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Learning to patch. Learning to mend.
Learning to venture. Learning to comprehend.
Learning to capture and befriend.

Inventing the berry. Inventing the cream.
Inventing sweet slices before bedtime
and the Fragaria colored dream.

Loving new life. Loving each child.
Securing the stem and raising the vine
by loving the wife.

 May 15
Thomas W Case
Destiny and eternity are
chiseled in seconds.
Flecks of snow become
Drops of rain make
Thoughts tumble into
decisions, and actions,
overtime, leave a
 Apr 22
Maria Mitea
whoooo is there behiiind the skyyy,
whoooo is there behiiind the cloooouds,
and the suuuun when briiiightly shiiiining,
whoooo is there behind the niiiight,

whoooo is there behiiiiind, behiiiind,
whoooo is there my deeeear, my daaaarling,
whooo is there behiiiind the staaaars,
whooo is there behiiiind the staaaars,

whoooo is there behiiiind the raaaain,
when the drops fall dooown and dooown,
who is there behind your miiiind,
whoooo is there my deeear, my daaaarling,

who is there behind the skyyy,
whoooo is there behiiind the cloooouds,
who is there in your heeeeart,
who is there behiiind, behiiind,
whooooooo is there if noooot the wiiiiind,

whooo is there if nooot the wiiind,
whoo is there if not the wind,
 Apr 22
I can see this only with my imaginary eyes
I can feel it in the vibrant empty spaces inside
how everything is woven together
so that I belong to her to him to them and to you
I belong to my skin I belong to the bones of my hands
I belong to my nails, of course to my heart
what if we are first imaginary beings with concrete joints?
have we forgotten that we belong to the story of the air
water fire, to the story of the earth?

the closer I get to who I am, to the earth of the soul,
to the real depth of blood, the more I cease
for a moment to twist the faces of wind in my mind
so that the world doesn't get hurt
I belong to a window, to this edge
between outside and inside

I belong to the world, oh
how wonderful that
the world belongs to itself
 Jan 5
Nat Lipstadt
502 Bad Gateway
(a work in process)

is to be found easiest, lying fatal-fetal amidst
the sewage of the blessed daily profane~mundane,
enslaved within the tyranny of everyday indignities,
encrusted within the indignities of diurnal tyrannies,
in the catch basin of sew-aged treatment  pools,
living as a perpetual unpublished draft,
locked behind Five Hundred and Two
Bad Gateways,
Emma Lazarus-yearning
to be free…

502 is an even number, the internet sages confirm,
equitably distributed with no regard to
disrespectful of any age, all creepy~seedy known gods,
equally unconcerned by the laws of **** poetica,
succinctly informing you to f*k off  with the elegant
sparseness of technical brevity,
a la vie moderne boulder,
repeatedly *****-fussy pushing back on you,
as we push a poem uphill


The road to good poetic intentions is human-paved;
a utile fact,  so continue to insure-shod be thy feet,
when shedding writings of poesy, lest the hot asphalt of
low inspiration yet get the better of ye…or the gates
or the bad gateways,
502 in their number, lock you out,
and carry the day, have their way, and
fracture well honed words
into bits & pieces of letters, scraps of scrap,
“pebbles and ******* and broken matches and bits of glass”^

that all the king's servers and all the king's technicians couldn’t put together again coherently, your words but conscripts in a
vast wasteland of eternal drafts^^


well you know this story, that one that has being asking
you to writ it/get rid of it/tell it finally,
a couple of times daily,
that poem, this be that one,
an amorality tale of rejections,
a precision guided
error message,
a HIMARS missive miserly
missilery projectile
rife with hidden %#&”postulations,
of the “what’s wrong with me”
garden variety

think of life as a series of serious, independently linked moments, cherish-able, composting  usurping cursing phrases
distinctly worthy
of re-sharing unto the befouled upper atmosphere,
directly communicating the texture of your experience^^^

Ah Goodbye
Hello Poetry,
rejection is thy middle fingered name!*

this befouled poem
begun: many years ago
completed: Jan 4, 2023 @2:11AM
^James Joyce’s words
^^^ unknamed professor
Mass shootings of morality
Guns make the man
Massacre happily
Ignorance leading the blind
Another casualty
Johnny has issues
Got an AR15
Arm everyone!
More guns are what we need
Who gives a **** about Johnny and his mental instability
He’s got a gun!
It’s semi-automatic
That’s all he’ll ever need
Everyone will bleed
A few hundred rounds
He kills responsibly  
A few hundred rounds
Hear the Children’s screams
Total chaos
As the Children bleed
Another life
Snuffed out for all to see
Another massacre strewn across the T.V.
In America
It is a sickness
It is a disease
In guns we trust
It’s guns we need
Like a religion
A sacred belief
In America
When will we see
Will we wake up
Will we ever believe
It’s not an issue left OR right
It’s an issue in favor of SAVING HUMAN LIVES!
No more excuses
No one else has to die
In a America we need to try
This poem was originally written and published a few years ago, but I was not at all satisfied with the original writing. After yet another mass shooting in North Carolina this time, I believe, five people died by the hands of a 15 year old, male, gunman during the first or second week of October ‘22. This latest shooting made me look back at the original poem and make several changes that make the  overall poem more readable, and relevant in my opinion. I hope this poem can touch someone or make one think about the issues of gun control, and gun violence in America.
Thank you for reading my poem The High Cost of Freedom by Shane M. Stoops
 Sep 2022
John Wiley
We drive past it often,
just a patch of scrub
by the roadside,
in a plain of open farmland,
reaching to the horizon,
but it has a story.

One Sunday afternoon,
in the early days of our settlement,
Robert and Louisa Fry
went driving in their gig
but never returned home.

Louisa was murdered by Robert
that afternoon,
followed by Robert’s suicide
some months later.

Louisa’s remains were found,
badly decomposed,
and buried on site
without a headstone;
Robert’s nearby
and buried in a local cemetery.

Superstition, respect
and convenience
have kept the clump
over subsequent generations,
a landmark and a point of reference
by the side of the road –
a feature passed by many
but known by few -
“Fry’s Clump”.
 Aug 2022
For two years, I wondered.
Where were you?
How are you?
What happened?

For two years, I searched.
Every hint, sign, detail,
"Is there something I've missed?"
I recalled.

For two years, I tried.
To forgive, to move forward,
to set you free.
Yes, I think I did.

For two years, I hoped.
That you also wondered,
searched, recalled,
and maybe tried.

For two years, I prayed.
To keep you safe,
happy, successful,
and well-loved.

Two years later, you answered.
You remembered, you allowed
yourself to be found.
You tried, I believe you did.

Two years later, I still pray.
To keep you safe, happy
and successful in my open arms.
That for the next two years to stay,
I may love you just well-enough.
 Jul 2022
mark john junor
The further away we may wander,
the closer to the heart our olden days become
the people who welcomed us
the places we danced
the music that still lingers in the air
with the love of a dream still shared...

The further away we may wander
we love each new adventure
never knowing where the road may lead
but we will always fondly look back
to the many homes our hearts have known
and wish upon wish to share our adventures
and roads with the people who celebrate our joy...

The further away we may wander,
we come to realize
places are meant to be left behind
but the smiles and loves we found there
will forever be part of who we are
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