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 Jul 2017 betterdays
Nat Lipstadt
lellow

she does not understand
why the silly poppy, source of way too many, so annoying
funny smelling scratchy kisses, asks her over and over
what is this color of this 'n that,
stopping over and over sooooooooo many times on just one,

lellow

and why the foolish man laughs and weeps whenever she says

lellow

with deep reflection,
as is her way,
you can see the cogs whirring, she guessing it must be his favorite

but when then he starts giving even more funny smelling scratchy kisses after each

lellow

she decides irrevocably,
as is her way,
the next time he asks she will make a joke to make him stop
and tell him

smellow.
6/18/16 8:15am S. I.
 Jul 2017 betterdays
CK Baker
hickory nuts
and wind trees
are keeping
at the old buckle bay
light house corners and
shaker church craft
slip anchor on the southern tip

secret legions
and phenolic board
tuck in at gout dock
bands and nations
and miracle speak
fill in the center hall

sand hooks
and water domes
cover wharf road
***** bay toppers
and seven horse chugs
scatter the swollen upper deck

packards and pushers
and rusty back rails
skirt the night
lanterns and sterns
and navy gulls
steady on task

sand cakes
and drift wood
held tight on
the mystery tour
yellow tails
and tide pools
flat line
at royal reach

paddles
and cables
find ripples way
smugglers and smitties
take cover
from a
northern gale

down on
pocket shoal
there’s a graceful hue
~ they’re serving up
belons and xan…
it's time to get in
for a fill
sunshinecoast porpoisebay sechelt
 Jul 2017 betterdays
meg
Wait with me. Wait for the world to exist.
Wait for what she will tell us.

True, our breath echoes the sea’s
sweeping tide. The inky bleeding
of saltwater that calms and soaks.
Drenched, this collective exhale.
I’ve always preferred silk over velvet;
that’s what the sea is. Silk over velvet.

The moon has seen every unholy rite,
her glare is cast cold. Over the Mysteries,
over me. Every pulse of her is lapped
up by the sea beneath. This shared breath
is echoed in the sea is echoed in the moon;
the universe folds itself. Lives inside a gasp.

Wait with me. Wait for the world to exist
by her own rules.

Our stars are fading like so many discarded
loves. The world is tired, she crumbles
our castles. Crumbles our convent,
exhausts our goddesses. Daughter of life,
who slipped through Death’s doorway;
she sinks below. A seasonal existence.

Sunset spills red on the horizon, dedicates
her evenings to us. We exist by her signal
and her permission. She stretches her skin
for the moon. Lays herself as a blanket
on which night may sleep, cradled and safe;
a nest of stars. We all seek Dawn’s relief.

Wait with me. Wait for the world to exist
in anger, in yellow, in rain.
inspired by the French phrase, 'il faut laisser aller le monde comme il va', which I saw floating around on the internet a while ago.
 Jul 2017 betterdays
Poetic T
Poetry is a wrist,
                  weeping.

But the tears do not fall,
for the life ebbing to
                nothingness.

Its for the words elegantly woven
of life that caresses this canvass.

Purity of two shades become more
than was non-existent.
               Live and death serenade.

Till both are still, and the words
       stain the wall.
The readers mind, silent, static

These are the poetic words of life...
           For even though later washed
away,
The stain of that lingers, remains
we talk of soap at different angles, different colours.



in the war she sat in the outside toilet to avoid the

bombs. there were hits in bournemouth.



sunlight came more expensive,  washing in the

kitchen bowl.           green for the linen each day

and monday.



there were five of us including mum. gran

bought the pink.



i buy transparent.



he said that eventually he was able to join

the small soldiers brigade at five foot three

or less, and was killed three days after

landing.



short men were deemed no good at hand

to hand fighting.



at first.



( unless the enemy was short too)



rough cast.



sbm.
 Jul 2017 betterdays
Nat Lipstadt
•<>•
the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few,
like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am,
evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings,
how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty
to love the crafted content of our human essence to better
comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared
words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages,
scar of pleasure, a forehead Cain mark, scarlet letter of pride,
for this reliving of our stories retelling is the skipped beat
of our connection not born from practical reason,
but from truths we own equally and though reason says
mine, it is not, it is only to be yours when the sharing
resonates resonates resonates resonates resonates
and every molecule, becomes a human tuning fork
in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with
the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit


                                          July 4th, 2017
                                                •<>•

"If you spend enough time reading or writing, you find a voice, but you also find certain tastes. You find certain writers who when they write, it makes your own brain voice like a tuning fork, and you just resonate with them. And when that happens, reading those writers … becomes a source of unbelievable joy. It’s like eating candy for the soul."
And I sometimes have a hard time understanding how people who don’t have that in their lives make it through the day.
David Foster Wallace
July 4th 2017 10:45am
Shelter Island
 Jun 2017 betterdays
CA Guilfoyle
In death, perhaps we are like water
making our way ever deeper from sand and sky.
Maybe we fly, linger and hover awhile
and the dream of becoming a bird is real.
Maybe we are stars, floating oceans of night skies
moving toward divine light in swooping waves
pushing upwards through embryonic waters
spilling over the soul
again and again.
This new morning reveals secrets,
the past nights' sudden bursts of rain
and wind, left the grassy areas of the
lawn...the bare soil...all soft and wet.
dark green moss and orange lichen, are
now peeping out from narrow apertures
on the concrete ground, from wet and
cracked fences....and on furrowed
barks of trees.

fine soggy soil is new home
to sprouting weeds
and on the base of trees, the
domed mushrooms grow sporadically,
moist to the touch....feathery, porous,
...all these growths, openly declare
we are drawn to the energy of the circle,
after night comes day...rain exits, giving
way to a rainbow and blue skies
...and smiles

there's hope, there's life,
in the least lighted parts
a breath is ever nigh  
the dark is not an ending
but a portal to a new beginning
even in jagged cracks,
in the dimmest, tiniest spaces
like holes and crevices,
life finds a way...to breathe,
its existence.



Sally


Copyright June 23, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
...a new morning after a rainy, rainy night...
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