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 Oct 8
melissa rose
She gathered them like the dead
autumn leaves of Fall
old habits and beliefs
crumbling into dust
through her fingertips
never once grasping to save one
or any at all
now only remnants remain
her soul reclaimed
she leaves all suffering behind
as the most desolate parts of winter
begin to fade away
uncovering her beauty
and the love she was meant to find
unearthed like the roots of Spring
she is Violet amidst the blossoms
of awakening
reaching out to the Summer’s sun
it kisses her radiance
and welcomes her home
 Dec 2018
Jim Musics
She fell over and over, seemingly out of control.
But as she was halfway down to the water, she gained full control of her lean, lithe body,
Her fall turning into a graceful arc,
Dark hair streaming back as she descends,
Three playful ravens swoop above her,
Altocumulus clouds further above, their edges turning pink-orange as the sun lowers to the West.

Now, the quiet swoosh, as the diver, perfectly straight, slices through the water's surface,
The scattering minnows below that now frolic in the bubbles that the young woman created,
She slides through the water up - up quickly back to the surface, taking in a fully joyous gasp of air.

Now, a cheek crinkling smile on her face, that will again come to her whenever she thinks of this day, for the rest of her life.
Many thanks to Takitak for helping me with this.
 Dec 2018
Jim Musics
As we realize, clams don't grow in sluices.
They must never be preoccupied with color.
They are content to be gray and to never move.
“Spit”, is their answer to any question,
And no person can tell how old a clam is by its growth lines.
It can be assumed that the are the owls' enemy, because they reject runcible spoons.
Their tongues retract at the smell of honey.
They must hate bees, flowers and peace as an action.
They are the only argument for Beau Brummell.
I wrote this in 1966-8
I could say I just came across this, but I deliberately looked for it and the many other scribbles that I've carted around with me through all the many places that I lived from there to here.
 Dec 2018
Jim Musics
Fine tiny snow flakes whispered to the wind in this morning's grey white-light
My footsteps made whispers of their own
Mist from my breath mingled with the earthly clouds
Heaven is here, no need to wander
A favorable reaction to a recent Ada Harris poem.
Thanks Ada
 Dec 2018
Jesse stillwater
Healing leaves are now disrobed branches
on the edge of this wilderness.
Many tall Douglas Fir stand sentinel
over 100 foot tall amazing grace — the fleeting leaves
expose the beauty of the moss clad scaffolds
adorned with a lime-grey lichen lace
Nature is my refuge — solid ground to stand
in this harmony and peacefulness.

Jesse Stillwater — December 2018
Left as a comment yesterday, mused by "Healing Leaves" by Reena Sharma:
 Dec 2018
Jim Musics
Are you trying to **** me with a windfall limb?
Help me fly a kite?
Push me down a city block even if I don’t want to go that way?
Will you blow my love to me?
Blow them away?
But thanks for making so much kindling available.

I often mistake those pin oak leaves
That you push across my path,
Now east, now west,
For skittering rodents,
Cute ones, terrified of being run over,
Like toads in a Spring rain.
Brown brittle leaves, done growing but still running.

You don’t care, you have no imagination.
Yet you can remove, by mindless bluster,
The common - all too common sorrow
From us thoughtful human fools
If we dare to face you,
Spread our quiescent wings,
And let go.
 Dec 2018
Jim Musics
O c
Big orange sun  overpowering the  dim ‘scape*
while the waning lacey moon
             the other side of the sky
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