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As I take in this beautiful confusion
November's breath is but an illusion ,
misconstrued as something permanent ,
simply frost longing to paint the firmament
A homeward trail , sugar glazed southern
pastry begging for black coffee , chips of
black walnut and pecan , golden apple
stained glass fragmenting portals to nirvana
and beyond
Happy sun , frosted window masterpiece -
Wednesday
Tall , ***** loblolly knights guard this wooded
passageway
Nosey , noisy ravens giving away my location
Aromatic , seedling evergreens to tempt my
imagination* ...
Copyright November 21 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson *All Rights Reserved
 Nov 2017
Lazhar Bouazzi
A beggar I once met
At the port of La Goulette
Greeted me with a nod
But he spoke to me not.

A beggar I once met
At the port of La Goulette
Made me wonder all night:
What's a beggar who beggs not?
c) LazharBouazzi
*La Goulette is a seaport town in the northern suburbs of Tunis.
If it isn't genuine,
It won't last very long,
Whether it be feelings or a handbag,
If it isn't genuine, it isn't strong!

~Just saying.

By Lady R.F. (C)2017
 Nov 2017
Jayantee Khare
Dear heart!
Why the hell you've become
a lodge
to shelter the wrongs
and ruin yourself?
You're suppose to be a
pump-house
for  the blood!
Lol..science n love blended
 Nov 2017
Joe Cottonwood
“If you grow old, it is your own fault,”
I say to Terry as we climb
the mountain behind his cabin.
Terry is wearing a device that transmits his heartbeat
by cell phone to doctors at Stanford.
Terry has a flutter, nothing serious, probably.
Terry has a great heart, actually,
something serious, warm and wise.

We ascend this hill on Tuesdays every week
discussing poetry and plumbing, our twin passions:
the gathering of mountain water funneled into pipes,
delivered to homes,
the ordering of words funneled into pages
delivered nowhere, sadly.

We discuss friends fallen or falling,
the arc of marriages, parenthood, oddball relationships,
each a story and a puzzlement,
webs woven of love and rage.
That, and motorcycles, we talk,
pacifist veterans who walk still seeking sense
of an incomprehensible war that shaped our lives.
Objectors, conscientious, we realized too late,
not an easy path but better than following orders.
We walked away from war.
He, the Air Force; I, the draft.
Branded dishonorable.
So we hike, hearts pounding,
the simple friendship of two old men
seeking the hilltop
again and again.
First published in MOON Magazine June 2017
 Nov 2017
Keith Wilson
The grass is looking
strikingly green
in the autumn sunshine
Life,
for a decent,
empathetic,
good-hearted person,
is heartachingly,
painstakingly beautiful;
for, even in torment,
underlying beauty
is often found...

Such a brave heart,
to withstand
such emotional destruction -
whilst their internal tears
are left to bounce
off the floor
of this soul's
shaky, unstable ground.

~ Brave Heart

By Lady R.F. (C)2017
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