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 Jul 2015
Chris
~

A bashful sunrise
peeks through the curtains
as we greet the dawn
beneath satin sheets
creating our own
glistening dewdrops
before a wide eyed
*blushing horizon
Good morning beautiful  :)
 Jul 2015
Poetria
Her eyes so bright;
Do you ever wonder where the sun goes at night?

The rain, dancing on the pavement
in no specific arrangement.

Luminous flames eat away at sharp skewers,
Her eyes silver-grey, clashing with the tables of steel.

Barbecue roasting, impaled through the middle
The pain paled in comparison to watching you smile.

A toast to me, myself and I, a glass of sweet solitude.
I watch tall wine glasses clang drunkenly together, alone.

A pin drops in the distance; no silence to accompany it.
Unnoticed it goes, by the arrogant lords and goddesses.

Pick a flower, compliment her hair; devil may care.
She's walking away, I tell her 'Ma'am, have a nice day'

Left alone to stumble back home,
sipping champagne royally; Mockery.

Spilling champagne and it swirls down the drain
I tilt my head back, laughing carelessly all the way.
 Jul 2015
Liz And Lilacs
It is my theory
that we are all connected.
From the thread around your finger
to the ribbon on her wrist
and the rope tightened on my neck.
Every action has a consequence,
because when you pull on the string;
*something unravels.
 Jul 2015
nivek
this elastic coating
is losing its spring
a sure sign of impending
adventure
where skin cannot go
 Jul 2015
Mallow
Glazed faces running fearless in the harvest forest
The brush of the rising crops tingles on the skin
We drop down lying head to head
Following planes with our fingers in the sky.

Your reflection inside mimics my stance outside
Where the smoke from my cigarette
Turns into clouds above my head
Masking the light from the full moon that shines elusively bright.

Distance is crawling between us
Stealing our monumental past
It pollutes our freeness in speech.
Sorrow cant be fixed by ice cream
A day off where i let my mind indulge in far away dreams.

Your voice that was sweet music
Is now NOISE.
I close the bathroom door and wish we were in a book of prose
Where we play faces and turn into toys of mad creation.
 Jul 2015
Mike Hauser
i see you again waiting for the man
***** dollar bills crumpled in shaky hands
your veins would collapse if they weren't running sand
high risk life, low demands

unaware with a vacant stare
of your surroundings, like you even care
there's only one reason as to why your here
and it's not to admire yourself in cars passing mirrors

with the man running late the time ticks lunatic fringe
not knowing he's laying dead in some junkies den
the life style he lived finally did him in
and you with no idea soon you'll be following him

because the life of a ****** is no life at all
one step from the ledge with the needles drawl
milk blood to make sure you get it all
one last time before last call...
 Jul 2015
Chris
-

Trying to dance in a sawdust enclosure
Finding the moon disappears on this night
Hearing a song though there’s nobody playing
Asking the stars if they’re wrong or they’re right

Taking a drink from a glass now half empty
Quenching my thirst on a warm summer’s eve
Sharing a glance with a mirrored reflection
Someone I know or at least I believe

When through the door walks a beautiful lady
Dressed all in white with a belt made of gold
Kicks off her shoes as she starts heading towards me
This is a story about to be told

Now in my arms as she moves very graceful
Floating on air is now just how it seems
Lips painted red how I wish I could taste them
I hope I’m awake for this feels like a dream

Spinning around as the world is now watching
Following steps that I easily trace
Slowly we slide ‘cross this dance floor of heaven
Long ago moments so soon to erase

We are like breaths sighed in harmonic whispers
Effortless motions so silent and free
Like wearing wings made of gossamer feathers
Such is the feeling awash over me

Falling in love with this wonderful woman
Something about her just touches me so
Hot coffee hair and her eyes nearly matching
Holding her close as to never let go

When just as quick I now find her departing
Why must she leave on an evening like this
A brush of my cheek with her fingers so gentle
Then with a smile she gives me a kiss

Watching the door as it closes behind her
Feeling my heart now is breaking in two
Then as she soars neath the glow of a halo
Blinking my eyes, can’t believe this is true

A few things I know as I stare out the window
I’m still not lucky at love or romance
That woman in white was all I have prayed for,
And I’ve now paid the devil his due…

to teach me to dance
Just for fun.   :)
 Jul 2015
Vidya
yes of course
i noticed you yes
you sitting on a park bench watching
the tail-wagging hunting dog you bought to charm
us into loving you

and if you really want one of us why
challenge me to this game of
mixed doubles badminton i can't possibly win
some lose some

how can i trust you if you
have to put my plants out in the rain to
catch a chirping cricket or if you
can’t make me cry with laughter when you
make fun of my religion

you are not
the kind of person who would
tell me the rugs make your body itch so much you have to
take a shower & steal my clothes while i let the
tetrahydrocannabinol go to my
mouth (and you think
god she's beautiful and
god i'm such a handsome *******) you are not
the kind of person who would
wish people took care of you as well as i
(do or die trying) and

i have severed the hand that fed me
with these flesh-sharpened canines
of mine
and i have not had seconds yet i have not
said grace i have not
eaten the porridge from your
outstretched hands cupped
as if to catch the hail that
stings my skin and
ricochets from yours as if it were
leather and the sheath of your knife
concentrated in the firelight and the
scent of burning cedar i am not
the one with a wrung-out neck and a
doll-eyed stare if you could
pluck the feathers one by one from my
frozen flesh i would not
bat an eyelid swing
low closed and animal finish
your story and in the dewy
morning the dead pine
will crawl with the beetles you brought in mason jars

how can you look me in the eyes when
dinner & wine always ends with a
checkmate
 Jul 2015
Mike Hauser
this poem is a blank page

it's only need for words

are to hold it in place

it has come to the point

where all i have to say

can fit in a poem

that is a blank page
 Jul 2015
Joe Cottonwood
Four old men, digging a grave
on a hillside
one with a pick, two with shovels
all with stories
passing them around
stories, pick, shovels
taking turns
not a single earthworm in this ****** soil
plenty of rocks.

Don is the oldest, at eighty-plus
a good man with a pick
breaking, pulling clods of clay.
After thirty years in a
San Quentin prison cell,
he’s walked across the USA
three times. Big guy, gray ponytail,
not one wrinkle on that copper body,
power of a bronco
behind gentle eyes.

Terry is bald, seventy-plus,
in the Air Force he was trusted
with nuclear launch codes,
then thought better of it and hit the road,
dirt-bike racer, merry prankster,
grinning beatnik, psychedelic dancer,
always good with tools
wields a shovel like a pencil
writing the hole
as a poem.

David is almost seventy,
bearded like a prophet,
wizard of China
raised like a farm boy,
adventures in Alaska,
heroic high school English teacher,
telepathic with animals and teenagers,
can speak to horses
in haiku.

Digging is therapy.
A hard job, the work of death.
A time for muscle and sweat,
our language of grief.
We joke, I’ll dig your grave
if you’ll dig mine.

We agree, each canine
has an individual personality
but also each carries
dog spirit. As one leaves
you welcome another
different, individual
but the dog spirit renews
rejoins your life
making you whole.

On this land already
I’ve buried four dogs, two cats.
Dakota will make five,
good company.
Terry says “When Dakota arrives
in doggy heaven or wherever
dogs go, she’ll report
there are good owners here.”
A good review
on doggy Yelp:
Fear not, next puppy.

Four old men, digging a grave
on a hillside
among spirits.
Don Moseman spent 30 years mostly in a 4 by 8 cell in San Quentin Prison, now is a wildlife photographer.
Terry Adams is a poet, mechanic, and dirt bike racer.
David E. LeCount is a haiku master, a retired high school teacher.
 Jul 2015
Aztec Warrior
The back beat catches me off guard
as the music floats
on apricot flavored funk;
drifting me on strawberry
streams of ideals
laced with mushroom
shaped dreams.
Limp watches
tell surreal time
in fluffy notes
of “who the hell cares”
and in spite of all
the multi-colored word phrases
I want to say,
my tongue is swollen with the bitterness
of a world just too ****** up
to be sane.

So, cover me with;
drown me in,
your sensual warmth
of liquid
psychedelic escape.

Aztec Warrior   7.27.15

https://youtu.be/dkaSxmvZnGs
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