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 Apr 2016
Ottar
moon beams read all the stories to the children at night as they
went to bed, not sleepy

the Underjordiske were everywhere they could cause a fray, always
acting out and creepy

and lost people from far away have stories to tell
but eyes, echo against safe canyon walls, they are lost too,

And the Earth gives a beautiful sigh out my window, and the branches and leaves say "again, do it again, do"

I let my self drift on the Columbia River, an inner tube swollen with the air from the smelter on the steep banks of that place called home

and here the clear and cold night snaps me out of my reverie
for just a moment, I see the gloaming

the dream, I had as a child climbing mountains all,
ones that scratched the belly of the sky

from there I would see all the longboats there that ever floated
on any ocean or any bay with sails on mast high, flags to fly

and the bright lit ones would be the funeral pyres
lighting the way to the Rainbow Bridge,
"Odin, Ve, can you hear me?"

big dreams that don't fit in small houses and needles
from the street won't pick locks but pierce lives, lost souls of the sea

and my past is a lover that lets me sleep at the foot
of her bed, curled up on a cushion of Dogwood flowers,

every morning to wake up in a different alley and walk just long
enough to see that I am lost, powerless

but i fear that this is savagely wrong
and there is no music in here to sooth the beast  

standing so close to border of reality that I
hear all the illegal crossings scream, West to East

and Belugas gently drop
into the deep part of the
of the River Fraser where I wait, they leave
me her letter and take the bait
and she said "she didn't think
I would mind if she found someone
else, as the distance and time was further
than she first thought", and the tears...
filled that flow since, and through time

Empty

at my feet helmets, two, both an ancient one, a new
one, i light the letter divided in half light the paper on fire
and
my great great great grandfather says as he
turns away saying "there is no shade in the shadow of the cross"
Okay, eat the mushroom and you will understand.
Really it is a happy poem, from my happy place.
"there is no shade in the shadow of the cross" - graffiti
 Apr 2016
Joel M Frye
In the pool of a desk lamp,
with old sitcoms braying
in the background.
Both the cat and
the air-vent rattle,
one above, one below.
The neighbors rev up
their low rider outside;
widows and windows tremble.
All there is to do
is sit back, close eyes,
and say anywhere but here,
any time but now.
Even the most unlovely moments have their moments.

NaPoWriMo day 16.
 Apr 2016
Ottar
Doubling Down

Two sides to every story,
life would be what, without worry?

The grass is always greener here
rainfall is a fact not a fear,

Go ahead, leap the
barb-wire fence,
getting hung up a consequence,

and now the rambling starts
with a pounding of hearts,
wishes on lips, arms flailing
any thoughts are alienating,

natural hand holds flesh covered,
the head pounds ideas on hover,

when burnout takes you out, all life becomes toil,
clothes too tight, strip and run into the night, roil

in the street, of a different city,
they don't know, they offer one pity,

so much anger, tears bleed,
strongest muscle has no need

to speak of the gamble,
this affair a dreamt ramble.
Like the dish ran away, looking for the spoon. But ****.
 Apr 2016
Sam Temple
she spoke to me with baited breath
having just had a herring luncheon
I sat her down and hit her with ‘The Facts’
the 400 page volume had been recently published
she responded out of hand
and gave it to me
like a champ
her voice quaked
trembling with worry and nerves
I told her to calm the **** down
ease up
let off the gas
and just chill
coming closer and wrapping me up
she smashed me flat
planting wet lips all across my plain
holding tightly the reigns
I was put to stud
and broke the bank…
we both fell out
and crashed hard –
poetry month prompt 15

a second run
 Apr 2016
Sam Temple
morning sunlight danced across the concertina
diamonds glittering along the edge
of the prison walls
the prison walls
yellow finches played in the weight pile
chipping and bouncing
among the sweat and grime
sweat and grime
voices echoed down the corridor, shouts and whoops
yard will definitely be open today
all day on the track
on the track
rows of men in blue endlessly circling
some go home, new ones join the march
incarceration as industry
incarceration as industry
the inmates enter the education building and smile
for a few hours a day they are students not numbers
I use their first names
their first names
the sunlight brightens everyone’s mood
as it is the bringer of life
shining down on all of us equally
all of us equally –
poetry month prompt 15
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