded like the seasons
and yet....
It cuts deep to think of the reasons.

They are in the very corners of my brain
and like a caged animal..
I retrace steps again and again.

If spring and summer were the very best
then what....
Do fall and winter represent, the test?

But is love like a winter tree instead
The branches are bare, but it isn't dead?
  Nov 2015 BÜG
Sylvia Plath
'Perspective betrays with its dichotomy:
train tracks always meet, not here, but only
    in the impossible mind's eye;
horizons beat a retreat as we embark
on sophist seas to overtake that mark
    where wave pretends to drench real sky.'

'Well then, if we agree, it is not odd
that one man's devil is another's god
    or that the solar spectrum is
a multitude of shaded grays; suspense
on the quicksands of ambivalence
    is our life's whole nemesis.

So we could rave on, darling, you and I,
until the stars tick out a lullaby
    about each cosmic pro and con;
nothing changes, for all the blazing of
our drastic jargon, but clock hands that move
    implacably from twelve to one.

We raise our arguments like sitting ducks
to knock them down with logic or with luck
    and contradict ourselves for fun;
the waitress holds our coats and we put on
the raw wind like a scarf; love is a faun
    who insists his playmates run.

Now you, my intellectual leprechaun,
would have me swallow the entire sun
    like an enormous oyster, down
the ocean in one gulp: you say a mark
of comet hara-kiri through the dark
    should inflame the sleeping town.

So kiss: the drunks upon the curb and dames
in dubious doorways forget their monday names,
    caper with candles in their heads;
the leaves applaud, and santa claus flies in
scattering candy from a zeppelin,
    playing his prodigal charades.

The moon leans down to took; the tilting fish
in the rare river wink and laugh; we lavish
    blessings right and left and cry
hello, and then hello again in deaf
churchyard ears until the starlit stiff
    graves all carol in reply.

Now kiss again: till our strict father leans
to call for curtain on our thousand scenes;
    brazen actors mock at him,
multiply pink harlequins and sing
in gay ventriloquy from wing to wing
    while footlights flare and houselights dim.

Tell now, we taunq where black or white begins
and separate the flutes from violins:
    the algebra of absolutes
explodes in a kaleidoscope of shapes
that jar, while each polemic jackanapes
    joins his enemies' recruits.

The paradox is that 'the play's the thing':
though prima donna pouts and critic stings,
    there burns throughout the line of words,
the cultivated act, a fierce brief fusion
which dreamers call real, and realists, illusion:
    an insight like the flight of birds:

Arrows that lacerate the sky, while knowing
the secret of their ecstasy's in going;
    some day, moving, one will drop,
and, dropping, die, to trace a wound that heals
only to reopen as flesh congeals:
    cycling phoenix never stops.

So we shall walk barefoot on walnut shells
of withered worlds, and stamp out puny hells
    and heavens till the spirits squeak
surrender: to build our bed as high as jack's
bold beanstalk; lie and love till sharp scythe hacks
    away our rationed days and weeks.

Then jet the blue tent topple, stars rain down,
and god or void appall us till we drown
    in our own tears: today we start
to pay the piper with each breath, yet love
knows not of death nor calculus above
    the simple sum of heart plus heart.
  Nov 2015 BÜG
Sylvia Plath
"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"
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