Spring is a pretty time                                                                                             To pick some flowers to those                                                                                  Whom we love and to those whom                                                                         We care about anytime ...                                                                                        Flowers are great and precious to those                                                                 Who understand their real meanings ...                                                                 Picking flowers means caring about                                                                       Our loved ones anytime ...                                                                                      A bunch of flowers sent to our loved ones,then                                                     Their Hearts will be cheered up ...                                                                              ___________________­_

I placed the cuts between your fingers,
Intricately,
Your mind like patch work,
Flipping the switch on & off,
Doesn't save a life,
There's not enough oxygen in the world,
But please go on about equality,
Hold the hand of a dying child,
Cause all he wanted in life was to not be,
hungry,
I got the cat out of my tool box,
I wiped window pains with ciggerates,
So we'd all be a happy family.

I'm a born mourner;
Not a whimperer,
Or whiner;
Don't cry for me,
Don't worry for me.
Let me mourn.
Although an orphan,
A singleton,
I'm better off
Than all the dead poets,
Stacked one atop the other,
Babel high.
When that high,
It's a sudden drop.
If somethings human
Should locate
Forty percent of my bones
Sometime down their road,
Then you can worry about me.

Okay kids, here’s a story for you.
I’m pretty sure it’s mostly true
Exaggerations?  Maybe a few,
About a mixed-up day when the sun turned blue!

Well I went outside and looked around
Bright red grass was on the ground
The sun was blue, the sky was pink
Now that’s a mixed-up day I think!

I turned and asked my good friend John,
What do you think is going on?
John couldn’t answer because, you see
He was laughing quite hysterically!

He said, “Your face is purple, and your hair is green!
You’re the strangest thing I’ve ever seen!”
What were we supposed to do?
On a mixed-up day when the sun turned blue.

I said, “John, look in the mirror!”
This mixed up day was getting weirder.
One ear was orange and one was red
And chartreuse hair was on his head.

His face was filled with polka dots
Turquoise, with some blue-green spots
Everything was a different hue
On a mixed up day when the sun turned blue.

Azure cats, chased by teal dogs;
By the burgundy lake were light blue frogs.
Khaki clouds floated way up high, and
Lime green birds flew through bright pink sky.

Scarlet trees with jet black leaves
Were blowing in a violet breeze.
Yes!  We could even see the wind!
It’s sure a mixed-up day we’re in.

This mixed-up day was getting old!
John walked away down a ruby road,
And I thought I would try to sleep,
Perhaps by counting crimson sheep.

When I woke up it was April Two,
One day after the sun turned blue
So I hope you all had lots of fun
The mixed-up day was April One!
     Happy April Fool's Day!
Phil Lindsey, April 1, 2015

I just want to hear the truth,
I want to hear your voice and see if it cracks when you look at me,
Ages ago, you said we'd meet again when we turned 50, on the same boat we first found each other,
No matter what, you said we'd meet
I wonder if those were just convenient words,
Convenient touches, convenient love
I'm sorry, that's unkind.
(Then again, much of this has been unkind)
Our love was not convenient,
It was difficult and effortless, expensive and priceless, painful and analgesic
It was volatile and tender, it was all I ever wanted

I
"We spoke of men
as often as of poems.
We tried to legislate away
the need for love –
that backseat ****
& death caressing you."
–Erica Jong

ah, this side of paradise!
there's no comfort in the wise,
no comfort at all. I roll it up how I was
taught to, half cancer half plant,
wait around for the next one.

ever feel like a ******? I'd asked her
once, waiting on a corner, fishing for a lighter.
no, but I feel like Sylvia Plath.
I had responded: can I be Anne Sexton?

it seemed right, that is, my severe rejection of emotions via denial, via wanting to tear out my hippocampus,

stomp on it, trying to forget every walk to every room and back, to every house and back.

she herself was severe, though, this friend, more sad in an intrinsical way, more dull and rotten than I, via bad chemistry, while I was just a
case of depressive charlatanism gone bad.
Right?

I searched for acceptance in every bed cover's crease and dollar bills I handed them to buy me smokes.
I searched for it, hands on me, and then before then I had searched for it while he asked what's wrong?
You need to tell me what's wrong!

I love you! You need to tell me! Are you ok?





You are funny if you think I responded.



I likened my staring state, I fixed it in my head as a piercing quixotically sad one, once.




My silence was a story in itself.

II*

"You loved a man who spoke
like greeting cards.
'He ***** me well
but I can’t talk to him.'"
– Erica Jong

It was ultimately guilty,
this time removed from pleasure.
The whole situation, blows to the face
and little slaps of course,
I felt the need to send myself into
a sort of temporary sleep so I forgot
but then would wake up again
because that would mean they won
and this is why I concussed myself once.

He tells me he cares and it's not
that I don't believe him but
it's that I don't believe myself.

I apologize for my being a burden and
he asks me why.
I suppose I am used to it

and if I could stare at him
it would be the same old stare.





"We shared that awful need
to talk in bed.
Love wasn’t love
if we could only speak
in tongues."*
– Erica Jong

You know what the stories say
About me. They call me silly,
Foolish, disobedient. They say
I should have listened to my
Father. Now he was a guy
Worth listening to: the one
Who built the labyrinth -- the one
That caged the bull-headed beast
And sent virgins, hopelessly
Lost, to their deaths.

He made me a pair of wings
And when he was finished
told me to contemplate my
mortality. And not to fly too close
To the sun. For the feathers
Were joined only by wax and days
But the sun was made of
molten fire and eternity.

How could I listen though?
When after so long
Penned in the cool, dim labyrinthine
Depths of his workshop, I was finally
Free. A soft warm shaft of sunlight
pierced me through and I was lost.
On my ****** flight, I was ecstatically
lost, rising madly to the shivering
brink of infinity.

Imagine me with my great white
waxen feathered wings circling
(Circling) (Circling) spiraling
Higher and higher to a crisis.

Oh I melted.
Then I fell.

I do wish they'd asked me how I'd have
Liked to be remembered though: Not
the merely foolish bull-headed kid
who refused to obey,
But the dreamer with wild eyes,
The one who once flew
too close to the Sun
And briefly,
(All too briefly)
Blazed.