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 May 2016
JR Potts
My limbs wrested, and extended, towards the heavens
like young children’s hands on the first sunlit days of spring.
The muted grays of winter fade, soon replaced by softer blues.
I still remember the first time I caught wind of you,
your back against my trunk and it lent me your lungs.
I learned to breathe like you too,
in shy and quiet silences while trying not to shake-
the world
but darling you came into mine, trembling fault lines
like an earthquake reading poetry and upended my roots.
I was seduced by you and there was nothing you did,
or could do that would untie this bind we shared
our bodies intertwined, ancient wood and woman
tethered together by the invisible pleasure
of one another’s company.
You spoke to me with feathers
and kissed me with subtle gestures
while I shade you from the sun.
I had never known such a word
but on that summer I called it love
and I believed it to be true
until the day you did not come.
The earth and soil from which I sow
has slowly grown into a prison atop this grassy knoll.
I have become a tree with the memories of a man.
 May 2016
Akira Chinen
The calender reads 2016
But its feels more like 1984
Have you heard the crying
The American dream
Lying dying in the streets
While big brother
Is strapping blinders
On our heads
And shackles to
Our hands and feet
Were being lined up
By the rows
Willing prisoners
Of the slave power
Empire of minimum wage
Shuttling our children
Off to the animal farm
Market of big business
And big lies
***** water mixed
In with the rotting
Apples of the
New American pie
The sugar isn't sweet
To the starving
In the street
While trash cans
Over flow in the back lots
Of the super market
Super chains
Of the slave power
Empire of criminal rage
And its the cold dark waters
Of nuclear waste
Soaking the pages of the calender
That reads
2016
In these days that feel like
1984
No kindness or compassion
For hands shaking tin cups
Needing just a little change
Just a little shelter
From their sad weather lifes
Living on the cold ground
Below our overpass ways
No shelter and no change
No compassion and no kindness
In the fist and pockets
Of the slave power
Empire of ignorant ways
Bullets, bombs and hate
Harvesting fresh blood
For the ink
To print the pages of the calender
That reads
2016
As politicians write us back
Into the pages of the days of
1984
 May 2016
Cyrus Gold
Centuries past, when lands were shared,
existed houses of varying levels of influence.
A stable democracy established with care,
composed of each dynasty's constituents.

The House of Ravenswood was feared the most,
with rumors surrounding its members;
accusations of witchcraft, sabotage and ******
caused a real lack of contenders.

The Ravenswood dynasty's blood was sacred,
and the family had only one rule:
the members may marry whomever they wish
except for the members of Skrule.

A fair lady from this mysterious family
had beauty matched only by angels unseen;
delicate ivory hair runs past her shoulders
with hazel eyes emitting a magnificent sheen.

This fair lady from Ravenswood,
with a presence so graceful and heavenly,
was heralded as the shining example of perfection
borne of wealth, yet respected by the peasantry.

She would greet the people and roam the land
for inspiration to craft her art,
but when she met a farmer from Skrule,
their hearts refused to depart.

Knowing that their love is forbidden in the land,
they kept their affair a secret.
They risked their lives to be with one another
and swore to each other to keep it.

Fair Lady Ravenswood was naïve at best
with a passion for song and dance;
at a ball one night came a handsome gent
with a mask, thus taking a chance.

In sync with one another, they painted the halls
with a waltz that pleased the crowd.
They danced as a unit with their eyes unmoved,
creating a masterful shroud.

The faceless mask concealed the farmer
but the fair lady knew it was him.
They smiled and kissed but sadly
a guard had recognized him on a whim.

The farmer was taken away from her,
his face revealed to the people;
the crowd in shock that a Skrule and a Ravenswood
had dared to dance as equals.

Her soul was ripped from her body
as she cried out in front of family and friends.
The farmer, no, the equal, she loved
was never to be seen again.

Lady Ravenswood was heartbroken,
as her beloved was gone for a while.
And as time had passed, she feared the worst
and in truth, she carried his child.

The House of Ravenswood, accused of ******,
was crumbling from within;
democracy shifted against their will,
retribution was sought for their sin.

Lady Ravenswood had lost her color
as her house decayed over time;
but her family stood firm and showed no mercy,
punishing her for her crime.

They cursed the lady by trapping her soul
within the castle walls forever;
to make matters worse, they took her child
to be exiled for worse or for better.

The dynasty's influence began to diminish
and their numbers were stretched and few;
as the coalition came and knocked that night,
there was little that they could do.

A battle was waged and the castle was raided
with the rivals standing in victory;
the cries of heaven had tamed those fires
with Ravenswood wiped from history.

But just before they left their mark,
the intruders saw a girl.
A worn-out dress soaked in Ravenswood blood
had signaled the end of her world.

Cursed Lady Ravenswood stood alone
against these bandits, with a knife;
her warnings appeared on the cursed walls
as she brought the castle to life.

Raven wings protrude from her back
as her body turns pale and cold;
now frozen in fear, they halt their attack
as they watch the mutation unfold.

"**** the witch! She mustn't leave!"
but they witnessed her soul ascend;
with the dark sky pouring its midnight rain,
she was never to be seen again.

Unbeknownst to the people, the lady remained
at the vacant and wretched castle for good;
she waits an infinity for her beloved
at the cursed House of Ravenswood.
Negative Chapter to a Multi-Part series that I've written.
 May 2016
The Lunchtime Poet
Emotions spinning
like a wheel
Never knowing
how I'll feel

Sometimes distressed
or maybe melancholy
Other times elated
or feeling down right jolly

Go from happy to sad
inside of a minute
Looking for a fight
not caring who's in it

I went to see a doctor
he told me I was ill
The way to feel better
just take this little pill

It makes me relax
and helps me keep my cool
But when I take it
I just sit there and drool

I had to make a choice
I'll live life on the wheel
I might not have control
but at least I'll be able to feel
 May 2016
M Padin
1.

Spires our-soar the sky.
Men and women are machines.
The hallowed trees shrink
from encroaching wonders.
Now man has been made sickly.

2.

Anxious are the days
for leisure and solemn rite.
I, too, want holiness
to stifle unfettered greed
and restore life's dignity.

3.

To some it's finished:
the idea of trust, betrayed.
Money out-bids honor.
Truth is a red-ticket item.
Some vines bear shriveled fruit.

4.

Skies melt at sundown.
Cats wet their whiskers in gutters.
I light another cigarette.
Hope burns like a dim candle,
flickering in the tempest.
(c) 2016. All rights reserved.

Tanka is a traditional Japanese verse form. It's a haiku with two additional lines, consisting of 7 syllables.
 May 2016
The Lunchtime Poet
Sitting in my bed
Notebook on my lap
Writing a poem
Emotions trying to tap

Trying to put
A thought into a word
I have no talent
This is absurd

Everything I do
I'm riddled with doubt
But when I write
My feelings come out

Creating poems
About love and pain
Such a cool way
To empty my brain

I write for you
It is me you inspire
You are the fuel
To my creative fire
 May 2016
The Lunchtime Poet
Picking the lock
That you keep around your heart
If I were a locksmith
That would be a start

I don't know the code
I haven't a key
I will keep on trying
For all eternity

I must never stop
Those chains I must break
Not to have you
Is something I can't take

An emotionless prison
That's where I'll be
I must get out
I must be set free

By any means necessary
This job I'll get done
Nothing can stop me
Not even a gun

Sooner or later
Your love I will win
I will be patient
For our life to begin

You shouldn't worry
Don't have a fear
Whenever you need me
I always be there
 May 2016
JR Potts
She spoke rather enthusiastically of her planned trip to India, of her love for yoga and her passion for the pursuit of enlightenment. I was never one for spiritualism but she seemed so full of life and she had this appetite for experiences that was awe inspiring. Her hands moved feverously when she spoke, almost spastic but my focus, never more clear in recent memory remained on her eyes. They were soft with nativity but they carried with them a profound sense of conviction. Many before me have spoken of the eyes as the window to the soul and I had never fully understood the sentiment until I found mine intertwined with hers. Like a bridge over a seething river; our gaze had brought us closer. I felt as though we were no longer divided by ego, pride or other such frivolous illusions.

The conversation flowed so effortlessly, one could only describe it as natural. Had I been a determinist I would have regarded the meeting as fated to occur. She could shut me up just by talking; I always loved that in a woman. My fixation slowly slid down from her eyes to her mouth and almost like a fever coming over me I wanted to kiss her in that instant but you can’t just lock lips with your waitress in the middle of a café during lunch. Once again the nuisance of social structure and etiquette impeded upon my desires or so I told myself; knowing full well I could have just as easily stood up, grabbed her by her narrow hips and pulled her in tight for a good old fashion French baiser. Instead I allowed my longing to fume up inside of me like a tremendous furnace clouding my thoughts with black smoke and self-doubt. It was not society who was stopping me; it was me who was stopping me. Regardless of socially appropriate behavior we humans had always had a choice but like fools we often idly choose to cave under the pressure of our cultural conditioning. I like all cowards before me, used words like "can’t" as an excuse to allow moments of beauty to slip from my fingers and into the abyss. It was like a black hole, an all devouring entity that consumed all of our potential greatness and crushed it into nothingness.

Maybe in some alternative universe, somewhere in the infinite there was me sitting at that café gushing over her and she was standing there all delicate-like, telling me how she wanted to spend a month in India. Maybe that version of me acted on his impulse and he felt alive when he kissed her; in a way I may never feel. I hope somewhere in the vastness of this existence there is someone enjoying that kiss because if I squandered the only possible chance for that instance to ever occur then I cannot conceive of a greater tragedy.
Posted this today two years ago on my Facebook, forgot about it and just fell back in love with it.
 May 2016
David Adamson
for Richard, the boy who narrated life*

Today, leaves are falling.
“One day Aaron will watch the falling leaves.”
The first day of school arrives.  
“One day Champ’s mom will take him to school.”

Life is the story of life, says the narrator.

Life expands. The story lengthens.
The intertwined threads begin to pull apart.

Life is surface and sheen,
laughter, tears, opaque signs.
The story strains after fictive frames,
the hero’s epiphany, the villain’s inner pain,
and undreamt creatures beyond human sense.

And so myth and magic
give form to stories
that we no longer star in.  
New worlds take shape
where the story creates its own life,
an escape from "the shock of recognition."

In time the threads converge again.  
Life’s pattern breaks and needs a new plot.
The stories yield their human meaning—
maybe we were in them all along.

The story ends and life goes on.
Life ends and the story goes on.
"The shock of recognition" is a phrase that I have lifted from an essay by Herman Melville.
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