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 Nov 2018
SE Reimer
~

along the golden sands she runs,
swinging arms, matching stride;
crashing waves bring seagull crumbs,
deposit treasures with each tide.

sea shells scattered on the sands,
like incantations on the wind;
she gathers them amidst the strands,
blending voice above the din!

each gusty wave of her baton,
the wind is maestro to this band;
from cockle’s flute the highest pitch,
to conch’s cello, deep & rich.

the tulip’s voice of brass cornet,
of scallop’s rippling clarinet;
the kettle drum of florida’s cone,
and hammered strings of angel’s wings!

instrumental simplicity,
ancient chords, rehearsed refrain;
her call to join each voice unique,
each grain of sand, each clapping wave,

leaping toward orchestral stage,
calling forth their joyous praise.
till mistral bows in whispered hush,
a thunderous crash, their glad applause!

~

maestro -
a distinguished musician, especially
a conductor of classical music.

mistral -
a strong, cold northwesterly wind
that blows into the Mediterranean.

~
post script.

i walked upon the sandy beaches,
my lover’s hand in mine;
from ev’ry step ’cross rippling reaches,
flows their song from ancient times;
a song with every crashing wave,
of every ghost these waters claimed;
fills the air with hopeful longing,
song of love, their chorus haunting;
for each body held in depth’s repose,
each soul in song is lovingly released.
 Nov 2018
Abigail Hobbs
And your soul will be replenished
once you're showered with
what you crave
and yearn for the most
Your roots spread
and dig
and grow
You'll spurt into the tall blades
into the night sky, even
Your curled petals
will open to this world
What do you need?
Your stretched petals will tell you
And so will the sun,
the great source in the sky
Grow and grow through the garden
The garden is your home
to rest
to replenish
You need a home
You need others akin to a home
Flowers need love
And love you shall receive, child.
5/4/18
 May 2018
Nylee
In the torch of fire,
someone is burning,
dying every second
to keep the flame alive
.
 Mar 2018
r
When I was thirteen
and still seeing daylight
between my ****** feet
I went to spend the night
with my best friend;
we watched Gunsmoke
on the TV and raided
the refrigerator;
I remember his sister
coming home later
and leaving a crack
in her door and taking
off her clothes before
turning the radio
of my childhood on
leaving it playing
all the hot night long
and I sill hum every one
of those sweet songs.
 Mar 2018
passascats
She calls on the cardinal in winter.
All that remains of reverence for a god who has gone--
And he appears to her!
A lone spark lighting the static of snowscape
Like a bolt of lightning traverses dimensions to strike a dream.
He delivers lost loved ones as she washes the dishes.
Ascension of memory is as steam on glass.
The child raises a finger and draws the sign of the cross,
And through the clarity of its lines, she sees the river change its mind,
Stop short,
Swirl in Inertia’s moment of uncertainty
Before scrambling frantically back toward its
Source.
She washes the dishes,
And watches through window of steam and snow for a sign from God.
 Feb 2018
Left Foot Poet
what does the W stand for


my 2:00am friend?

left feet touching and yet I am clueless, unsure in what language I should compile the possibilities and

reread my poem and shotgun taken aback

you make my urgency feel so trifling

and I read your are back but you are more gone for,
love’s  misfortune has you, graced,
like a hole in the barbed wire fence,
had bled you dry and let the seeds for
the next planting go astray;
this is comprehended for my fences
are so busted in so many places that
all the animals escaped only to return
at feeding time, their curiosity of the outside world
limited

and W has limited infinite answers

for there are no names that begin with W
for farmers in our native tongues

suspect if you are reading this it must be after 2:00,
indeed it’s 4:07am, and the puzzlement is face flushing,
annoying and curiously intriguing...

and i remain,
“sincerely” yours

L.F. Poet




p.s. thanks for reading my stuff
 Feb 2018
Ana Habib
Windows to the soul

The windows to her soul are green
Big and round
The color of fresh tea leaves
I bet you thought I was going to say emeralds
They are filled with amusement
Sometimes mystery
And when I am in trouble, plenty of mischief
They sparkle in the sun
But turn dark, almost black when she is angry

They can make feel uncomfortable when I am guilty of something
They provoke me to the point I want to spill my secrets the deepest darkest and dirtiest ones
They encourage me whenever I am not sure of something
They hold my gaze forever just when I think it is not possible to love this woman any more than I did yesterday
They flirt with me in the driveway when she is about to leave for work
They tease me between the sheets when we are tangled up in each other
They glare at me when my mouth works faster than my brain
They laugh at me when I make fool of myself in the kitchen
They shrink in size and tear up when I cannot hold on to my tongue
They smile at me in the morning
They have showered me with love, appreciation, concern and trust for the last 36 years

But right now as I sit here and look at her lying still in that cheap hospital gown
With her face a covered in a mask with shades of red and purple
I can see them, but they cannot see me
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