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 Mar 2017 cait
Eric W
Asleep
 Mar 2017 cait
Eric W
I write this as she sleeps
next to me, with me,
but not with me,
as a testament to the light
she spreads across my pages,
chest moving
in and out,
in and out,
breathing kindness into
these words with her own.
The object of my attention,
affection,
she will rise tomorrow
to the surprise of post-midnight
poetry, hopefully
bringing a smile to her face
as she does mine,
and our small habits
across hundreds of miles
unfold
to become larger rituals,
grander ceremonies,
separated by mere inches.
 Mar 2017 cait
Laura Slaathaug
Mom doesn’t like poetry
since it’s not clear like how things should be.
Until you write her one,
and beaming she’ll put it on the fridge with a magnet.
Mom likes things sorted and clean, papers off
the table or in the bin, dishes in the sink or the cupboard.
What is this? Why is this here?
If it’s clutter, it’s just stuff. Don’t save it.
In her room she has 37 years of photos
and sometimes tears up when she thinks of her parents
but she would never admit it.
So, she laughs and means it
when her grandchildren dump the box of toys across the living room
and the dogs slide down the hall past the family photos
and bang open doors after a bouncing ball.
Most of the lines on her face come from laughing, crows’ feet dotting her crinkling eyes.
Her birdcall laugh hangs high above any room
like a day-warbler or a hooting night-owl over the treetops.
So much of her is rocks and earth and order,
but every bit of her speaks of beating wings and blue skies.
Mom’s favorite color is blue, deep like the ocean, bright like the sky.
Don’t tell her blue’s a sad color;
she dressed her baby boy in the ocean and then his sister
when she could fit his hand-me-downs,
and then laughed when the disapproving daycare lady sent her daughter home in pink.
She lives with her husband of 36 years in a light blue house
and relished painting skies on her kitchen and living room walls
after 10 years of white and little time
and laughed again when her children protested at the blue walls, rugs, and curtains.
Time may pass,
and the blue curtains, rugs, and walls may have disappeared
and her children may have had children,
but blue is still her favorite color and her children are still her children,
and she still doesn’t like poetry.
 Mar 2017 cait
Ramin Ara
In
Every
Vase
One
Single
Flower
It
Can be
My
Spring
 Mar 2017 cait
Dream Fisher
Title Me
 Mar 2017 cait
Dream Fisher
I'm not a poet, not an artist.
I can't say I've broken walls.
You won't read me, won't like me.
I won't be a quote you end up reciting
In ten years to friends in a quip
As if I could be slipped into normal conversation
As if my fame has any relation to my body's
Descent into the ground, I will still stay unknown.
Except to notebooks where dust has grown
Accustomed  to being undisturbed.
You won't read me.
 Mar 2017 cait
Dream Fisher
Hold a door for someone with their arms full
Hold a door for someone with no arms at all.
Hold a door for a mother, a father, a child
Or someone who may not be here for a while
Hold a door made of glass, of steel, of gold
Of old wood and splinters in the freezing cold.
Hold a door for a stranger and a stranger may hold one for you
It seems so rare that we help, be the exceptional few

Give your hat to shield someone's eyes from the sun
Give your shoes to someone ready to run
Give your attention when someone speaks their heart
And your heart to someone who needs attention
Give something that may mean little to yourself
But to someone else may be a beautiful blessing

Say hello to a person preoccupied with life
Date with intention of a husband or wife
Make people feel special, they'll appreciate your time
Say the words that make sense even if they don't... never mind
 Mar 2017 cait
Dream Fisher
Myself
 Mar 2017 cait
Dream Fisher
If everyone acted as I do,
I would have a hard time finding myself.
 Mar 2017 cait
vail joven
water me
 Mar 2017 cait
vail joven
i am so small,
devoured by
my depression

if i were a flower,
i'd be shrivelled,
on the brink
of being nothing
but soil and dirt

and one day,
i met a boy
who promised
to water me

i promised him
that if he did,
i would grow
and he watered me
day after day,
showered me
abundantly

everyday,
i'd tell him
that i am better,
i have grown 
taller

but he'd grab
my wrist,
measure me
with the ruler
i've created
on my arm

and see that
i've remained
small and 
have gotten
even smaller

he cried and
showered me
with the love in
his salt tears

he cried to me
telling me that
he feared the day
that i would shrink
into nothing,
into death

he watered me
more than before
and his water
was too much

i was flooded,
drowning in
the water
that was supposed
to give me life
(i wrote this while listening to FKA Twigs' Water Me but the poem's message is no way connected to her song)
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