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 Sep 2018
SøułSurvivør
She rolls along the high wires
Tightrope walkin' moon
She graces life's big circus
She is gone too soon

Huge! A glowing fairie
So luminous! So bright!
She's suspended on the ropes
The performer of the night!

I watch her intently
As she's held aloft
Then she slips toward the hills...
... she is fallin' off!

But she bows down and curtseys!
A smile on her face
She's lost not her dancer's poise,
She maintains her grace.

Finally she exits
The horizon sets the stage
She is only a faint glow
The night has turned the page.

I'll remember her with fondness
As she danced to Claire de Lune...
In her sequined tutu

Tightrope walkin' moon.


SøułSurvivør
8/26/2018
I'm up in the wee hours... I saw the full moon suspended on a telephone wire, and couldn't help but think that she was rolling along a tightrope! She is an absolutely beautiful apparition! Thanks for reading my whimsical poem. I'm glad to be back writing here again. I will be readings again soon...
 Sep 2018
Mr X
Cross over.
To the world of the minds...

And you'll find,
This universe was made
For you...
...and you alone.

YOU are the story.
YOU are the reason.
You
...and you alone
 Sep 2018
Crow
Come to me with all that you are
Leaving nothing behind
Make no attempt to conceal a scar
Nor wound of body or mind

Bring all your lifelong memories
Whether fragments or complete
Your daydreams and your reveries
Your tales, your songs, your grief

Let old dwellings be deserted
Pack each and every thought
Allow no baggage to be diverted
Every aspect to be brought

Load up your darkness and your light
Make parcels of all you know
Wrap strength and weakness, wrong and right
Prepare them all to go

Make ready your heart for travel
Include chips and pieces scattered
Edges beginning to unravel
Even dust, from when it shattered

Be sure no detail is forsaken
Have no token to give in lieu
Delivery will be signed and taken
With all the love I bear for you
 Sep 2018
PS
You called it our baby
And I sung it into life
The first word in its ear
The song of all our strife.

I am the ****** queen
No man to make me rule
Your underestimated dream girl
Your perfect ingenue.

You called the sounds
The good sounds
And from the rock came death
And all the sad destruction
And all our baited breath
And all the holy discord
And every frightened dream
And bare breasted, I move on
Like water in the stream.


You called me your baby
And swan-songed ever sweet
I went along with every gamble
Til you tasted defeat.

I am the queen of snakes
The Pythia, obscured
The maiden, mother, mistress, crone
The one that’s never heard.

You called my body
A celestial body
And from the sky came rain
And in the eclipsing silence
You never heard my pain
And all the holy hatred
And all the washed up dreams
And now, I alone move on,
Like water in the stream.

Sweet Pythia, I’m burning
And I must find the way
The lonely heart has never learned
How to make him stay.

But he is not contention
He is only choice
The songs I sang for many men
Only make him love my voice.

And you call these sounds
The good sounds
When the good sounds please you best
The sounds when they adore you
Not the aggressive ‘I digress’
And all the holy Heras
And all the built in rust
And I, without armies win battles
And you without care, **** trust.

I am the mistress, maiden, crone
All dolly-eyed and blue
Your manic little angel
Your perfect ingenue.

I am the maiden, mother, crone
And now apart from you
Because no one is anything
And nothing you heard is true.
Make of this what you will.
 Sep 2018
em
daughter,
you are worth more than
everything the galaxy could reach
cursed with a lustful heart,
you were made with the intent of art.
once penniless and poor
you found pricelessness  
in the palms of a wise man's
open fists,
bleeding out of nailed wrists
grace without conditions
mercy you almost missed

empty you came
a hollow vase
waiting to be broken free
from your glass case.
he died for you
to give you life
to bring you peace.

a sinful disaster
waiting to quench her thirst
on his love
poured out like water,
thickened with blood.

daughter,
you aren't very pretty,
but through grace
he who died in your place,
gave you the chance
to be beautiful.
 Sep 2018
Nat Lipstadt
How I Observed the Day of Atonement

If you are unfamiliar with day and its observance,
See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yom_Kippur

In a place of perfect solitude,
No crowded synagogue within to hide,
No cantor to intercede on my behalf,
I spoke words of mine own creation
To my creator who wisely empowers me
To judge myself, for knowing, none harsher,

We two,
Old travel companions,
Upon worn grayed, adirondacke thrones,
We overlooked,
A natural prayer place,
Bay and breeze, white-clouded and sun-laced.
Only the full time inhabitants, the animals,
Grayling butterflies to match and contrast,
Eavesdropping on our Greek dialogos, in this,
Palace of Perfect Solitude.

Amiable did we chat,
I of family, this and that.

He, wearied from recent travel,
To Syria and India,
Was glad for a day off,
For he had little to do,
But wait for twilight,
To then close the books.

For us no formality, easy the going,
No prosecutor no defender in residence,
For we exchange these roles intermittently,
The incriminatory, the penance, all deeds displayed,
No adult games of winking eyes, and
Hidden heart, secret chambers,
Rabbinical or angelic intercession.

He does so love his Bach,
Adagio on strings,
My soothing gift to him,
This music more than divine.

He returned this courtesy.

Warming sun to expose my chest,
Cooling genteel breeze offsetting,
The bay emptied of wayfaring skiffs and yachts.

A cooling beverage proffered,
But sighing, he said that he had yet to find
A beverage that his kind of thirst could slake.
For his eyes, tho shining, did not effervesce,
As when we shared this day in years past.

Too much killing, this year,
It tires me so to tabulate human excess,
Spoke not a word, for my critique would
Comfort him less, if at all.

Thanks for Kol Nidre, he plainted,
So I too can disavow,
The best intended oaths I took and take,
For each year, I fail more than the year before.

If only I could sit with each,
As I do with you,
Where what needs saying,
Is said, understood, undisguised as praying.

A schooner to the dock did appear,
For him it attended, for him, it waited,
Sails, both black and white.

He stood to depart, my arms-grasped, taken, he graphing,
Measuring my fortitude, my strengths, my divinity.

I do so love this day in your company.
I shall sit with you again one year on,
Bach sweet when next we meet, please.

Soft spoke, as almost I should not hear,
Your time is nigh, no thing I create is forever.
He spoke with such sadness,
For well I knew, the intent, his meaning.

He, for-himself, saddened, for he loved
Sitting  beside me in this manner,
Since my inception, never deception,

Only He resting easy, when he atoned before me,
And I gave him his absolution conditional,
As he gave me,
mine
September  2013
 Sep 2018
Mystic Ink Plus
Crafted with preciousness

She is a living Museum
Reflecting kindness, loyalty and love
Genre: Romantic
Theme: Through My Eyes
 Sep 2018
rstlss
Unfinished,
unpolished,
unfurnished;
unpublished.
Like us, a draft
of what can be called
"the both of us."
A draft created
that's open for change.

A change
to be better
---better
than who we are
or what we are
in the midst of the conflict
that floats around us
for the sake of us
for the both of us
---for each other.

A change
to be smoother
---smoother
with no mistakes,
with everything
in order;
consistent,
and coherent
even with the dialogues
we say that matter.

A change
to be clearer
---clearer,
meaning it is
at least what it is
meant to be conveying
with no underlying
vague wordings
when it comes
to our feelings
---for one another.

But that's there all is:
a draft
of what could be called
the both of us;
a product
of what we can become
if we make it become;
a product
of the possibilities
of what can be us,
of what might be us,
of what is it between us
between the fragments
of the words,
the lines,
and the series
of all of them
that constantly paint
faint descriptions of us,
descriptions
created [fabricated]
in my mind
like a work of fiction,
of pure imagination.

Unfinished,
unpolished,
unfurnished;
unpublished,
l­ike the poems
I wrote for us;
like the poems
about us;
like us, a draft.
8.31.18

****
 Sep 2018
Jack
What if love was just a dream
No one really cared
No one asked how ya doin
No one loved you

What if love was just a dream
Something to hold onto
Something to comfort you
Something to make you feel good when you don't

What if love was just a dream
All of it is just tears

Love is a dream
One we all have
Something we use to cope
Something to keep us moving
Love is an idea
Love is a story
Love is the hope we all share in our hearts
Love is the reason you live
Love will tear you apart

Love will always be a dream
Unless you can change
Show to your neighbor
They will go out and do the same
Love will be a dream but only if you want it to
So go show love and make it true
Because
What if Love was real
This is for people that think love is only in fairy tales, meant for someone but not for them. I'm here to tell you that love can be for you if you make it and show it to others.
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