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 Jun 2016
Alin
whisper a whisper of their shine:

“You can only see me if you are true
You can only be me if you are true”


I assume a purple
then

a flower

rocked by the wind

dancingly
embody

a shape of its stem

and its roots

serenely
deliver

All of my

desires

one by one

to
She

She
the ever knowing
the ever loving
receiver

disperses
the waves

in waves

through
particles

to equilibrate

by her
ever present
awareness

this
subtle

Tune of
Unification

curlingly
raises
towards
a crest

of a
single
wavelength

of
light

and
touches

touches
Me

Me

the
color of
thyme fields

for a while
just
 May 2016
Kathryn Heim
Splendor
shine
sparkle divine,
Dawn's
first light
rosy
bright,
single star
twinkling
blink,
imagine
lightning
in a
wink,
thunder
power
echoes
a storm,
sun's rays
expand
nurturing warm,
eternal energy
high voltage sent,
God's source
redemption
simply
radiant.
 May 2016
wordvango
no one to talk to, here,
in the middle of terse words and resentment,
for they should hear, and be heard,
once or twice or many voices calling from
alleys limbs concrete the hard parking lots
filled with Mercedes
and shiny wheels and 400 horses
power the wheel around again
from roads only walked
felt discovered in hard
journeys
in journals and scribbles ranted
from the tops of billboards
while people cars and cellular
things rush by fast
text this to the last person or dove
the last scion of human being
left in the pile of
white undying
petroleum
crud cups
from McDonald's as
the skinny fries sizzle
 Apr 2016
Denel Kessler
Cold as the morning
cold as my blue heart
we don't have
to hold something
to feel its absence
to know its significance
we are drawn for reasons
beyond our limited sense
of time and space.

Each moment is
a turning point
we get to choose
whether to anchor in
isolation's safe harbor
or tell stagnant fear
to *******
we'd rather live
exposed and free

fill every cell
until brimming over
with all the love
that is destined
to flow our way
even the kind
that defies description
will forever be
the singularity.

We are alive
the ink is still drying
on this page
there are choruses
yet to be sung
love is
open
come in
out of the cold.
 Apr 2016
Pragya Chawla
in pealing season, she is a girl of lousy ingrowth
she is an unkempt corner; kitchen sink. legs pulled like knives. phone call her curled tendons; isolation in
grit and fibril      
she is women with wings. this is how we stymie the rapunzel. we carve the ugly into her. we teach her to wear skin like saran. skin like punishment
                        cut-coin the rumpelstiltskin. how she is  wound and string, paper-doll; bird-in-a-box
how we wring the juice of her on washcloth. hung upturned from the ceiling fang; plucked and feathered
like apology. cherry-picked; veins like mikado. how it is dark and she is blind-bat wind-warriors; waterboarded with no hands
upturning the paper boats of her in every follicle; how the flipswitch insecurity eats her like pickle. in a storm
she is neither nor tongue nor limb
just breast, bone, the weight of mirrors
how we jettison when the grief is heavy. abandon. thick, empty abandon.
alone in grit-cusps when the monsoon has eaten into the white, wispy mortuary. dark in hallways; yet pale and slender. she is beautiful.
we lift her ribbed corpse off the shoreline.
we unload the offering like red carpet;
this is how we wrap her in white and weary-eyed
translucent. how unavoidable we become when we are the last hope. crippled. when we look hope in the eye. askance. how she will beg you to look at her with the heart in the honey-jar; torso in tourniquet
how the walls are ripped in shades of askance. how we look away.

how us, walls, look away.
how, us, walls, askance.
how we drip of askance; how the pink flesh and cherry-limb slips like matchstick on brushfire
how there is purple and primrose and bruise
there are some spots on the floor where it still reeks purple and yellow and bruise
how we are
               lousy
                         ingrowth
here.  how we
                                                              ­   try
to
pluck
                             and *erase
 Apr 2016
Alin
a wish
flies to skies
Swims against
the star-glittery
streams
and inspires
the coolest of breeze
cincturing a mount ridge
to carve a glimpse
of an ice goddess
made of a pellucid kiss
O the flamboyant curves
of the temptress
abiding the blue-sky
shall too
one day vaporize
by the fire of a touch
to deliver
a seed of sprouts
within the dissipated
yearning of the fumes
lovers scintillate
aureate gleam
of the celestial bliss
on a non starry sky
whence becoming a home
to their eyes
the moon smiles
to exhilarate
You
by a dawn flower
born from love’s
secret meeting
unmanifest until
You have vivified
an unknown myrrh
in your dream
An aroma of
true desire
by which
I
shall be born
and reshape
most elegantly
most delicately
to dissolve
in the euphoria
of this incarnating bath
made of breath
seducing
the immaculate flavor
of nectar
glaring
like the mastic
of the pine
on your tongue
for I’ve left
my fasting heart
in vows of truth
to be able to
answer your question
about what I have meant
by my ’you are my first’
resurrecting letters now
to a whisper
clinging like a
perennial symphony
in your ears
only once heard
in the absence
of full trust
shall it too
stop
wobbling
this waking reality
from its truth

I would stay
then still
invariably
(unheard)
in your ears
to aid you create
A harmony born universe
of here
and
now
as you open and close your eyes
and teach me yogas
I shall not assume
of things and beings
Anymore but be
the one and the only
divine posture of the devi
that shall unite me to you
Eternally
 Apr 2016
Rapunzoll
i like angry poetry
the kind that churns
in your gut,
with razors for teeth
and gums bleeding.
i like the violent sound
of verbs clashing
on a decaying page,
like the shot of a gun
on a quiet day.
i like the poetry that stays,
that lies in waiting
like a dog in a cage,
words that creep like
voided birds into the
wired tress of my brain,
that pay their rent
like drunken travelers
and trash the place.
i like angry poetry
the kind that sears it's
screams to my lips,
which spirit echoes and
moans for eager,
****** eyes.
words that hit like *****,
giving their reader
a killer hangover.
i like angry poetry,
the kind that leave you
with a smoky exit.
© copyright
 Apr 2016
Sjr1000
Births and deaths
Debts and success
Floods and droughts
Cyclones and hurricanes
Earthquakes and tsunamis
Misery
Chaos and serenity

All in flux
Milling about
Constant movement
Constant din
Silence within
Raging against
the dry dry winds.

Another restless moment
in the universe
Stars are born
go cold and die
Galaxies collide
Black holes
hold
no return
Super Novas
bring silence
to light years
eons wide

Another restless day
on the planet
in this our
moment of time
in this our place
in the universe.
 Apr 2016
Tyler King
When the President tells you that you have nothing to fear,
you do not believe him
When the police officer with something to prove asks if you have anything to hide,
you do not tell him
When the father who wanted something more looks through you,
you do not reciprocate
When the angry kid with no outlet and an audience of his peers throws a brick at you,
you strike back,
one shot,
closed fist,
short swing,
straight to the jaw,
you do not continue,
You had a point to prove and you proved it,
The blood is its own reward, dripping down your neck to burn the words,
"NEVER AGAIN"
into your newly forged spine,
When they tell you that you are ugly,
You rip out the page in their dictionary that contains the word
"Beauty"
You staple it to the insides of your wrists and you call it a poem,
This is the first of many times you will do this,
By the end your arms read like Gospel, your hands pick Revelation from between the lines left blank by the ones who came before you,
And all they ask in return is that you tell your story where theirs trails off:
Yours is a story of war.
Metaphorical war.
Literal war.
War of the self versus the ideal, the means versus the ends, the culture versus the capital, the tyrant versus humanity,
It is a tale as old as the streets you stumble home on,
You cannot expect love to work like trickle down economics,
You cannot expect trickle down economics to work at all,
If there is love still to be had it bears its colors on the front lines,
Armed to the teeth, and hungry,
It is the only weapon you have that cannot be regulated,
And when the revolution comes you will let it burn those ******* where they stand

When they tell you that revolution can not be ****,
When the chains of expectation drag you into the dirt,
Shake the dust,
Pull yourself up by your newly forged spine,
Prove them wrong,
As many times as it takes
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