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 Jun 2017 alex
Idiosyncrasy
We write
for people we are yet to meet
And you
brought my words to life.
 Jun 2017 alex
Willy Shakysphere
The grand wind blows as it hums along –
This dark and grey velvet morning - the sun barely risen.
A well dressed classy drunk smears her finger across
The doorman’s lips and whispers, “Please don’t tell anyone.”
She stumbles along while someone in her way curses -
A garbage truck outside stops and reverses -
– beep – beep – beep.

Standing there in her favorite long coat
The desk clerk seems to gloat -
Gloat over every marvelous thing she ever wanted.
In this, the one day when she is thinner -
Outside a siren shrieks repeating the tormented,
Is she a saint or a sinner?

Finally the quiet idles up there eternal
Inside her blessed Penthouse suite.
From her barred window she watches a crosswalk signal
Still standing in her long winter coat.
Across the alley she sees someone on a fire escape,
As they wrap around and disappear down the funnel.

In the serenity of the street below a Cupid like boy
Salutes his mother at the bus stop.
The mother stoops to pat him on his noggin.
Then mommy makes a sculpture of her packages,
As the boy salutes again.
Up there behind her bars the drunk thinks she is different somehow.

Taking off her coat she opens a book entitled “Value”
Finding a written sentence that ends with “come back to me now.”
She gives her legacy a second look
And thinks how absolutely - positively - wondrously dear -
If only she could believe what she had just read -

And then she disappears.
The word play here is meant to draw out several different parts of the reader. Sometimes we feel that our lives are happening without our control. But in the end we have to face the fact that everything that happens in our lives is a result of the choices that we make. By accepting this we can choose to be an active agent in our own existence or we can choose not to make a choice and feel ourselves disappear in the choices that life makes for us.
 Jun 2017 alex
preservationman
The train will depart from Excite Station
We will have our own Private Pullman Coach for writing enjoyment in appreciation
We have been given the announcement to board
Please be comfortable and recline
The train is pulling out of the station
The schedule having an overnight ride
It will be your poetry what your thoughts will provide
Beauty as the rails in the scenery passing by
Inspiration from the Diesel Engine Horn with writing encouragement being a try
Cows all in the field
As the train moves feeling like a camera reel
I am writing down what I see I words
Turning my poem write into an adventure
My eyes feel weary and I am drifting into a sleep
My thoughts continue to journey concentrating deep
Yet it is my own words to keep
The train continues railing going through railroad crossings
Morning has arrived
I see a peek of the sunrise
We have arrived at the station of Conclusion Alley
Our words have taken us far
There was no need for a car
I hope you enjoyed your venture, but let me call you my Poetry star.
 Jun 2017 alex
Poetic T
Naked as snow was my birth,
a covering of innocence coating
                                           my eyes.

I was then a sapling, bursting through
and then capturing the nautical days
                                               I was alive.

Like an oak my moments long & fading
as the years fell like autumn leaves.
                     A chill of silence breathed upon me.
 Jun 2017 alex
ConnectHook
He nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable scene,
But with his keener eye
The axe’s edge did try;

Nor call’d the gods with ****** spite
To vindicate his helpless right,
But bowed his comely head
Down as upon a bed.

This was that memorable hour
Which first assur’d the forced pow’r.
So when they did design
The Capitol’s first line,

A bleeding head, where they begun,
Did fright the architects to run;
And yet in that the state
Foresaw its happy fate.


from:
An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell’s Return from Ireland
by Andrew Marvell, 1651
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/44683
 May 2017 alex
Lawrence Hall
Children at the Harvest

A little girl with basket held in hand
Can choose and pick a bouquet in the spring
And play in peace on the warming-sun land
With flower-colors to sort and songs to sing

A little older and the strong girl now
Helps with the harvest in September’s haze
And through hard work with tractor, rake, and plow
She grows through honest work and well-earned praise

Unless –

Before a screen a girl decays, beguiled,
For now the screen is the machine that harvests

                                                            the child
 May 2017 alex
Satsih Verma
Again, I remember you intensly
in dark night.

Fractious with myself
to fill in the void―
for not writing any end.

Trying to become human,
revenge for revenge―
life measures the exactness.

Like holding a firefly
in my palm, I was searching
the light.

Still trying to shake off
the dust, the ash, from the wings.
A long flight was ahead.
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