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 Apr 2013 Cara D
Alice Kay
She's the girl with the spring in her step,
a posture and attitude that radiates confidence.

But she doesn't have any of that,
take a look inside and she's held up by paper and twigs.
 Apr 2013 Cara D
Connor Ruther
The Lady is a month to me, A title and half her name;
Her mask sustains the mystery, the beauty beneath the chains.

The pompous men explain, about Christ in all his passion,
But they know not the pain, of a life spent folding napkins;
To serve and serve in silence, with no whisper of complaint,
The quiet of a painting and the patience of a saint.

Hold her petals gently, lad, but the stem you must grasp firm,
My Rose, a perfect pupil, never shy to grow and learn.
I'm sorry if I crossed you, it was only with respect,
As every rogue treats treasure, we must mark it with an X.

I could only give you words, and sadly I have known,
In truth what you deserved, was a kingdom of your own.
The maid will get her palace, and her carpets crimson red,
Fine wine in her chalice and gold ropes around her bed.

But first, we'll to the ballroom, along paths with gems inlayed,
The bedding will come later; there's other games yet to be played.
We'll dance there, Miss December, On the garnet tiled floor,
And every stance of mine will render, Love incarnate; underscored.

I know I wasn't perfect. No, your Highness, not the best,
And though I haven't earned it, for your kindness I was blessed.
So now lend your Bard his drummer and he'll sing for you a tune,
Compare your eyes to summer, if your name was Lady June.

Yet, I think the winter fitting, and I do not mean the cold.
For I'm on concrete city benches sitting, dreaming of your soul.
I sit beside a western shore and look at western seas,
The water has no more joy for me, the Lady's in the East.

The poem turns to rambling, but I'm half-drunk and it's late.
I only hope she's understanding, what my garbled words would state.
You know your Master's only letters, not a thing to see or feel;
And though I can't do better, at least for me, the words were real.
 Apr 2013 Cara D
Ernest Hemingway
All armies are the same
Publicity is fame
Artillery makes the same old noise
Valor is an attribute of boys
Old soldiers all have tired eyes
All soldiers hear the same old lies
Dead bodies always have drawn flies
 Apr 2013 Cara D
E. E. Cummings
i will wade out
                        till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
                                       Alive
                                                 with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
                                       in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
                                            Will i complete the mystery
                                            of my flesh
I will rise
               After a thousand years
lipping
flowers
             And set my teeth in the silver of the moon
 Apr 2013 Cara D
Gwen Whitmoore
I am not in the business of being you
or him or her or they
we doesn't even really interest me.

you hated me within the first 20 minutes
like a shallow predator
experiencing virginal danger
you have the limbic system of a prey
obvious to anyone in touch with their senses.

you were threatened-
you cracked a joke and among
the robotic laughter and among
the generic thoughts
I stood back, blank-faced
a novel piece of art you haven't the ability
to muster up the courage to understand.

aloud, I said it wasn't funny
which I'm sure your emptiness already betrayed
in a booming, and terrifying fashion
(I'm an intellectual sadist-
I get off watching you squirm)

you know enough, that you have no basis
that the status quo is the stale stream you do nothing but soak in.

you're superficiality is so pervasive
that your thoughts are unfilled, plastic
discarded long ago by anyone with stamina
(you're a carbon-copy of a Xeroxed person)
looking the same as the others of your degenerate breed
with much less vibrancy than the original
and far less worth.

your boundaries have been in place for so long
passed down by
generations
of
generations
of
generations
great-great-granddaddy's barbed wire is the only thing protecting your prejudice.

you're not funny- you're scared
ashamed and lonesome.

ashamed of the person you wish you could be
but don't have the strength-or the guts
to morph into
lonesome because even yourself is someone you don't feel close to
you are so basically human.

I have no pity.
**for you are no Muse.
 Apr 2013 Cara D
Sylvia Plath
Unlucky the hero born
In this province of the stuck record
Where the most watchful cooks go jobless
And the mayor's rôtisserie turns
Round of its own accord.

There's no career in the venture
Of riding against the lizard,
Himself withered these latter-days
To leaf-size from lack of action:
History's beaten the hazard.

The last crone got burnt up
More than eight decades back
With the love-hot herb, the talking cat,
But the children are better for it,
The cow milks cream an inch thick.
 Apr 2013 Cara D
Dalton Bauder
aorta
 Apr 2013 Cara D
Dalton Bauder
you’re stuck inside the web;
theres too much tangled in my head.
im wrapped up in my thoughts again,
left dusting all the old cobwebs
from every subtle angle that
i hadn’t noticed you leave your caress;
you left your fingerprints in black
and pressed all up and down my chest,
where they might fill the empty space
and replace all that i had left,
but that’d been carved of replete stone
and so it can’t ever come back.

but somehow still my arms outstretch,
just waiting for your blood red hands
to come devour the last of it,
to sink your teeth
because you can.
 Apr 2013 Cara D
Emma Louise
I dread those
unyielding eightball eyes
The way I want
too keep your fingers,
my crooked comforts,
clasped through
my tarantula hair

You said it took all the ink
and left me like porcelain
I shattered
at feeling so precious
 Apr 2013 Cara D
Sara L Russell
7/12/12   16:25pm

At what price does man find favour with God?
Down through the roiling clouds, from heavenly heights to earthly clay,
where scribes had written scrolls of doctrines;
down through old crumbling architraves, temples of cold ideals,
 man spawned the Vengeful Word.
With rage of angels,
like effigies of gods, there sprang forth lords and hypocrites;
all claimed to speak for God. 
Then, in the maelstrom,
came genocide of innocents, and hellfire fell like rain.

When does a tower become too tall for God?
Out of a clear blue sky came silver harbingers of doom,
where men were writing drafts and spreadsheets;
now crumbling down around them, swathed in hate-begotten fire;
spawned from a vengeful god.
No mortal angels
could save the ones who perished, caught above the line of flame;
while some below survived.
Yet, in the chaos,
sworn enemies in faith came out to save each other's fall.

At what price can man enter Paradise?
High above the minarets, the veiled dome of the sky
students look up with wistful longing;
yearning to be good radicals and cross the lines of fire
to reap heaven's reward.
Hate's vengeful angels
pretenders to the throne of God take many shapes and forms,
while moderates stay quiet;
and with their silence
give passive leave for lunatics to prate at heaven's door.
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