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 Dec 2020
Paul Idiaghe
Surely, that sunset is only
his lemon heart falling down

the globe. Love, how you draw the red
from his aorta, smear it

over his center. Surely, this slow sneaking
darkness is only ink spilling to grieve

his beloved—see how metaphors rip that fluff
to constellations; their twinkle would trace

her torso; her treasures; her tales.
& earth would shut its mouth

to listen to his star-studded silence,
would stare as color fades

to soul. Surely the sky is not
so different from me.
this title is a line from Sylvia Plath.
 May 2020
Butch Decatoria
[PLOT
          on the green / on Cemetery Row]

A stroll
through Carthage stones.:

Gargoyles in grey gloamings
of Autumns
of Winters
of the remains of days
the done-buried
keep secret in rigor mortis  
kiss

the grave
pushing up daisies, the cherished
our cherubs below tombstones
there lays

In green tarmac flights
On crucifix runways

Mausoleums with eyes
of pyramids and storms
houses the ravens watching ghosts
from above just ants below,
beneath undulating fog-cotton lakes

Upon the soil and worms and
souls
           mausoleums...

As granite angels mime
upward in prayer
waiting in the weight of the lifeless
wake
    white marbled expressions

The consternation
    of devil may care

None for statues or with halos
the captured hearts in boxes,
coffins / the inmates
                                American gothic
Gallows
Caustic the silences, secret speak
Life once stories of beams of light
Such vibrant lives afire
(now mere half paragraphs)
in respite / Despite
unforgiven mires

[On a plot of green
in cemetery row...]

Gargoyles in the mist
these arrested flights

of wish dismissed
of effulgent life

through the spindle of an hourglass
spider-webs of fog

where I share my path
Here the haunted besides (roaming)
a land of quietude
                 futures devoid yet still turning
The cyclic times
The unlearned
The dreaded cold below
[On a plot of green, Cemetery row...]

Rest will happen
but my spirit is a phoenix

Great flocks of birds
Asphodels

Whilst
taking a stroll...
Past plots of green,
        In cemetery row
How such silences scream :
         the fallen :
death's blanket of snow.

[Carnage. &. Stones.]
Revised edit, final.
 Sep 2019
WL Schuett
Natural innocence
and simplicity,
a glorious arc
of rainbow charity.
The pulling of silk
through the loom,
a magnificent child
of the storm.

Holding pureness
feeling my love
without knowing.
Asleep at the wheel
of just being born .
The silence was deep ,
sweet and sad .
Her every breath was
a provision of
sacred order .

I had an absolute
vision ,
a prelude of silent
music .
The wind sang
sweet melodies
born of time
and starlight.

The music asked questions
of the breeze,
to butterflies and angels .
But , was answered in
a thunderous storm.

Disintegrating realms
of hope .
Who will advocate for
a beloved soul .

Life’s wounds move on
but , we are left
with the scars .
 Aug 2019
Butch Decatoria
What is a man?
Who shapes his words
                      His worth
Like the loudest shouting
Empty with meanings?
Manifesting a destiny...

Who is the man
We all look up to
When it is the Sun’s shine
The days arise.
How can a (running) man ?

And where in the dark pitch night
         Where men are blind
Even by their unkept
Word.
What is a man
But a caged bird?
Manifesting ...
Song.
Prologue: He wrote her a poem
With the weight of a love letter
Her wrote her one hundred more
Just to know she was truth


I want to budget
my words
To strangle the
syllables
To pin down the point
To lock into you

so now I am
Sisyphus ready
my hands on the boulder
so steady the blood from the dig in my shoulder

I lock my eyes on the sun
to find a find a place on the grip
but
would take the weight of the world
for a
taste of your lip


**** it
I’m
ready to serve
only
you


so
how do I
coldly
crack ribs
in a caged heart of strife?
without stealing
the lungs
of the one who breathes life?


I meet you often in my late hours morose
meditating on mad dreams
Your cockiness verbose
just give me the word
I’ll do as you please
you can file your nails
as my tongue splits your knees

(Bukowski) Banging (******* skeleton keys) a sentence assassin
killing paragraphs (open essays diminished)
as the typewriter talks till it laughs (in tatters+finished)
screaming
”take me through door after door!!!”

Always seeking
the right words,
From love’s lexiconic relief,
the sentence that shatters,
so don’t run on the dream
it’s punctuation that matters
the period that finally
bores into you
.
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