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 Mar 2015
K Balachandran
She is a succulent bunch,let me be helpful,
if you don't get the complex chemical scent,
I call her ,"a girl of unpredictable
meeting places"inotropic, is her effect,
She sends heartbeats way up.
Delectable too, she was, every time
I tasted certain parts of her.
Her avatars are numerous, like Hindu Gods
With specific  intention for each incarnation
Onee will be pushed in to neurosis,
if doesn't completely relish her infinite variety.
She is a cryptic mystic,
for a while  from signals
I discerned and firmly believed
Or is she just a  creature mysterious
Doubt raises it's head, like a lotus
From slushy pond
My eyes met her at the level of  her eyes first,
the rest in a haze to me was invisible,
Then my heart sends a message
"Right now, I missed a beat here"
Heart then recites a poem,
tells me, it is all her making
"Don't fall in love" heart's advice,
"Go, dissolve in her completely"
Even my own heart has crossed sides,
or is it truly an advice for my sake?
Love is a hallucinogen, get it?
she whistles like wind at bamboo groves
from within sings like a thrush,
she is a magpie, or is she a koel?
Nocturnal animal, in need of mating,
making calls, frantic SMS, incessant.
She is wind and water, elements
that make one burn and drown
She spreads her yoga mat on the floor,
asks me to sit cross legged Indian style,
I am already for that in my mind,
So I spread eagle in corpse pose, indicating, "All through my life", mother earth gives me warmth.
          Shanti,   Shanti,   shanti
 Mar 2015
Olivia Kent
Black cabs and ab-dabs.
Dashing through London streets,
High heels and crippled feet.
Back street bars,
wealthy sheiks,
ever running,
Hide and seek.
Black panther's in lippy,
Colourful hippies.
Turbans and tunics,
Kiddies in cotton, with mud on their bottoms.
Big Whigs and stiff prigs.
Market stalls and rubber *****.
Undergrounds and all around.
City beats, it's hopping on.
On and off off of buses and train.
London love life, kicking pain.
Picks up his drink and thinks like a fish.
A couple more beers, three seconds of fun.
Slipped into his glass.
Glass one, two three,
Freedom four.
Needs more.
(c) LIVVI
 Mar 2015
Charlie
One o'clock in the morning just seems to be your hour;
loving, fighting, talking, crying-- all you.
That smug smirk will never leave the face of my clock.
You young thing, you confused old soul,
you're nothing else to anyone, but me.
I hope you realise that.
One o'clock has memories of your face in them,
memories full of lust and sharp words.
Only my memories, only my ears to ear, only my body to touch.
The ones I love, hate you and I hate the ones I love.
I guess you're one of them.
Went from 0 - 100 reeeeeeeal quick, oh well.
 Mar 2015
Bo Burnham
Sully suffers from a stutter,
simple syllables will clutter,
stalling speeches up on beaches,
like a sunken sailboat rudder.

Sully strains to say his phrases,
sickened by the sounds he raises,
strings of thoughts come out in knots,
he solves his sentences like mazes.

At night, he writes his thoughts instead
and sighs as they steadily rush from his head.
 Mar 2015
Jamie King
FLAMES from furious friends fighting ferocious fears, forever fueling fervent faith.

INCESSANTLY incinerating innocence in inner-selves. Insidiously influencing introspective introverts.

RISING rapidly.
radically rupturing rectitude rampantly, ravaging remnants.

ENDLESSLY eclipsing ecstatic event. enacting eruptions.
eradicating elation .
challange complete haha what's next I have a veracious appetite
 Mar 2015
Lynda Kerby
oh my son colton i have the memory of christmas morning
when i asked you to get me something out of the deep freezer
and you found the 50 big macs i had bought you
because you were always wanting me to drive you
45 minutes away after bed time on a school night
to McDonald's
and after that you could have a big mac whenever you wanted
and even if you were mad at me 23 hours a day
there was that magical hour when i would wake up at 4 in the morning
as you were just getting ready to go to bed
where i would sit on that deep freezer
and have the bestest conversations
and for 1 hour we understood each other
 Mar 2015
Charlie
you were everything
and you ruined it
you're nothing now

10w
The monk shows me the scar
where he took the bullet
the 70s fiery rebel
is now a Shiva-ite by faith.

I try to see in his eyes
remnant of youth’s spark
believing the fire never dies
from time now buried in the dark.

The March wind blows the dust
banyan trunks make a cool shade
in the lull he relieves a past
no way could he obliterate.

A time was I held a gun
the police was hot on my trail
day night I was on the run
in the pride of being a rebel.


Cast shadows an eerie silence
now evening could no longer wait
I wave to him from a distance
Shiva waits on him to meditate.
 Mar 2015
Graff1980
The artist
Because before she is she
She is light
Not some romantic heroine
But more like ******
Dangerous
And addictive
Powerful
She is not a body
Not just flesh
Made to feel
Or fulfill male desire
She is fury and compassion
She is furious in her passions
Not clad in shallow fashion
Not mine to define
But one who shines
Throughout space and time
Part and whole
Of the human divine
A flickering candle
Dangling in the darkness
Trying to help me and you
See through to
What we need to do

Hell while I am at it
Not to be to dramatic
But for every her him
He who was a she
Or She who was a he
For you, us, or them
This is just one mad respect
Poem
 Mar 2015
Jonny Angel
We were all
born too late.
I know this
by the feelings
I get
when
spirit-guides
pass by me.

Yesterday,
I got too old
for my own good.
I sat and I wrote,
I wrote an ode
to my lost lover.
I knew her in a different time,
way back when corsets
ruled the day.
And when men kissed damsels,
they meant it.
If I could only steal her breath
one more time.
 Mar 2015
Sally A Bayan
(the hours in between)

It is the morning after reuniting, wining and talking...the stirring of the curtains transparent, become slow moving hands and calming whispers of a hypnotist, blending perfectly with the gentle whiff of a breeze...and the soft sounds of one who has just woken...a hint of a breath of life...there is much gratitude.....these early morning whispers could still be heard...quietude is a swaying hammock, but sleepy eyes peep through the window, gazing far, enthralled by the horizon...red, orange, purple.....merging.....against green and brown of the mountains...and from all these mix of colors, finally emerges a sky so blue...a new day is born, the Almighty is most kind...but something else unsettles the mind of one who has gone through many arduous journeys...asking:
 "How did I fare"?   Can I still...?  Will I...?" 

Now shining bright is a list of
Things yet to happen...intentions---
Disguised as questions.
Though this has long been conceptualized,
There's this pressing feeling, they must now be prioritized
Pray they soon be realized
Before exit from this world has materialized.

Can I still -
Be brave enough to swim? drive a car? ride a bike?
Meet with distant friends? learn new languages?
Write with more depth, even when I turn 80... and older?
Fly in a plane with my son as the pilot in command?
See my granddaughters finish college?

Will I still be able -
To satisfy this wanderlust endlessly stirring within me?
To ride a camel in the deserts of Morocco?
To feel the sun, the air, even the rain, while walking the cobbled streets in Tuscany?
To spend an evening in Florence?
To visit Greece, Spain, Ireland, Wales, and relive stories read?
To feel and breathe the air there, brimming with adventure?

We walk through various labyrinths in life, so absorbed in our own worlds...hours, days, become prosy, they move oh,  so slowly.......still, when the dark is upon us, we sit and reflect...wondering:
 
Will we see another day unfold before us?
Do we get to witness
The Blue Hours of another sunrise and sunset,
And further be enchanted by the day's breath-taking
A L P E N G L O W ?

How many more
A L P E N G L O W S ?


Sally

Copyright August 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
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