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 Mar 2017
Lora Lee
essences of fire
and ice
        keep wanting
to burst out of me
it is so hard to know
where to end
how to start
           the rivulets
    the torrents
           turn them on like
                   a waterfall faucet
they are there,
the opposing elements
lurking, ready
just under surface
waiting to ooze, pour
secret inner filth
spilling endless
crusty lava
onto the naked
rough-hewn floor
along with purest
of lightbeam

hard to pinpoint
the moment
I knew I loved you
what love
is actually supposed to be
bubbling and frothing beneath
              ice floes, melting
                         hot wax sliding
                      I do not know how
                           to prevent this
          dripping exhaustion
of elongated membranes
from imploding
into the truest
form of encapsulated longing
sharpened pangs
spit-roasted
upon the fibers
of my brain, of my heart
my pain in stop starts
stop no go on
I can't take it
I want it all
can you feel me?
I want it all, I say
thrumming hotly
down
      to
           the last
wild drop
of
  eternity
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a_pAJc4Q2l8
 Mar 2017
Samuel Fox
https://youtu.be/73TOA_qdd0M?t=26s
Spoken Word piece performed at The Odditorium in Asheville, NC in 2014.
 Mar 2017
Traveler
One of the greatest gift
Bestowed upon us
Is emotional pain
To embrace it
Is to finally live again

Sweet pretty Sandy Brown
She introduced me
To my first heartache
It felt as if I would die
To numb the pain
Was my first mistake

One cold day
I embraced the pain within
Only then did the pain dull
Enough to move on
To live, love
And even lose again

Life can be a painful experience
There's no avoiding it
There's no other road to take
Only cliffs

No matter how safe
You think you are
It's pain that makes us
Who we really are
...
Traveler Tim

Life is pain
You just get use to it
 Mar 2017
Nat Lipstadt
Forest inquires:

How do you decide, choose your design, find its guise,
give it a face, surrender to the poem's own
vanity,
        and choose the poem's alignment?


                                                  an­ answer forms:

this alignment idea,
you think it simple,
everybody understands
what your inquiry means

alignment -  the appropriate relative position

we live in relative position to each other, our poems too, for they are but written synapses of our close captioned interactions, seemingly random, but assuredly not, as we invest in ourselves, seeking the mysterious appropriate answer
                                                                ­                        from the Theory of Poetic Relativity

                                                   ­             i love your question;                              hold it to my nostrils,          
                                             ­             smell the coffee aroma wake up blast inherent;
                                                                ­      
 kiss its robust childlike cheeks for the simple   soulfulness essential arousal;
for you see sir you have found
the appropriate position that relates us, our mindful words;

                                 answer no good, wholly insufficient?
                                        perfect.
                          as i close this quick cooked to perfection laboratory solution, take note

                              
                            ­                        the earth has moved
                                our hearts have beaten a measly thousand times
                                    time and space have appropriated our prior
                                          
relativity

when you return years hence this poem's shape will perforce have moved. for words are weathered flux constant and yet inherently unchanged except for the part of us that changes with every re-reading  

and what was


**right before has left and the center has moved again
Nat,

This is probably just an insane thing of mine, but I cannot stand the center aligned formatted poetry. I want to read the poetry, but why center? I want to know why it is center aligned? If it is a metaphor for how poetry could/should serve as a balancing point, a countervailing force for a point, perhaps I could understand...but so many poems center aligned, I don't know, I am probably missing something.

A right aligned poem? Perhaps I could understand, if the content was asking me to revolt, to revolutionize, to counter the status quo. But a centered poem? What does the alignment mean?

anyway, it has been a long time since I've been around, keep writing, hope you are well.

-forest
 Mar 2017
Traveler
Human doubt
Depletes the soul
Off into the ether
Our essence flow

These things
Are invisible
Until you close
Your eyes...
Doubt
Is bigger
Than these pangs
Of life...

Doubt moves us on
While faith holds tight
Doubt lives again
Beyond the night

In worlds anew
Where creature create
Doubt is actually
An open gate

So hold on Thomas
Cause here I come
We're off to Never
Never Land
Where
I doubt
We're from

Don't let hope
Bind you here
Let your doubt
Take the wheel
And steer!
Traveler Tim
 Mar 2017
Joel M Frye
To my friends
who can write
fresh-smelling
bouquets of words
with splendid color,
I offer my envy.
Mine are the blunt, stunted words,
rooted in the cracks
in pavement,
or forcing their way
to light around
overbearing rocks.
Some useful
in their own way,
edible or flavorful,
some with a
pedestrian beauty,
but few that one
would bring home in a bunch
with a box of candy.
More appropriate
in a grimy, young fist
crumpled in love,
destined to be vased
in a water glass
by a doting mother,
or shredded petal by petal
for the sake of soothsaying...
he loves me, he loves me not.
The beauty of your words takes my breath away some days.  Thank you.
 Mar 2017
Eudora
It is absolutely breath-taking..

how each of his exquisite poems sing..
a distinctive melody,
*how his mind works like magic...

sculpting the most incredible forms no one could.
Brilliance just shines through his woven pieces...
no words could really define how awe-inspiring his work is.
His meticulous sublime words...
uniquely create ingenious and flawless stanzas,

making each and every one of his craft...
out of this universe.


That is truly..
*
how gifted he is.
 Mar 2017
ryn
I tinker
I overthink
I mull over
I sink

I entertain
I disassemble
I ascertain
I gamble

I play
I rewind
I play again
And again
I find

I reassemble
Still I sink
I'm in battle
When I overthink
 Mar 2017
elizabeth
The fog in my mind
Thickens with each
Thought that runs through.
The darkness seems so
Endless; like the abyss
Of the ocean was shoved
Inside my head and remained
There for the rest of my days.
It is hard to see light
Ahead of me now.
It is hard to see through
The terribly dense fog.
It is even hard to see that
Anything matters.
**Especially me.
March 7, 2017.
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