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As I tidy, I organise time in little pill-pockets, sweep debris from sills and tables. I dice their cravings and fancies into some sort of meal, and wash nine hours of lines trod and toed from my clothes, ready for morning.  

These things make me feel needed, and I resent them as though they are chains. Do you draw me as selfish?


As I rest, I see my oldest cup with my keys; my coat and cleaned-boots left by the radiator gathering heat, and I wrap myself in a patchwork of dreams. I catch a wink - my favourite colours - beaded from the heartbreak-dark of a room.

These things make me feel loved, and I breathe them as though they are air.
Do you draw me as ungrateful?


As I watch, I turn my reflection this way, that way, pile ink-hair on her crown. I imagine my burgundy dress fall over her hips to the floor -  reveal to my mind the vanity of sheer-stockings and dark eyelash-lace on porcelain skin.    

These things make me feel beautiful, and I miss them as though they are dead.
Do you draw me as shallow?

the silken thread that binds me
to the voice of the muse
vibrates with her subtle speech
in a way i can’t refuse

stitching heart and mind
though tenuous and fine
the beauty of this filament
is illumined and divine

and though i’ll never claim it
i will seek it all my days
until at last i’m laid to rest
no more to leave her gaze
feeling grateful for my on-again, off-again connection to the void
as punctuation goes
there’s something intimate
about a period
so much wrapped in that little orb
endings to the left
beginnings to the right
a tiny dense anchor
between two thoughts
holding them together
keeping them apart
it has a big job
the period
I bet sometimes
it doesn’t know where it belongs
The raging quiet
The innocent curiosity
of touching the red queen
Dreaming of her *******
and their youthful color
Turning greeting cards
into ransom notes
Bridal showers
into bloodbaths

Tell me, my dear?
Tell me, my mother?
Are they lies
my bladed teacher told me?

For here in the moment
of his demise
Having already demonstrated
his humanity
his capacity to love
It is he who earned
the privilege of seeing
everlasting beauty
As I hold on for dear life...
I turn my face to the light
But the low winter sun
Is shrouded in unmoving clouds
Offering no warmth at all
The trees are stark and naked
Like jagged skeletons
With ragged crows hovering
And the world is breathless

For this winter
This of all winters
The air is crowded and heavy
With the ghosts of the painful dead
Their accusing eyes searching
For those whose negligence
In the blast of a plague
Caused their breathless deaths

                                         By Phil Roberts
A new one, at last
 Jan 10
Jesse Haydn
The weather shines.
The second day is the first
I opened my eyes out of time.
Get out of sleep.

There is always a vibration in
silence. The plants know
this well.
The old is new; the secret known.
Its is spagyric, transmogrified-

The collective individual worlds within
ourselves; I am one of you-
a nexus, a spirit, a universe now
together within our own models.

This is the depth.

Access immediately what
we did not know; we know
the time is calescent. Time
and time has come.

This is a small and urgent call.
It is eternal.
The music units are the segments
of my ears.
The time for waking up has come.

-Jesse Haydn
 Jan 10
There are depths within you
To which I cannot reach.
Where water drips
and echos in an
obscure cavern.
Where each drop leaves behind
its narrative,
on the pore from which it fell.
A story untold.
The vast space makes echoes of heartbeats.
But deafening silence resonated,
the day your heart skipped but one.
 Jan 9
South City Lady
I feel your composition
rippling beneath my brush
the complexity of your mind
hands softening
around my shadow

how your voice    lingers
on my page captivating
each breath . . .  you flicker
in gaslight as I beckon
you closer - come, I want
to discover you beyond
the palette of words
constructed in my dreams
touch the highlights
of fantasy as you trace
every thought of me

stay, beneath night's cover
promise not to dissolve
in whispering mists of dawn,
my muse, envelop me
in your love's unreality
 Jan 8
Mohd Arshad
Loving someone despite being disliked is a great virtue
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