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 Apr 2014
Jasmine smiles
You changed the colors of your hair
We don't care
You got an A on your test
We don't care

You got a new car
We don't care
You recieved a promotion
We don't care

You ate at that new resturaunt
We don't care
You bought new dress to flaunt
We don't care

Children are starving
Madmen are are carving
Up women they grabbed of the streets
Say goodbye to our heartbeats

Soldiers are dying
Innocent people are crying
we can try to fight starvation
But we are headed to damnation

but you don't care
It has nothing to do with you
just keep breathing your clean air
You have more important things to do
 Apr 2014
Rob
A man-made cave of brutal grey
Damp and dark on sunlit day
Void of what it used to be
Yet a thousand souls I seem to see
Oppressed I felt I must escape
So through narrow door my way I make
A few steps more on grassy knoll
To sit, and breathe, and take control
I stare across the open fields
Wide and flat, and Poplar healed
I want to write
Yet words won’t come
For in this place all words are done
Upon this knoll, one long past day
Were penned the words of John McCrae
So instead I ponder field’s banks
Fresh turned earth in neat trim ranks
And watch the flowers bob their heads
With diaphanous petals
Of deep blood red.

RD © 2014
Today, my wife and youngest daughter are on a school trip visiting Ypres.  About five years ago I made the same trip with our eldest daughter. Amongst many places we visited was the Essex Farm Dressing Station and I admit that quite soon I found it’s atmosphere oppressive and so sat outside about 20 feet away on the grass bank of field, where Poppies were growing in newly ploughed earth. I tried to write something then, to imagine, but no words came. So I took a photograph of the closest poppy instead and it was only when I was walking back to the coach that I saw the inscription that explained how John McCrae, Canadian Army surgeon, had just failed to save his friend in the dressing station and came outside to sit awhile, where he wrote “In Flanders Fields”  (3rd May 1915). And I knew all the words had already been used for this place.
 Apr 2014
Nat Lipstadt
for you

Never have I seen you,
or touched thy breeze-smoothed skin,
caressed the rounded angles of thy cheekbones,
with the worn~smooth heel of my thumb

it matters not

for long and forlorn,
have I come to love you

fat or pretty,
your physicality is inconsequential,
we have bound and blind~binded
our visible connection
by oaths and contemplations,
all codified in worthy action verbs
whispered in each other ears

we have spent our nodules of time
silently caressing,
word gentling,
and falling in love

this night has brought me
no sleep,
this day has brought me
no pecuniary relief

but words embellish me with hope,
dress and drape my face with
coming attractions,
for that alone,
as if more were
even possible,*
I tell you this
straight out and unconfused,

I adore you

we are a lyric, a harmony,
an aesthetic unique,
for you have never seen my face,
yet this night,
thy comeliness has
stirred and up lifted,
thy tone and tiny gasps
my sundered parts
refilled and reattached with our own esprit de corps,
ethereal, ephemeral, yet so real,
I raise them,
to my lips,
and feel you as I do so,
gentling my cheeks
with your breathes breeze,
asking me live with joy....
tho never have I seen you
 Apr 2014
Sally A Bayan
It had been many years since I last visited....
I could smell the salt in the cold sea breeze
As it welcomed me and
Blew my hair all over my face.
I gathered my hair in a bun.
Thereupon, I caught sight of my surroundings...
A town, which  used to be a hub,
Has turned into a neglected, dying place,
Now rich with junk cars, old stores,
Abandoned warehouses,
Torn down wooden fences, old houses.....
Everything was old and unkempt,
Walls, broken glass doors and windows
Were marked, spray-painted with all sorts of
Writings, distorted faces, big and small letters,
In all styles, shapes and colors,
Whichever suited the vandals' tastes and moods.

It saddened me, for I knew so well...
This place had seen better days,
I had seen it full of life,
During my childhood days......
Days, when my siblings and I were
Forbidden to go beyond those breakwaters.
Crippled was I by my fear of the waters...still,
I longed to swim far beyond rows of big rocks
Where big ships were anchored, and
Colorful sailboats sailed along.....
Back and forth we ran, from sea to shore,
To see a starfish or  even a jellyfish,
Brought by the waves as they hit the sand.
We were content with knee-deep splashes
In that clear blue water, long ago uncorrupted,
Once so natural and undefiled,
Now, with traces of oil and all kinds of debris
All visible even from afar.....

I leaned on a wall, crestfallen.
I reflected on my life, and how
It paralleled with my hometown.
My heart and my mind
They have marked walls, too,
Wrapped with deception...
Wounded by betrayed trust....
Scarred by past experiences,
Sad and unpleasant ones.
And yet, here I was, standing on my two feet,
In front of this dying place,
Still alive, while my hometown
Had turned into a ghost town.

That moment,
I felt countless eyes staring  at me,
While a strong gust of wind blew,
Almost pushed me away from where I stood.
Like, it was begging me to go......
To leave my hometown alone,
And give my life a second chance....
But live it somewhere else.....

The cold sea breeze, once more
Brushed against my face,
Whispered to my ears
And pressed upon my mind,
Thoughts I had always resisted then.
Something was flowing inside me....
It was starting to fill my soul.

I straightened from where I leaned
And brushed away the dirt from my coat.
It was time to move on, time to go
I untied my long hair,
Let it fall on its own......and
Let it be blown by the wind.

.... Sally....


     Copyright 2013
      Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
 Apr 2014
r
Whispers
     in alabaster ears
words unforgiving, unforgiven
      year after year after year.     
Whispered secret secrets.

      Laurel leaved lies of liars
traitorously spilling wine while
      tear after tear after tear
shed and shredded truth
      cut sharp with guile.

      Cloaked smiles kissing
hands of befriended strangers
      in strange lands lighting fires;
fire after fire after fire
       burning hatred blind to danger.
     
 Sentried angry glowers guarding towers
      o'er ever changing landscapes of desire
 hour after hour after hour.
      Come little child, take to your lips
a bitter taste of this our power.

r ~ 4/24/14
 Apr 2014
JJ Hutton
When I lived in the city, night, true night, never came.
The natural day gave way to the artificial day,
a day made possible by streetlight, by humming billboard.
With sick pinks and near-white greys, the early hours
hiccuped away. I slept or didn't. And this time in my life,
as any time in my life, is marked by a woman.

I won't say much about her. She was a performer,
and I've never been a steady fan of much of anything.
So when I kissed her the last time, I kissed her like it
was the last time, a kiss calibrated to say, "It's been."
When she kissed me the last time, she kissed me
like she didn't know it was the last time,
a kiss not so much a kiss as a mouth half-opened eternity,
where the sun didn't shine, nor was there night.
 Apr 2014
Theia Gwen
Don't eat those pomegranate seeds
Don't gloss those beautiful lips
With the sticky liquid of death
Heaven seems so far away
When you're stuck in hell
And the devil has an incessant need
To deform all things beautiful
And to separate you
From everyone you love
And the ashy snow will fall
Until you're with me again
Because all I have is memories
Of you dancing in the spring blooms
But now you're laying among asphodel
And I know it's hard to see the other side
Because depression has a relentless need
To touch all things pure
But I know
Spring will come again
There is always a victory
when you have the spoils
But while you are enjoying sumptuous pleasures
Decay has begun to spread
Rot spoiled and stinking
with an unbearable stench
While memories decide to haunt you
There are no reasons for concern
so you continue to burn
dried puddles of wax on the floor.

The pleasure of smoke
As you continue to burn
Is all you can rely on now
withering with a slimy glee
in the face of days that continue to glow
You are a victim
But only of your humanity
And your hands need to raise
With defiant fists
With desperate grasps
With deep caressing
With humble shakes
But it is hard to keep them from my eyes
And I will continue to try
Before the spoils turn to rot.
 Apr 2014
seasonalskins
let me sleep
in a deep slumber
until the pillows suffocate me
until the bed envelops me
how kind

let me sleep
long enough
so I never awake
to burdens
of a restless mind

leave me be
so I never hear
another cry
echoing echoing
in the brain

leave me be
an undisturbed state
not in vain, nor pain
but rather,
sane
 Apr 2014
Jess Brady
My name means “gracious gift of God”, but this is not what I am.
My name does not mean “gracious gift of God” because I am not the product of one,
I am the product of many.
My name means “she sees,”
But there are glasses perched on my face with every intention of helping me see what is only a few feet away.

Isis, the most powerful Egyptian Goddess lives right between Jessica and Brady.
Isis is the goddess of magic and nature, two things that I love dearly yet no one knows about.
She stays unknown, and hidden, like she does not want to be seen.
With great excuse as well, because Isis is the only accurate depiction of me within these 16 letters, 7 syllables, 3 words.
Because I am not bound by connected lines
With spaces in between that have a bigger picture,
I am not my name in the most formal way.
I am the way that my curls frizz when I’ve forgotten to treat it,
Or the way that my hand flickers and wavers over a paper
When I’m about to forget an idea.
I show myself as a simple person
But I am not just one person.
With every breath you take you remove a piece of yourself
And breathe in a piece of someone close to you.
For that reason, I am not myself, not wholly at least.

I am the way my mother cuts down people with their own words,
The way she brought me to numerous swimming classes and taught me to love the ocean,
Or maybe the way words roll off my fathers tongue like he was born with this knowledge.
Maybe I am the way my friends tell me only absolute truths,
Or the way they only think in hypotheticals.

But come to think of it now,
These have all mixed and pieced together to become a part of me.
So maybe
In the end
I really am myself.
This was a class assignment but since I got such positive feedback I decided to post it.
 Apr 2014
kategoldman
Possible side effects may include
Dizziness
Nausea
Loss of appetite
Possible side effects may include your intestines slipping out, wrapping cold coils around your neck, kissing your purple eyelids, and begging you to jump

Possible side effects may include your lungs crying bible hymns with razor tongue accuracy through muted chokes

Possible side effects include finger nails scratching piano ivory on a Sunday service

Do not repent your sins to a church that gave you this bottle
They prescribed you a god and you swallow his followings again and again
Just like youre told
Doctor dosages of high mortality

Side effects may include atheism
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