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Before the hole there was most
assuredly some form of completion
where everything was as it
should have been.

During the void there is
a parasitic vacuum that robs the
mind of peace and joy leaving
only hopelessness

After the emptiness comes a
variation of bountifulness
where the hole is the past,
and soon forgotten

Search before the hole
look into my eyes
take my hand
and live free
 Mar 2013 Clarisa
Tori G
Sometimes I feel
Like my life is
A prescription drug.

Every time I solve
One major problem,
15 side effects occur.
I bet everyone can relate...
 Mar 2013 Clarisa
K Balachandran
Blue sky, green sea,
hands of wind tickling
the coconut trees,
in the catamaran,
afloat the rolling waves,
a love smitten pair,
he and she, loosing themselves
in each other's eyes.

White spray from high waves,
rain on them, they gleam.
afternoon sun, fizzes down,
air is filled with laughter and joy,
pure magic of  love,
the kind one experiences
when nature extends its hands,
to love for a dance of exuberance.

A shoal of colorful fish, swimming too close,
jump up to amuse them,
bringing much cheer.
Swinging on the  waves
the sea keeps  company to their craft.

**That day flew away and joined the repository of memories.
He and she scampered through the arches
waves after high waves erected,
took voyages far, through troubled waters.
But never, could they forget,
the laughter and joy that day represented,
when they stood together,
or went on to their separate ways.
 Mar 2013 Clarisa
Tim Knight
He shot himself in June
and his blood fell like
early-summer’s rain
against a background
of tortured skies filled
with precipitation pain.

She drowned under a
veil of water in a ceremony
of let’s-end-my-life-today,
not a marriage, nor commitment
or a party of Dutch courage.

They kissed each other before
they went their separate ways;
into to the summer
or into the bathroom, for her;
‘cos those are the places that are locked away.
Like for poetry to your feed >> facebook.com/timknightpoetry
 Mar 2013 Clarisa
Terry Collett
Did your da ask you
For the ciggies? Kennedy
Asks, his nose holding
Onto a piece of snot, his
Lemony eyes giving you
The big stare, the chin

Stubbly and grey, the
Mouth, a deserted
Cemetery of broken
Tomb-like teeth. He
Did so, you reply, looking
Away from the eyes,

Taking in the cigarettes
Behind the counter of the
Small tobacconist shop,
Feeling the sweat on your
Collar, smelling Kennedy’s
Breath, the stink of tobacco

And ale, and Mrs Fitzsimmons
Behind you, scratching her
****, tut-tutting impatiently,
Jabbing you in the back with
The bony finger of her other
Hand, saying in her baritone

Voice: Are you going to give
The boy the ciggies or not
As my shitearse of an
Husband’s waiting for his
Tea and I need his old ****
Before he leaves for work.

Kennedy hands you the
Ciggies with the big sigh
And stern stare and you
Hand him the coins sweaty
And damp and smell the
Scent of fear and anxiety
Lingering in the evening air.
2009 POEM.
 Mar 2013 Clarisa
Terry Collett
She had dried His feet
with her hair. She’d not
forgotten that. Not long
after she’d seen the same

feet nailed and bloodied
to the wooden down beam.
Her tears had helped wash
them, those feet, she later

remembered the tingle she
had felt as her long hair
dried them, something in
touching, emptied her of

self and opened up her
darker self. Had He seen
more than others, understood
what others were blind to,

forgave what others condemned?
That moment, His feet in
her hands, touching her hair,
her hands. His eyes spoke to

her, His words pinpricked her,
each sin (as others saw them)
scabbed over as he went by,
His shadow kind of healed her.

She knew that now, not then
so much, after His demise (or
so seemed) and the placing in
that tomb, she felt letdown,

emptied, like after some dark
passage ***. But she’d seen
Him after, the feet healed,
the holes unbloodied, His

voice soothed her inner coil
keyed up tight. But mostly she
recalled the washing of His feet
on that warm moon filled night.
 Mar 2013 Clarisa
Robert Guerrero
Its always "**** you"
Or "**** me"
My poetry *****
Really it does
I have no rational reason
To continue to write
What is the point of this anymore
I dont touch any lives
I barely can look at my work
I never reread it
Its all useless to me now
My poetry *****
Seriously
Who even takes the time to read
This pathetic *** **** anymore
I was just a trend
A disease to this site
***** it
My poetry *****
Maybe I should quit
I will never amount to anything
My words will take me nowhere
So yeah my poetry *****
I had my run
I had my time
To shine and bask in my misery
Oh well
Later my fellow poets
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