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 Aug 2018 Ashley Chapman
Ann
I’ve waited for you,

  for

          so

                        long.


i’m tired now. but I hope
one day you remember me.

all those,


                                efforts

               ­ texts,

calls.
 Aug 2018 Ashley Chapman
JustJune
Whoman
Wooman
Wombman
Whyman
Woeman

Woman
WO MAN
 Aug 2018 Ashley Chapman
Lora Lee
when we are in love
we are raw red hearts
bleeding
exposed to the flesh
of the night air
in crisp, sharp breaths
ventricles open wide
as its beats paint
the stars crimson,
skylit rubies
baring all
peeled back touch
of cells like
the muck of our guts
spilled out yet
       somehow contained

My insides are
braided, like veins
pumping life into universes
receiving the tender fire
of your jeweled, earthy words
rising to meet each kiss
like an abulation

I am
boiling cherry broth
in this heat-licked ice
that melts upon the tongue
in salted frenzy,
delightful

Wash over me
Hold me in cupped hands,
                       gently
Take me by the tips of
my soul's hips,
                  firmly
for I am at risk
of being pulled into
the sweeping monsoon
of
     your
forever
Where your clothes doesn't define your character
Where you are safe to roam around at night
Where a girl child is looked upon as a child
Where you are not judged based upon your ****** orientation
Where a **** does not become a political propaganda
Where you are not divided by religious biases
Where your skin color does not matter
That kind of world is an ideal world
Where there is respect for every individual
Art transcends the hold of truth
no longer slave to certitude
regarding what is meant to be
or what’s viewed in critique

some would say that it’s a lie
travesty in dogma’s eye
the misuse of divine gifts
truth revisited by the profane

stating what’s not meant to be
still the eye is quickly pleased
by the bending of the norm
redefined to sate our wants

understanding follows form
the muse is counselor to the blind
opening eyes by showing forms
existing only in fantasy

now the new reality
becomes the master in the end
roles are turned in pursuit
of salvation beyond belief

escaping bonds tied to fact
the latter altered to comply
truthfulness in craft’s tall tale
transforms fiction to verity.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180810.
The poem “Craft’s Tall Tale” was inspired by Pablo Picasso’s quote, “We all know that Art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize truth at least the truth that is given us to understand. The artist must know the manner whereby to convince others of the truthfulness of his lies.”
and I do too, my uncle
he gave me wings to dream on,
fed me when I needed feeding
not with food, no with dreams,
and for that I owe him everything.

That is why when he finally laid at his owl's rest
this owl wept, and saying goodbye, left
the final dream to rest.

Goodbye Uncle Bob, weaver of dreams,
and may a chorus of hooting owls
sing you to your last detail,
up there with the wise ones,
forever looking down -
with love.
My Uncle died recently, this is in his memory.
(I)
I love you, they're the hardest words to say
but the easiest to engage in mind, sometimes.

Deeply flawed man I am,
drowning in my images
my escape from reality
well, sometimes, sometimes
face it head on;

I love the ways your hair soothes the storm,
within, blasting the wolf from it lair, your
hand softens my tense frame, this
pen shakes.

I love your flaws, they seal my wounds and I too
can help seal and heal yours.

There is no but here,
it's from the heart, so take it
eat, and let's dance amongst the stars
as sprits of the animal night,
eternally;

I know it's sentimental
I can't help the way the woods made me,
carved out of clay, stay a little longer
make me happy, this is the way, lay
down and hold my hand as I slip,
I will grip yours when you trip -

Back into the mire, into the murk, we shall be together, forever
in these woods, two wolves amongst the sheep, howling at the moon,
is it ever too soon?

I don't think so, no.
Show me your heart -
I can take away the pain.

As I wane, I wane away in my ivory
tower - craned neck to the stars
I love you, don't explain -
I love you Yulia
no if's or buts,
no refrain.
a love poem
<>
The Instigation:
Edmund  Black, commenting on “weary weighted,”

I agree with Kim; This is poetry at its best :)“

<•>

both of you shush!

there is no “better” in poetry

mine yours theirs, alive or not,

just gasps tears and blood
whimsical smiles and isles
cuts and burns of pained revelations,
hidden in fog,
that words try to delete away,
through the shrouded mists of
human tissues,
unconstrained by the
bounded shape
of the human cell,
our first, our own
self-imposed jail

tissue, too,
baby soft, or,
purple beating majestic bruised blotches
by those weaklings whose
kindness never
fully developed;  
or old man mine whose
skin cells erodes, so poems and light
weary weighted, lightly flake off
for your “betterment”
mostly tho for worse

good humans all await,
in patientce lightly hidden,
residents of dark sunspots
in the glaring existence exposer
of the unlit lighthouse whose time will come

they get it

how we get there unimportant

get there

GET THERE

get there
that is the poetic
mission critical

no path best or style preferred-
no compare just, but,
any path that
lifts and elevates,
to the commonplace


the common place

where all costarred, universal,
where common is the temple mount
of highest praise, holy smoke rising,

a place that
that discloses and closes,
is scribed/described honestly as
a connective,
which is the simplest
successive

call my poems,
blessedly common!

that an honorable,
so gladly accepted
and
so much more meaning-full
than merely best or better



for that,
I’d gladly weep,
for no praise
ever been
bettered





8/2/18 406pm
on the jitney to my isle
the instigation: Edmund black › “weary weighted, I agree with Kim .... This is poetry at its best :)“
Key
She tried to give
the door a knock,
She took a chance
to see if it would unlock.
Turns out,
she didn't​ have the key
to set him free.
Sometimes you have to set yourself free.
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