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 Mar 2018
chimaera
words
by millions,
collected them,
a life time,
constellations
pinned,
hanged,
winged,
butterfly like.

pick
one by one,
their weight,
their taste.

empty,
every one.
heavy
like round pebbles
on dried creeks.

summoned the night
upon, laid my wings.

rainbows
gave me up.
16.03.2018
 Mar 2018
Duzy
No one can know your pain
Not nearly as well as yourself
But the rope won't take it away
It just gives it to someone else
 Mar 2018
L B
I hear it
half in the bag of blankets
with an empty glass of wine
dumped
Between--
the furnace rumbling on
and the cat purring on my lap

"What the hell!"

That foreign sound!--

...of water in the winter
Far too cold for rain
more like a forest stream's refrain
I start to think of birds-- Then it occurs

I have a problem in the basement

Wading into the waters of Lake Laundry
Glancing warily for those snakes of wires
suspended from their rafter's limbs
about to spit and snag me
with their lightning strike

Slamming that ****
to make it go--
away--

Defeat
dripping off
jeans and unders
A clothes line pinned
with curses

Ah yes.
The smell of the Tide ...
going out
on another day
Anything can be a poem.
 Mar 2018
ryn
This thing...

Delicate,
fragile
but potent.
Erratic even.

Yet I hold it close.
I clench it fast within my grasp.

I care not
for its volatile nature.
I care not
if it’ll sway me.
I care not
if it’ll explode.

Because at the end of the day,
it’s all I have.
 Mar 2018
Smoke Scribe
all poems write themselves, following plans that are drawn only
as the poem goes along, neither leading or following, but
carrying the writer along as first violin, a VIP passenger,
the first viewer, a consultant but not a conductor

a poem is written based on what has happened
a poem is written based on what was hoped to happen
a poem was written based on what could never happen
but is so well imagined that it is more real than if it happened


I willingly tell you I will not tell you which is what, for there is no difference between them for the writer, the first passenger,
though undeniably fully aware of the quality of the ware
that is proffered, plottered or just perchanced

perhaps you are thinking, but of course,
this is the way,
the way of all of us,
the way it has and will be and no
disclaimer needed for no believable claims are made

perhaps
for the weave is oft tight, tight as near-truth, and so well imagined, it wraps the first passenger in a cloak of skin
that actually feels, though cloaks cannot feel,
but belief is easily eased

there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth


Therefore,
my poems are splats and drips.
you make them into paintings that hang
in your own private museum
but authenticated by me as
first viewer,

3/13/18
1:09am
 Mar 2018
Poetic T
Life is always calling me,
      but I just put  it on answerphone..

"This is my message,
        
"We are shooting stars,
                          always falling,

"But I know she will capture me,
         before my ashes dim,


I will never answer life's calling,
             as I have found
it falling into her.
 Mar 2018
Sally A Bayan
.....a day's, or a night's inspiration
just walks away
and escapes my mental grasp
an idea, pregnant with possibilities,
suddenly becomes infertile, like
a barren woman, or a wasteland
i try to get hold of it,
still...it glides away, falling along the
edges of my imagination.
i am bereft,
when my muse has left.
::::::::::::::

sometimes,
i eagerly dip, and wiggle my toes
on a sunny blue river that
manifests itself in my mind,
bursting with promises of new insights...
yet, a slightly curving path is hard to ignore
for, it easily presents itself......and
sometimes,
i give in to its swirls of unfulfilled
dreams, and....sublime moments,
hovering, like a hummingbird
quivering...in my own space,
there in neverlandia, where i'm left
pondering, about a life......unlived.
:::::::::::::::
my toe-dipping moments,
my rare moments of serenity,
are short-lived........ruffled,
besieged by old shadows,
because....phantoms of fear
refuse to die.
::::::::::::::::::::::

sometimes,
when treading this curved path,
unwanted, unexpected
circumstances occur,
and, all of a sudden,
my muse emerges from hiding.
inspirations bloom,
like mushrooms,
bolder,
than those that elude(d) me.
:::::::::::::::::::::::

sometimes,
it takes a while,
for love and life
to rhyme.
::::::::::::::::::::::


Sally

Copyright February 10, 2018
rrab



::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
in a lunar fortnight
the rites are immanent
in the cosmos descent is inevitable
the drunken rites
absolve our ecstasy
make whole again the leftovers
stop what you are doing
and wake up from this dream
a beautiful prison is all i see
respect kindness and let it flower
for a certain portion of an hour
this is theft
the way we neglect our music
is simply tragic
relax to the point of expansion
i sense your new friends
the real ones are the ones
who stick around for the end
blessed are they who don’t play pretend
so forgive yourself
at each morning’s bend
with moisture and hunger to spare
you are as supple as bamboo
and throughout space and time we bear
this cold that does not signify the end
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