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 Nov 2016
Akira Chinen
I am from the blue sky threads of heaven and the black iron flames of hell
I  am innocence bathed in sin
I  am hatred betrayed
and killed by kindness
I  walk the hard concrete of sidewalks
lost along the roads
of tragedy and romance
I  am ghost and soul and body
inside  the hollow shell of an empty heart
searching  for the echo of a memory of a song that was forgotten
before it was ever sang
I am time frozen and crumbled and wasted
and trapped in hours of broken glass and freed by howling winds
and raging seas
where seconds expand past eternity
and minutes outweigh the value
of hours and days and weeks and years  
I am infant and small and  weak
I am old and aged and frail
I am woman and man and devil and god
and strong and wise and wicked and worn
I am dream and truth
I am death and illusion
I  begin at the end
and end at forevers first
footstep
I am flesh and blood and time
I am love
 Nov 2016
James M Vines
Play the strings on the Mandolin and strum the guitar. Play an Irish jig or a Spanish ballad. Let the music flow and wash over the people. Give merriment to the heart of those who have burdens to lay down. Shake the Tambourine and put you hands to the drum. Let the beat play until the night is gone. Give no reason for celebration other than to be alive. Let the hearts of the people rejoice in one another. In all manner of life, let things become surreal, let music inspire the movement and sharing of  all things, from the common in the street to the refinement of the great halls. Let music makes us alive and let us all dance.
Our souls
instinctively seem to know,
all too well,
all of the matters that our minds
fail to comprehend.

Our minds
often tend to get
somewhat overwhelmed,
by all of the things
that they struggle to understand.

Our souls
travel more than a few steps
ahead of us - they are guided
by our blessed intuition.

The insight
from our souls
  develop into gut instincts -
it is to these,
that we should surely listen.

By Lady R.F ©2016
 Nov 2016
r
Some nights
the moon throws its light
like an old man
who can't hold his liquor in
and spits blood in the morning

Someone ought to kick some sense
into me, if they did I'd hum
like the body of a fiddle

I propose we all strip down
and take a swim with my friends
the dragonflies, but no one will listen
to what I have to say when I throw my voice
like an empty bottle deep in the forest

When I think of all the dark
and swift things of my rivers,
I wonder why time the old boot -
legger hides his maps and goes
on traveling the low roads

Alone I can tell you there is so much
beside the point of the thorn of the rose
and why the moon is with me always
whenever i choose to go it alone

I drink from that blue jar of time
and breathe the breath of sweet infants

Believe you me the dead shepherd
we sent up the river in a faraway land
in a time so long ago still holds us
all by the holes in his hands

You can see the dark clouds up ahead,
my cloisters I am always walking through them
with you children of the lost dreams,
and with you fifty-something snow-headed men

We have just collided with our lost sons
on the high road of morning, we are rising
dust like the dirt on our children's graves
saying nothing to our brothers the stones.
 Nov 2016
irinia
this pain in the middle
spinning, dividing, spinning
there are two points of him

he howls in my dreams
with cold hands in transcendental spaces
like a long absence in an imaginary present

his eyes - two black boxes
recording all the right data
everything more real than necessary
performing the body with toast sensations

he pauses naturally in the dark room
the man with the moon
swallowed
in his heart
 Nov 2016
nivek
we are dying all the time
the wonder is
we find life in death
 Nov 2016
Francie Lynch
BeforeTV

Before TV,
When we were together,
Before growing apart
From father and mother,
We entertained ourselves with song;
All the sisters and brothers.

We gambolled in the backyard,
The clothes line was our zip line,
We fell soft, then hard.

We somehow got a hold of skates,
Not knowing what they're for,
So we took turns,
Laced them on,
To skate on cement floors.

We raised a high jump,
Skipped on the driveway,
Double Dutch and Speed;
We strung a line for volleyball,
Nailed a hoop below the roof,
Played soccer in the hall.
We paddled ping-pong on the table;
Our household freedom
Made us as grateful
As animals in a well-kept stable.

Some winters we'd flood the back,
And shoot and slide until the cracks
Turned to puddles,
Then I'd sail popsiclestick boats
Over oceans,
To distant folks.

On the frontwalk we tossed our stones,
Landing on the moon,
And hopscotch til we went for soup
And soda bread and **** milk.

If we had a ball and bat,
Chances are we'd not come back
'til the sun went down;
And then,
When the stars came out,
We'd *Hide and Seek,

Til the last one'd shout,  Home Free.
With dirt and patchwork dungarees,
We went in
For good-night tea.

Weren't we the normal family?

Then we got our first T.V.

After T.V.

We were landed,
Not gentry,
And we started channelling
U.S. T.V.

We weren't polite like Cartwrights,
Nor guaranteed Lil' Joe's birthright.

The sisters locked on Patty Duke,
Then dressed the same
To get the look,
So they ditched their Wellie boots.


We'd lie on the floor,
Stuck like glue,
On Sundays watch Ed's Big Shoe.
We didn't know the sun had left,
Our eyes were on the TV set.

The Cleaver boys still got dessert,
Though leaving green beans on their plate,
Left ice-cream and sweet chocolate cake.
We'd stare confused, yet salivate;
Such treats and food we'd never waste.

The Douglas boys had single beds,
En suites, bathrobes,
Hair on their heads;
Pillows and open windows,
And locks on doors,
They weren't co-ed.
We slept, at least, two to a bed,
Four to a room, two bedspreads.
We slept on mattresses with stinging springs,
Torn and traced with stale *****.
In the hot and humid summer,
In bathing suits
We'd swim in slumber.
Our small window couldn't open,
We roasted in our four walled oven.

We watched Lassie and Gomer Pyle,
Green Acres' Arnold had us beguiled.
We didn't get Father Knows Best,
His gentleness raised our regrets.
Lucy and Ricky, an odd couple,
Were always getting into trouble,
Like Fred and best bud, Barney Rubble.

Were these the models to emulate,
To blend in North of the United States?

These families had open conversations,
Shared their thoughts without hesitation.
Mine were full of consternation,
And alien, like My Favourite Martian.

We grew in a foreign land,
Beached like the cast on Gilligan.

Surely, we were Lost in Space,
Separate from the human race.
No gyroscope to set direction,
To separate fact from fiction.

We weren't stupid,
We were astute;
We weren't the ones on our TV.
We were a singular family.

Post T.V.

We numbered ten at the start,
Then aged and drifted far apart;
We can't gather to watch TV,
As we were once wont to be.
But I remember Ernest T.,
Throwing rocks to win Charlene,
And arrested by Sheriff Andy.
We laughed at all the silly doings
Of Barney, and Thelma Lou's wooings.

I send e-mails and textual banter,
(One brother still likes writing letters),
Reminding me of our early days,
How TV censured our innocent ways.

We never were small screen.
We emigrated to Canada from Ireland in 1957. A brave new world.
 Nov 2016
Ja
I stared out the window
My brain, completely disengaged
No thoughts, no emotions
But a war was being waged

I could not move or even think
Stood lifeless, as I gazed
But, inside my brain
This awful darkness blazed

Outside the window, light
It seemed so warm and pure
Still, inside my head
A madness did me lure

I could not raise my voice
Could not, say a word
That evil’s lock on me
Seemed to be assured

But then an angel’s voice
So sweetly to me said
Come with me my dear
And let us go to bed
BOEMS BY JA 583      
FOR MY WIFE
 Nov 2016
The Ripper
VVe vvrite words
to fill in the emptiness
as if they vvere concrete patches
for neglected sidevvalks
that nobody vvalks on
Carry on
D A R K  poets
Toss that alphabet
tovvards my shovel
let me bury it
forever
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