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 Feb 2017
Renée Brookes
Your arrival has been long awaited.
I am here,
                          F L O A T I N G
~~~~~   ~~~    ~~~~~~~~~~ ~~ ~   ~~~~~ ~  
atop my own delusions.
I daydream of my world colliding;
merging into a sky not so blue,
a sky pitch black,
with a moon illuminating red,
a wind that screams ****** ******,
and chokes my lungs in terror.

I want my skin to crawl along
abandoning my body.

Please. Will you take me now?

                                    With Love,
                                    Renée Brookes
Inspiration: Jack Jenkins
 Feb 2017
Lora Lee
on this day of winged hearts
and chocolates
one tends to write about their
"better half," their lovers or husbands

This is not one of those.
I have no better half
I am an entity whole.
Woman proud and complete
deep down strata of soul
this union
is held
by the thread of our children
tender shoots growing
in our shared care
and even that thread is frayed

I write this valentine's poem
for the love of myself
for the knowledge that
when I love myself first
and the universe will give
and I will snip
that thread
so begging to be snipped
and fly off into the winds,
my three moonbeams
in tow
always at my side
They will never
cease their growing
under my watchful eye

I will be loved
like I am supposed to be
whether by another
or only me
for I now know what I need
Slowly
layers unpeel
and each day
I am more ready
So take your little
fluttery paper hearts
that you never
gave me anyway
and paste them all
over your own
for soon you will find
you might
need them
Just had to be said
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=32udqal_lyQ
 Jan 2017
Busbar Dancer
There’s a menacing chill
on the air
this evening.
“Had I the wherewithal
I’d leave this place,”
I think to myself
as the first warning is issued
by that unfriendly cloud
hanging low and dark
over the mountain.
While once I thought that
the rain would fall with purpose,
I’ve come to understand
that floodwater has no manifesto
except to place the scumline as high as it can.
We can stack these sandbags tall
around our hearts
without regard for what’s on either side of the dam.
They’re only transient monuments to ineffectiveness anyway.


An assassin stands at the corner
wondering if I’ll ever leave my house
and its warmth.
I have news for him, though…
There’s nowhere to go, and
the weatherman thinks we’ll have a storm.
Hoping your gutters are clean.
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