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 Apr 2016
The Dedpoet
Poems, the consciousness of minutes
Plucked like corn from the ear
Of language,
Between the here and now
Of echoes reflection,
A door to everywhere and nowhere
At the desk,

An escape from the peoples,
From the abyss that fills,
From the sulfuric melancholy
Where unconquerable ruins
Lay at the foot of memory
Armed with an assault of words.

The beneficent metaphorical
Divinities of the moments we
Connect like spinning webs,
You, me, him, her,
They, poets and every one else.

We compact time ripping off
The facelessness of vanities,
Provokers of thought,
Erupting the sensitivity and
Stirring the pit of emotion.

Every poet must know a lover
To cut the cord from the ink
And commit to the experience
Of the realised, words become
What we have done.

Nouns, pronouns, adjectives, these things
Are tools to the inner soul,
We become prophetic and speak
The Fallen,
We know the children of dust
And ignite the realised poem
In each of them,
This is how poetry exists,
How philosophy exists,
And love,
And even hate.
And if these things don't exist,
Then I do not exist,
Neither do you.

Somewhere in the darkness
A prisoner of words begins
Writing the light brighter
than any under the sun.

The first of first, her hair in the
Motion as she flicks slender finger
With her eyes gushing in a half
Smile, the music on the radio,
The memory of Mother, everything,
Everywhere, poetry is life,
It writes itself!

And here in this decalogue,
Every love survives,
Every pain manifest,
Streaking in the heart the
Blood races to the fingers and
Bleeds words to paper.

Every poem is a sacrifice,
Time, energy, pieces
Of you, pieces of I
Scattered in the penumbra,
We become as crystalline structures,
Transparent translation of the
Spirit that burns.

Every man and woman
Writes the experience,
Life and its unique constellation
Of emotions, enormously
We must write the world,
The poem is real,
The images speaks itself.

Poetry is life,
Deserve your poem.
 Apr 2016
Mic
trust silence
with the world
trust stillness
with your self
Endow them both
your perfect faith
and begin to know
victory
 Apr 2016
CA Guilfoyle
White fleshed the wild roots
cold in caves of soil the bulbs, the tubers
burst through aged brown clay, wet through mud slick rains
sun drunk buds of tulip leaves, petals painted pink
bird chirp and groan of ponds, a soft bedded mossy home
of woven fern and forest fronds, home to night's invisible frogs
white moon dogwood blooms, calls heard lovelorn
through an open window.
 Mar 2016
Ronald D Lanor
bud of the dogwood
subtle painting upon the
wings of a songbird
 Mar 2016
Frank Russell
This woodland
differs by lack of
Nothing.

Backward on the road
lies the stifling Void -
granted safe haven
behind complex cosmetics -
crass trivialities -
and labeled
"the real world."

Here, in the forest,
there is only
Incorruption.

No effort
is required
to breathe.


- fr
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