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  Sep 2018 JN Cole
Yz Doo
On top of the world
A day old biscuit , A fat sliced piece of bacon
On top of the world
Smiling as I walk down the black and blue alley
On top of the world
Not a penny in my pocket
On top of the world
A smile
I am free
  Sep 2018 JN Cole
Yz Doo
Dr Seuss
Kids eyes closed
Snuggled up just right
My own stories
Stuck needle on old school vinyl
I want dr Seuss
and snuggled up just right
My mind
JN Cole Sep 2018
Watching sunset
Watching  lu rid nes s
Watching the blue fall
like dew on grass
or the other way round.


Watching small insects
Watching them circle
around and around
the farmer's son's head
because he is
an angel
where holiness and
is a halo of Gnats.


Watching leaves
Watching leaves rustle
like old maidens
and lace veils,
chanting and chanting
chanting forgiveness
And stout little
red candles
Lined up like

             a procession
                an offering
                   a sacrifice

They rustle
They sing songs
in languages too
daedal for the
finite understanding
Because language
is but a bit
of the more
  v   a   s   t      imagery.


Watching hands
Watching hands
with old worn skin
like an old worn sweater
that used to be warm.


Watching hands work
as blue veins pop against
papery brown skin
They used to hide
the life and now they
are draining the light from
eyes squinted against the
glare of the morning.


Watching flowers
Watching flowers wilt
Someone forgot to
take the hose one
late morning maybe
because they’re gone
or out The latter
is a wish.


All of these are
but fond memories
in a house next
to a field of
corn and rye
I used to think
That maybe
I would come to like
   Living There.
JN Cole Sep 2018
Count red cars
or the billion stars

maybe count each
silver charm on
a silver chain

Watch the night fall
quietly onto town

sleep a dreamy sleep
dream a sleepy dream

Chase the wind to
chase it in your
own worn shoes

Run away from
the waves you've
known since

all you've ever

Blow away the
fluff from the
silent dandelions
blooming on
the roadside to
your home

Wait for the
rain to drop
on roofs,
hear it
patter against
your window

Pass the time
see the rusty
trains speeding
into rusty blurs

into nowhere

Do nothing on
the benches in
the station

Catch someone's
hat blown away
by the wind
maybe keep it
as your own

who knows,
it could all
be yours.

To you,
Girl by The Sea
  Aug 2018 JN Cole
Sally A Bayan

Save from the hidden nests of birds,
it was the only one there...isolated,
like an isle...crested on the leveled
top of a gorge...its way down or up
was through a hand-carved series of
steps on its ***** its front was a
curved would think,
it was trying to cross over

the cottage was small, weather-beaten,
desolate......its wooden walls seemed to
have shrunk...its faded colors proclaimed
its age...its having survived past storms....
from its window, the stream was seen,
and heard, flowing on and on between
these two precipitous valleys.

light came from the sun...and moon,
music was provided by the murmurs of
the forceful wind, the continuous flow of
water on the stream, the stirring of the leaves,
the crackling of branches and twigs, the birds'
singing in the spring...the pounding of heavy
rains on its roof...and countless other hymns
of nature......the dweller had heard them all...

beneath a lonely moon glow,
when nights were cold,
there hovered low 'pon its aged roof,
rounds of layered a series of a stairway to the sky...
fog slyly crept, and wilfully shrouded
the vanished from view,
the two gorges and the stream, hushed,
in the dark loneliness of that secluded
spot......their vulnerabilities, trapped
inside....misshapen silhouettes...

in light and in dark,
the whistles of nearing and departing
boats....were wailing, haunting calls,
piercing the peaceful calm of the valleys, or,
maybe, the stilled complacence of the cottage,
or...of the one living in that lonely cottage,
...lost, or gone astray, now weary and worn,
willing to be found...longing to be reunited
.......with the light and warmth of love...

the cottage, the gorges, and the stream
would be loneliest,
without the cottage dweller...


© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
August 27th, 2018
" man is an island..."
  Aug 2018 JN Cole
Line ‘em up. Shoot ‘em down!
There are traitors in this town!
There are traitors in this town!
Shoot every tenth man down!

I am the law, I hold the crown.
And those, who oppose the crown,
Shall be put down, to the ground.
Put down, to the cold, cold ground.

Line ‘em up. Shoot ‘em down!
There are traitors in this town!
There are traitors in this town!
Corpses don’t even make us frown!

By the grace of God I rule
In this world cold and cruel
Death is but a fancy tool
To crush the idea of a fool

Line ‘em up. Shoot ‘em down!
There are traitors in this town!
There are traitors in this town!
Death is walking somewhere around.

The idea of freedom visited your mind.
Perhaps a safe-heaven in it it did find?
But be wary still, I am far from blind
And to the traitors, I am far from kind.

Line ‘em up. Shoot ‘em down!
There are traitors in this town!
There are traitors in this town!
That is how you obey the crown.

Line ‘em up. Shoot ‘em down!
There are traitors in this town!
There are traitors in this town!
He is king, you are but a clown.

So he spoke, and so he spoke,
It almost seemed like a bad joke:
Each side is clinging to his truth -
Eye to eye, tooth for a tooth.

Now we may say “conclusion” -
Trying hard to avoid confusion,
Each lives in his own illusion,
Trying to prove this poor delusion.

Cha. Cha!
This is the law…
Of the gods and monsters,
We are just failed imposters.

Human life is precious.
But it might infectious.

Line ‘em up. Shoot ‘em down!
There are traitors in this town!
There are traitors in this town!
He is king, & you are but a clown!
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