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 Jun 2010 Bathsheba
JJ Hutton
sorrows,
shaved scalp,
sorrows,
forehead heavy with ash,
sorrows,
scabs scraped with broken pottery,
sorrows,
all the gods stopped playing fair,
sorrows,
with cold sons and contradictory friends,

sorrows,
for the saints,
sorrows,
for the satans,
sorrows,
for citing both.

sorrows,
at the sound of laughter,
sorrows,
at the touch of neighbors,

sorrows,
for losing my mind,
my maker,
my family,
sorrows,
while everyone else is content
to live in ****** sitcoms
and safety-net salvation.
Copyright 2010 by Joshua J. Hutton
 Jun 2010 Bathsheba
JJ Hutton
because green leaves
and restoration sunshine
bore the hell out of me.

because love for me
has never been forever,
just a face i show for a scene.

because spring and winter
for me never exist,
i seem to live in the months inbetween.

because at the surface
my subject matter deals
with nothing past my *** drive.

because every word i use
is a staple of every
third graders' vocabulary

because this poem doesn't rhyme.

because i write stark reality
instead of romantic
imagination.

because they aren't me.
every poet may be their biggest critic,
but they're also their biggest fan.
Copyright 2010 by Joshua J. Hutton
 Jun 2010 Bathsheba
Golden Ratio
Sitting in abeyance.

My life on perpetual hold;
the cold air forcing me to hunch up for warmth.

Another cigarette...

I ****** the packet lovingly,
opening and closing the lid,
spinning and revolving the box like a precious stone.

I think about my father.

Memories,
scrambling for admission,
into my hall of fame.

The bad ones,
constantly slashing,
constantly stabbing.

The jagged blade of guilt.

He could be difficult,
but my desperation for acceptance,
made me difficult too.

Tears fighting for freedom,
I shield my face by running my fingers through my hair;
cigarette still in hand.

I return to the ward.

I reflect on my father’s now non cognizant state,
and although disturbing,
I also find it calming and absolute,
for he is safe in the labyrinth of his mind,
and nothing can hurt him.

I hold his hand,
and with a final last gasp of inevitability,

he is gone.

Gone.

As I sit back,
in my plastic chair,
my lugubrious acceptance is numbing.

But there is another feeling;

one that is so refreshing;

so alien;

so…

shiny and clean.

it smashes through my self-induced sedation like a sledge hammer:

Liberation.
Old
I am old
Older than time
So it is told
Hidden in the sublime

These ageless eyes
Have seen it all
I have heard endless cries
I have seen man kind fall

I am the last one
The only one left here
All other life is gone
Taken away by fear

The skies burnt with fire
Then the missiles fell
Earth was a funeral pyre
We were left to live in Hell

No food to eat, the water turned dry
We had to face disease instead
To rebuild again we did try
But one by one we fell dead

That was very long ago
And I fed on flesh of friends
The years have passed so slow
I wonder when it ever ends

I am old
Too old to care
Nothing left to hold
Death claim me if it dare
copyright Chris Smith 2010
I dance upon the swiftly moving waters
That roll throughout your mind
With a fevered pitch
That lights your senses fine

I see you as you watch in fascination
As I bend and dip and sway
Moving to the music that plays inside your mind
Dancing in the shadows of your day

Undulating feelings flow throughout your soul
Close your eyes and feel my pulsing beat
Lose yourself inside, the movement of my body
Watch the fire ignite below my feet

I dance upon your swiftly moving waters
I am the fantasy you breathe
The burning fire of your imagination
Come and dance with me
Copyright *Neva Flores @2010
www.changefulstorm.blogspot.com
www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/HerVigil
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