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 Apr 2018
Lorraine Colon
Let the wounded bird take wing,
Though dismal may be his fate;
Should he overcome this cruel sting,
His triumph he'll celebrate

Let the willow bend and weep;
Though it appears to be weak,
It would tell you its roots run deep
If it were able to speak

Let the wolf howl to the moon --
He has the right to be heard;
Morning will be here all too soon,
Then enters the singing bird

Let the spider weave her snare,
For this task she was designed;
While her prey, feeling no despair,
Awaits its cruel fate, resigned

Let love and loneliness brawl,
Let die the things that must die;
Release the tears and let them fall,
And let the broken heart cry

Let me love without constraints --
The sinking boat needs no oar;
Do not preach of sinners and saints
With Death's feet so near my door

Let me taste love's sweetest wine,
And let this shattered heart mend;
Having seen my star of love shine,
Then let the curtain descend
 Apr 2018
grumpy thumb
When the snow melted
it took chunks of the road in its thaw.
Potholes sunk
where the water slurpped
away the under-soil.
Silence left with the white
now more venture outside
overstocking supplies
"we'll n'er run out again,"
one swore.
And cats are back spraying,
and dogs barking in confusion.
And the crocus buds to remind me
nothing has really changed
in all this change
 Apr 2018
zebra
sleep walking through you
dead brain with a hard ****

a man
all pretense
hiding behind your skirt
who hurt you like a cold razor bleeding
and who was hurt by you
like a bullet in the chest
your charms killer ray guns
making me collapse from the inside out
like a house in flames
screaming

left out of your dreams
oh dread
an empty shroud
with a charred mouth

who twisted your heart out
a man with a winter corpse for a soul
short ***** and dead tree eyes
who ravaged your bones
and ate your marrow with belligerence
crushing your fragrant garden
my feet pebbles and stones
trampling your bed
while you sped by me
in your new man's muscle car
sneering

you
a laughing hot *****
wearing cold silver sunglasses
and flaming lips
that ***** hearts

blacktop down
in a red fast car
like a rocket with fat Dunlap's
spewing
mud in my mouth

like me
he looked at other women endlessly
like rows of sprinkled cupcakes
for the eating
loving their form
imagining their slick glide
and wet kisses
insulting your tenderness
so you would believe in nothing
until you where an endless black pit
until i found out i needed you
and it was to late for us
your absence a lesson
that your presence could never teach
like snow in the summer

in youth, i was a deadbeat
somnambulist
struggling with angels and hellions
tedium and desire

i feel
remorse for all i have done
and did not understand
only now dusted white am i ready to love you
so please come to me
and we shall make a home
of this tortured cage
and turn it to
heavens tremulous kiss

i have finally learned my lesson
have you ?
I fondled you with my hands
I didn't remember my eyes
I forgot my stories
When I felt you in my little heart
I don't know...
Maybe
The grain field was beautiful in my dreams
My ******* are be beautiful, too
When your lips become golden
I didn't want the sky...

با دست هایم
...تو را نوازش می کردم
چشم هایم یادم نبود
قصه هایم را فراموش می کردم
وقتی که تو را در قلب کوچکم احساس می کردم
...نمی دانم
شاید
در خواب هایم  گندم زار زیبا باشد
سینه هایم زیبا باشند
لب های تو طلایی باشد
...من که آسمان را نمی خواستم
 Apr 2018
harlon rivers
A moment recurring
does wash away
like a river rock
The smooth surface
of an eroded stone
is just as hard
as the abraded silence
that  rivers
through  loneliness

Sometimes terrified
of this foolish
blue moon heart;
of its constant
hunger
for  whatever
it is it wants;
the way it stops
  and starts ,..
like a revenant whisper
fanning
smoldering embers
of  fallen  stars
buried deeply
in  the  catacombs
of an unrequited heart

out  of  reach,
just a step away,
but close enough
to touch the crumbs
of some other's love
       bestrewn sanguinely ―
marking the footprints
calling down
an unshorn pathway
never  found

At a deserted crossroads,
many a moon
tiptoe past
inconspicuously;
unnoticed fallen stars
stagnate lightless
in a flash of darkness,
moving back in time
just  standing  still


harlon rivers ... March 2018
 Mar 2018
Valsa George
A bush lark in the Greenwood forest sings.
She sings all day long near the mountain springs.
Is she trilling in notes so plaintive of her missing mate?
Unleashing her heart of its doleful weight?

Or easing the pangs of a heart that starves
For a soulmate yet to come for whom she craves?
Or sending a missive through the aerial route
Sounding in every ear a low melancholy note?

From the covert of dark leaves, her song percolates.
Through the sinews of my heart it permeates,
Striking a cord between two souls equally deprived,
Stirring in me an inarticulate ache, never once divulged.
 Mar 2018
Mike Adam
Strolling
In woods
Naming trees-

No latin; for
Half-forgotten
Lovers,
Friends,

Nights on the town-

Then spit them out,
Foolish blossoms,
Dessicated leavings.

Seasonal centuries
Curl into
Themselves-

Expire gently
I to a whispered
Breeze
 Mar 2018
Thomas P Owens Sr
I wrote your sweet name in the glistening snow
I drank too much beer and just had to go
it's your weddin' reception
and I thought Fred should know
that I nailed you last week in my 86 Volvo
Good thing I drank that 12 pack of Schlitz
cause the beer ya'll servin'
gives me the sh-ts
I know it's a tad sloppy
but if I get on my knees
I may **** icicles
cause my doodads'l freeze!
Now the world knows that the ****** did lie
will ya cross the 'T' Billy Bob?
I done ****** myself dry
Happy Honeymoon Fred and your two timin' *****
Don't forget to tell him 'bout Bubba and Frank?
Burp! ....somebody catch me!!!
very oldie! all in fun
No, she isn't a poet
has never inked one
she takes off my weight
gets my things done

so I have enough time
to afford in a way
the luxury of rhyme
clever wordplay!

No, she isn't a poet
not written one line
clean is her slate
sees I'm fine

so I have enough space
and hour of my own
to indulge the grace
of thoughts mind grown!

No, she isn't a poet
no way she would be
she does her best
to see I'm happy

so my words run smooth
poems are easy born
truth and half truth
are spun night and morn!

No, she isn't a poet
cares not a bit
from her toil's sweat
my poems birth sweet

poems aren't her art
in the sun and showers
she grows from her heart
our garden's best flowers!
A tribute to the great gardener she is.
(5 years on hp this day, thanks to all my poet friends, you gifted me a rewarding journey)
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