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 Apr 2016
Denel Kessler
Ten black crows
in a red-budded
cottonwood tree
basking in the eerie
glow of the waning sun
bruised, livid sky
weighted air
waves shush, shush
on the receding tide
serenity reigns
but I can feel it
hovering offshore
a curled fist
wound tight
ready to strike
 Apr 2016
K Balachandran
Sky is a taut, grey net spread,
at its  best in creating panic,
relentless day a brutish marauder,
drained of color of every kind, bleak,
even thought of you distant, my nectar
plays hide and seek, I am plunging
in a hallucinatory spin, down, down.

From inside a furnace closed
with a tight lid under which heat
in it's fiery glory permeates
like never before, a full- throated roar,
without any sound it travels around,
in waves after waves after waves,
to scorch every single thing under
the blood thirsty sun, on a hurried
march for revenge,green turbaned
trees and scarf adorned branches
changed all those embellishments
gone bone dry,now stand apologetic
like kids that made bed wet and caught
red handed, shrunk in shame and pain.

Narcolepsy reigns, drowsiness
day and night, like marijuana haze
follows.
            This summer makes its name stick
in bad books,making T.S.Eliot look
shame faced for calling one past tame April,
uncharitably the cruelest of it all.
But this, this is an unbridled wild horse
none can in no way do anything to stop.

When even the last drop of water from
the pond evaporates,sunburn peels the skin,
sun stroke down people, who are unaware,
cruelty of April, becomes monumental.

Perhaps in few days time May could barter
that bad name from April,I'd easily guess.

Buildings , in rows and rows lie, til horizon,
like blood drained corpses all though the day,
the  appetite for life, they evidently has lost.
Song birds on flowered trees, have gone mute,
doves scamper, dart in to the air, with hope
to get few drops of water  from somewhere

Kindhearted few fill water and feed on containers
for stray birds,taking cue from the practices of forefathers.
Change in climate is an ogre, that could with bare hands
smash pompous attitudes  and other human constructs!

Will there ever be a limit, to the red eyed monster,
avarice, we all pamper, within our inner courtyards,
that forces human beings to to do "Harakiri"
like a proud Samurai does with his own sword.
Harakiri-Ritualistic honor suicide by the Japanese "Samurai"
warriors who  value honor above any thing
 Apr 2016
GaryFairy
i tell ya brother
it's a blessing and a curse
sorting one and another
deciding who comes first

"he who is without sin"
let him cast the first stone
will the faith or doubt win?
of a soul that's left alone

i tell ya brother
it's a heaven and a hell
the fate that belongs to others
it belongs to you as well
Vermin filled street lamps , gust borne shadows flicker in the artificial yellow night , a conflagration emerges over western skies
Evening hounds cower and lie mute , wind chimes trickle
to the steady clap of tin roofing
The lightning strikes to the clamor of the cooling earth ,
avenues grow reflective , ancient trees at the whim of
Spring eve ferocity
Boulevards turn to streams , the cloudburst wains , steam
rolls the south side circuitry in search of the fearful , hidden Moon
Copyright April 26 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
 Apr 2016
Ja
I wonder what your eyes see
That mine don’t
What your mind thinks
That mine won’t

I wonder what your heart feels
That mine can’t
Who your love touches
That mine shan’t

I wonder what your dreams conceive
That mine wouldn’t                                                         ­ 
And what you will achieve
That I couldn’t                                                        
­
I wonder where your destiny lies
That mine isn't                                                            ­      
What your legacy will symbolize
That mine didn't
BOEMS BY JA 488
 Apr 2016
GaryFairy
the hands of time will lift you up
higher than you've ever been
when they go back around
they might let you down again

the hands of time will let you live
while counting down your dying day
they are only meant to give
the time that they will take away

the hands of time will let you fall
six feet under coldest ground
they only answer to their call
to lift you up and bring you down
 Apr 2016
Joel M Frye
Suppose
life is an old man.
He's the type to thank
all the gods he knows
when his eyes first open
for the gift of another day.
Shrugs on his robe
and pads into slippers
without waking anyone
and starts the coffee.
Showers, dresses,
heads to the park
for his walk with the birds,
who flock and coo and chirp
for the crumbs of stale bread
he carries.
He has a lovely porch,
where he rests
in the afternoon
and after dinner.
He watches the neighbors
bustle and unwind.
You're always welcome
to join him in
the other rocker
and talk of whatever
the gentle breeze
blows into your mind.

Listen to him well.

The old man has learned
the small joys and adventures
fill our days
and are miraculous.
NaPoWriMo day 25 - variation on the first line of a favorite poem.
I reposted the entire cummings' poem on my page.
 Apr 2016
Ree Bunch
I see her digging feverishly-
digging holes in search of things to keep.
She digs even though her palms are calloused and raw.
The yellow sunlight has moved to the moonlight’s glow.
I can only see her futile struggle;
in search of the things that’s already resting in her cupboard.
Sometimes people are constantly searching for happiness, love or etc. But as they're so focused on searching they miss it when it's right in front of their face.
 Apr 2016
Pax
I am the clown
In this town.

To where i am the center
Of their teasing
And jokes
As if they never see me
Frown.

All they see is my
Joker's hat,
That everything
They throw
At me
Never hurts.

I guess that's all i
Ever be...

Perhaps it's my fault
For letting them think
That way,
I never fight
A war between egos.

Silence and smiles
Are all i ever
Masked
Myself...
So tiring to pretend that their jokes never hurt...
Im crying inside my friends...
 Apr 2016
Traveler
Rungs on the ladder
Where my life began
I talked with God
I rarely sinned
Just a troubled child's
Imaginary friend
Yet I turned to God
The self comfort within

When I turned
Young man
I searched again
In every church and bible
To find my old friend
I searched at the Buddha
Zen and then Tao
Deepak Chopra
Wasn't my style

Science was my nightmare
It made perfect sense
So I turned to philosophy
Now I'm on the fence

Yet how could a young child
Ever have known
That all those miracles
Were mere tricks of the souls...
 Apr 2016
wordvango
I have gone years searching,
among bottles and prescriptions
for what is behind me

lost in shadows when the sun shines
in leftover puddles
when the rains stopped

the tears flowing , I have been
lost and saved sanctified in the
best embraces twenty dollars

could buy, all the gold spent on
chasing that goal of being
like everyone else's happiness

awaking to piled up regrets
and empty bags of dope,
searching the bottom

for that true meaning
of things, when it was right there
inside me.
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