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 Apr 2017
r
Mud, whiskey, death
and bad debts, the river's
high water, mysterious birds
flying south disappearing
like a youngest daughter,
no good men, bad intentions,
changing seasons, unexplained
pains, all of these are reasons
I've seen good women weeping
after the hardest rains came.
Grievous grace, has due yesterday’s blue
Autonomous avarice enigma entity’s hue
Identity crisis guidon guile’s due
Mystic symbiosis’ existential true

Apostrophe sabbat transcendental kitsch
Consortium liaison’s libido’s glitch
Translucent opulence’s lambent’s a *****
Metaphysical mystique is black as pitch

Terrestrial equestrian tellurian's terrene
Adamant tenacity’s obtusely obscene
Obstinate loquacity spiritually serene
Maniacally meticulous  dexterity’s preen

Lucid cogent fecund’s maieutic
Incarnate’s manumissional eidetic
Spatiotemporal telemetry’s fanatic
Logistical tactician’s primal ecstatic

Chicanery dynamism’s  opulent fealty
Intrinsic innate retrospective cruelty
Indigenous endemic inherent frailty
Corrupt costume counselor subtlety

Gambit alluvium aloof impunity
Immunity is Epicurean absurdity
Who are we to us complicity
Nimbus nimiety exorcism’s congruity
Long lived dreams
painted with clouds
in the sky,
so vivid,
just a touch away
from her delicate fingertips,

They keep her feeling alive,
they keep her wide-eyed,
whilst the salt
from the crashing waves
spray onto her dried up lips.

A fire burns brightly
deep down inside,
but she's too numb
to feel the pain,

Through her beautiful,
innocent, tired eyes
you can see the flame.

She pushes it all aside;
in her dreams
she finds a place to hide
again.

Every day
she does the same.

Exhaling as the sun sets
each and every night,

Dying, over and over again;
reborn, time and time again,
at the sight of morning's light.

Holding her own trembling hand,
trying so hard not to lose her grip,

Balancing
on the edge
of her world,
trying so hard
not
to
fall;
she won't survive
another slip.

Listening out for answers
howling in the vicious wind,
she fails to hears anything,

Clutching hope, and faith,
praying that her love for life
will conquer everything.

She's a fighter!
Tomorrow
she will be reborn again;
from the mountain top
you will hear her sing!

By Lady R.F. (C) 2017
 Apr 2017
Francie Lynch
Hey, Xavy:
If we're still here
When you get older,
Check out the potholes on my street;
Are we still planting telephone poles,
Accusing animals for sky blue holes?
Are there tourists in S.E. Asia;
Did Manhattan disappear?

Are people dying with different bodies,
Still thinking with their transplanted heads?
Do we build schools, did the shootings stop?
Is work still measured by the clock?
Do well-heeled shepherds still manage flocks?
Have you seen our  fingers evolve,
Does anyone listen to voices at all?

When you get there, Xavy,
Take a look.
Did they heed the Richter scales,
The geo-thermal warnings,
The snow caps' warmings?
Does wildlife drink from Winter's brooks,
Is the soil capable of growth,
Does Spring herald re-birth?

Your spirit is indomitable.
No problem insurmountable.
Denial is unintelligible,
The sacrifice regrettable,
But no other choice acceptable.
And the legacy left remarkable.

Ah, Xavy, What I would give to be a small part of your unfolding world.
But I've got to go.
All the Best.
Granda
Xavy: Short for Xavier, my grandson.
 Apr 2017
Edward Coles
Lived the life of an artist
long before I became one.
Pressed to guitar strings
until my fingers were numb
to all exposed skin
that was not my own.

Listened to one thousand sad songs
over and over
until the pointless chords
clamoured over one another,
psalms of living
fall on deaf ears.

Trawled archives of *******.
Lauded aristocrats of cheap whiskey nights
and black coffee mornings.
Garnished my days with addictions carried
by better men
in love with real women.

Grew thin, moved about the apartment
in the graveyard hours
tacking songs to the walls.
In the absence of chains and ***
I fixed myself with neon lights
and cigarettes.

Spilt paint over undeserving paper
beneath the halogen bulb
to colour radio silences
of past friendships,
mountains I should let recede
like a ship in the night.

Stood alone in crowds
to witness the onset of a moment,
openings and closings of mouths and doors;
each one to allow another person in.
I go home alone
and sleep with my thoughts.
C
 Apr 2017
spysgrandson
my old street,  
a perfect bicycle drag strip,
needed no gutters--all rains drained
into the bay  

but today,
the lane where
I learned to drive, is a place gulls dance
and killdeer prance

this river
is a dozen inches deep
at street’s end, but a yard and growing at the bay
where the hot dog stand once steamed  

the melting monsters
were a million miles from us, you know;
a threat to a Titanic, though  surely inconsequential
to the Atlantic, or so it seemed

all the hype about heat, carbon emissions,
ozone’s demise, and other gassy notions, we thought
belonged in tomorrow’s world of worry  

but tomorrow became today,
and now it’s commonplace to say,
"the shoreline receded--that neighborhood’s gone."    

a continent constricted,
a lowly inch a year, by greed or divine design?
retribution from an earth that never forgets?
or a fickle force we cannot fathom?  

I am ancient now, though I recall those admonitions,
ambiguities that fueled futile debate, until it was too late
and here I be, watching waters at low tide, lapping
against my feet on a once dry and driven street
E A R T H   D  A  Y
 Apr 2017
onlylovepoetry
flexing flummoxing freaking insatiable pleasuring*


~

didn't write these words
some other me created

woefully admit l,
in them, yet, I believed
in them,
as a piece of my soul,
once removed

wearily confess I,
the absence of flummoxing, infuriating confusion,
understanding instant with perfect illusion,
what they mean
the flexing of insatiable pleasuring

of the why
now, one more added,
the mystery, one molecule lessened,
the irrational irritation of the princess pea in my soul,
the flexing flummoxing freaking insatiable pleasuring
of writing

only love poetry
april one 2 nought seventeen
10:25am
 Apr 2017
Nat Lipstadt
~
all my poems are prayers on a good fun-Sunday

or a piece thereof;
wishes or curses,
longings, hopes, and a boatload of
'wouldn't it be loverly'

absent tho the conditional,
the if -then continuum,
no promises or persuasive pressures,
deal making sort of pointless
as words are directed internal to the
stew, the mix of matter and sensibility,
that seems to try and semi-govern me,
my own game controller Xbox apparatus

risen Sunday morn church in bed
first poem prayer issued,
a prone proclamation:

let me always allay
the needs of others owed
before mine owned

I like it,

maybe I'll call it commandment #110,
which means got all day to come up
with a couple more - good fun-Sunday*

4/23/17
8:53am
 Apr 2017
James Floss
Hail, Nero,
Friend of Piso;
Welcome to the villa

Agrippina at Mar-a-Lago
Ivanka in her tower
A Melania apologia.

Left we are all stumped
Under water and in ruins;
Unfortunately *******.
 Apr 2017
Cné
mσσnlíght ín thє mєαdσw
cαѕtѕ thє ѕhαdσw σf thє trєєѕ
í cαtch α glimpse of ѕílvєr
αѕ thє вrαnchєѕ cαtch thє вrєєzє
thєrє'ѕ juѕt α ѕσund σf ruѕtlíng lєαvєѕ
ín ѕσlítudє í ѕtrσll
thє wσσdѕ αrє mínє thíѕ єvєníng
αѕ í plαч thє wσmαn'ѕ rσlє
pαuѕíng вч thє rívєrвαnk
thє ѕчmphσnч вєgínѕ
thє ruѕhíng wαtєr'ѕ cσuntєrpσínt
tσ lívє σαk'ѕ crєαkíng límвѕ
thє gєntlє wínd, thє tєmpσ mαkєѕ
αnd í вєgín tσ hєαr
thє rhчthm σf thє pulѕє σf lífє
αn єαrth ѕσng ín mч єαr
hσw ѕwєєt thє єvєníng ѕєєm tσ mє
αríαѕ fíll thє níght
αnd thєn thєч mαkє α chσruѕ
αѕ thє mσσn rєѕumєѕ hєr flíght
hσmєwαrd вσund, í pαuѕє αnd líѕtєn
α mєlσdч ѕσ ѕwєєt
rєgrєtfullч, thє ѕpєll íѕ gσnє
nσw, juѕt thє trαffíc'ѕ вєαt
Happy Earth Day!
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