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 Jan 2021
b for short
Rolling symphonies of snores
keep me from a dream as I
conduct their crescendo with a smirk;
barely of a sliver of blanket
left to call my own;
goosebumps on my legs remind me
that this bed is full of things I love
who choose to be here too.
I am wide awake,
wrapped in hushed darkness;
like a freshly dipped photograph,
I develop best here too.
©️Bitsy Sanders, January 2021
 May 2018
Appreciation amid glorious people
They sound speak resound
Ah and we are just as they say
In the grand sphere
Of poetic masterpieces  just
When if you read much
HP poets are masterpieces
Writhing psalms odes
Songs and heartfelt
Artworks daily
As poets are defined by effort
Heart and good designs
I know no place
Other where all these
Parts exist in better people.
I am often lack in
Saying or plussing or recognizing
This very fact.
HP poets are the best.
of heart.  Mind soul. We just are.
 Feb 2018
Wouldn't it be crazy wonderful
To see in person some of
The most noted Wordsworth's
And personalities that
Hello Poetry has to offer?
August 15th would be good
Here in Clayhatchee Bamalama
In the south with nothing else to offer but the woods and cornstalks the peanut dust air.
It would be a festival. A face to face to finally meet the poets I admire and describe in my head by their words and their profile.
I'm about to start a gofundme page to make the wildest dreams come true. Imagine Eliot greeting you in person.
Its gonna be tie-dye only and sandals dress. (Weeds illegal here and the price high as hell, so bring your own)
Load up the vw van with all your poet friends.
Entrance fees waved to those
Bringing their own soap and toiletries. Oh, and beer....or ***....whisky....tequila.... Etc.
We are also going to need qualified trippers to man the LSD flipout tent.  Please apply here:
 Dec 2016
b for short
She sits on a wooden porch
in a chair that learned its comfortable shape
over decades of fireside conversation.
Her hair, still dark,
dark with a swatch of silvery gray
that drapes across the top of her head—
an honorary sash, life-bestowed.
Her cheeks, still round.
Her eyes, still green and wondering.
Her fingers, still short as they
light a long wooden pipe.
With a flick and a hiss, she *****
sweet tobacco smoke
and breathes out secrets
in languages spoken only by
those who understand the trees.
She sips bitter tea from a clay cup
and names each of the birds
that fly into her view.
She grows berries just for them
on vines that twist about
unsuspecting beams and rails.
A metaphor, she suspects.
She hums familiar melodies to herself
and cracks a wrinkled smile.
The world, as she knows it,
is only ever waiting to be enjoyed.
© Bitsy Sanders, December 2016
 Aug 2016
WendyStarry Eyes
Why is it that the day
I feel like writting poetry
Always seems to fall on a day
That responsibility has a hold on me
Poetry burst from my brain
When I long to be free
This is when the world
Throws demands upon me
As if poetry is locked within my mind
It does not want to break free
Unless I'm out of time
Stress is when it takes center stage
Rhyming of words becomes
The insatiable rage
I have to put down my pen
Close The notebook or turn the page
Cuz like I said
I gots lots of responsibility
To handle today
 Aug 2016

                  Of sentiments
            Should be
                   Dark as the Night
                Clear as the day,

            Should speak
        Not seek attention
             Should be
           Bright as the culminating cloud
           Dark as the emanating nights

        Poem should not seek, but speak
Should be
              Free as the Moon moves the earth
           Poem should
         Free, but not stale
     Should be
            True, but not forced
A Poem
       Should not seek,
          But speak
    Vast as Rainfall
And yet
       Calm as Dew falls

Could be
But mean no harm,
Could be hateful,
          But mean no hate
      Be bright as SUNSHINE,
Should be
           Vast as Rainfall,
         Calm as Dew falls
A Poem
     Should not seek attention
     Speak attention!!

Should be
        Vast as

A Little insight of how a poem should be
Just some views mended as a poem
Should be vast ad rainfall!!
 Jul 2016
b for short
Frankly, I don’t give a ****
if you weren't a spiritual guy,
because I can’t shake it—
I see your smile
in the smear of each sunset
and your side eye in the stars that follow.
I hear your ‘hello’
in every forgiving breeze
and your infectious laughter
in each clap of thunder.
In these small moments,
I feel whole for just a second,
and my heart swells at the thought
that you’re now so much bigger
than anything I can possibly
clasp my little t-rex arms around.
But, see,  I’m grateful
that I get to find you
from scratch
every single day—
that I can wrap myself
in all the parts of you
that I committed to memory—
that you, alone, gave me a chance
to fall in love
with the change of the seasons
all over again.
© Bitsy Sanders, July 2016

In Memory of Kibwe Lee
 Jul 2016
b for short
In the quiet hours
before the sun,
I shed a thousand
layers of you.
Dead, heavy skins
flutter to the ground
to decorate my ankles,
until suddenly,
I’m light.
So light that I float
and, as I rise,
breathe in
the whole universe.
I see colors—
new to my eyes.
I feel safe here,
knowing there is
no happiness
like mine.
© Bitsy Sanders, July 2016
 Jun 2016
b for short
Music is thick,
syrupy sweet and
heavily cloaks all
of the hazy bits of
undecided sunrise and
smeared headlights
that I blink into
oncoming clarity.
Last night looming—
an ominous rain cloud
born to wash out
all of today’s quick wit and
coveted common sense.
Last night, so curious,
while I slowed time by
refusing my dreams;
when I quieted my mind
and didn’t have to work
quite so hard
at keeping myself warm.
© Bitsy Sanders, June 2016
 Jun 2016
b for short
Eyes tightly shut, I pretend that
not a single part of it was real—just
some kind of lucid, rotten daydream
straight out of a can
found forgotten and rusted
on the back shelf;
its contents laced
with so many preservatives,
the expiration date just hangs there
a waste of ink, ignored.
Its nutrition facts, faded,
from too many days of
denial and hope.
No, I don’t care what’s in it—
it tastes good, and
I could die tomorrow.
So I nosh on it by the spoonful,
happy for sustenance,
happy when my stomach turns,
happy, once again,
when my eyes open.
© Bitsy Sanders, June 2016
 Jun 2016
b for short
Don’t be afraid, little heart.
It’s simple, really.
Be smarter than to believe what’s promised,
and you’ll always have the courage
to keep beating for something,
something better.
© Bitsy Sanders, June 2016
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