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 Oct 2020
Ariana Solo
Champagne glass filled with golden lemonade

Carbon dioxide bubbles popping on my tongue

Synonymous to a luminous stellar explosion

Scent of raspberries, resembling the heart of the galaxy

🌌 🌌 🌌
astronomers have reported that due to a substance called ethyl formate, the galaxy smells and tastes of raspberries

🌌
 Oct 2020
Eryck
I thought I hummed a happy song,
but without a woman I was wrong.
A belief I was too blind to see.
Women are the best thing,
a man could ever have.
(she points this out to me).

She said that we,
collectively,
would open life's doors,
no less, no more, dance upon floors.
The joy we'll see.
(And while I'm out and about could I
run a few chores?).

She does wonderful things,
so I've been told.
At least I think so,
but this I know.
From the dawn of man,
through the times of sand.
Without a woman,
a man cannot stand!
(She wrote this on the back
Of my hand).

She lovingly wraps herself around
every aspect of my life,
my wife,
to the point I couldn't function
without her. Yes lovingly.
I wouldn't doubt her.
(She seems to have combined  both our power).

She had the word TAKEN tattooed on
my arm,
I'm no longer living alone, so what's
the harm.
You can love them or **** them -
thy name is woman.
(when I'm wrong, I hide in the barn).

I try to squeeze her and please her,
kiss her and hold her,
and be mister charming.
She responds by whispering,
don't you have a ballgame to watch
Or something?
(She keeps me running).

I'm a mouse in my house,
who sometimes sleeps on the couch.
While wheeling and dealing with the
strife of married life.
She says it's for the best.
(I now pronounce you man and wife).

I wanted a strong woman that stands
on her own,
stimulates my growth.
Runs her life and runs our home.
A woman who's so much more.
(Be careful what you wish for).

She said you best be knowing,
that lawns need mowing,
kids need growing.
I countered,
can't I just be a snoring and boring,
simply enjoying dad?
She double-countered,
and said, "Women are the best thing a man could ever have".
(Who am I to argue).

I want a mate to share my plate,
one who has the grace,
to have smiles break-out all over
her face.
There's no way her smile could ever
flip upside down,
and become a frown.
(Could it?)

I reach for my back pocket wallet,
but her hand is already on it.
She says sharing is caring,
and it's a wonderful thing.
She states, "You want to be
wonderful too,
don't you"?
(So I guess sharing is the only way).

She says I'm teachable with a
smidgen of logic,
so I'm flexible, and her little project.
Change my stubbornness from bad to
good.
Says I'm hard headed.
(knock on wood).

So that's how it goes,  I suppose.
To be a money provider,
a handyman, a chauffeur driver.
To be elated,
sort of appriciated,
to be a married man.

She keeps whispering in my ear,
for my brain again to hear,
and to make it perfectly clear.
"Dear", she says...
Women are the best thing
a man could ever have.
(So I've been told).
 Oct 2020
Nat Lipstadt
I think, therefore I am.

(5) the possible poems lurk about, here a title,
there a verse without a home, and, despite
cogitating brings no fusion, no unity or home
heading, where the sigh of conjoining both
brings mental *******, organic relief, worth.

(6) the temperature now cool regularity, enough that
a distinctive line crossed, setting from Cool to Heat,
an inflection point of persona, weather, aging,
daytime whispers can no long be avoided,
a choral crescendo, delayed by lazy summer illusions
that permitted us to put off abnormal life as normal.

(7) I think, therefore I am, but I do not feel,
sufficiently, therefore I write a title here,
verse there, but no poem completes because,
as I update my list of people I worry about, I am,
ineffectively yours, lacking answers for you, in all
our present tenses, some of you are on it, even if no notification
sent, selfishly pondering if my name appears on someones list

ah, these miscarriages of miscellaneous mumbles don’t
qualify as worthwhile, so I pre-apologize for wasting your time
trying, pushing myself to go from thinking, of you, so, therefore
you exist, but if I cannot give you the feelings deserved, then,
what good am I?


conundrum.

11:26 AM Sat Oct 10
2020
 Oct 2020
Jonathan Moya
Strange fruit lives in the
bones of black mothers,

the blood of their sons,
marrow of their daughters.

Blue winds drift by
full of poplar scents,

aromas that never leave
the maternal soul.

They exhort their sons
to be careful,

be safe,  
make it back home.
  
They know they can die
for the smallest things,
for absolutely nothing.

Yet, they also know the American Dream
through the body of their sons
they hold closely in their arms.

They watch them leave,
hoping they experience

just ordinary prejudice and
not a blue knee on their neck,

that sculpts
them both
into a black pieta

Note:  

Strange Fruit refers to the song about lynching made popular by both Nina Simone and Billie Holiday.  Here are the lyrics:

Southern trees bear a strange fruit
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root
Black bodies swingin' in the Southern breeze
Strange fruit hangin' from the poplar trees
Pastoral scene of the gallant South
The bulgin' eyes and the twisted mouth
Scent of magnolias sweet and fresh
Then the sudden smell of burnin' flesh
Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck
For the rain to gather
For the wind to ****
For the sun to rot
For the tree to drop
Here is a strange and bitter crop
 Oct 2020
Jonathan Moya
I watch my love,
almost a mermaid,
standing in the kiss
of shoreline and ocean,
washing sand from
her glistening form.

In the pause
between tides
I tie a hope line,
strong as
my inglorious life,
to her toe.

She swims through it,
hardly noticing my intent,
only her friends
crowding around,
reflecting her noise.

Shadows pass her face,
gravely drip
down her body
as her rising beauty
drifts away from me
and the setting sun.
In the shadow of the spire
chestnuts burning on
an open fire,

The Carol.

church bells ring
no one is listening
old grannies cry
it's a christening
the boy will be King,
it doesn't mean anything
chestnuts burning on an
open fire.

This time of year when we are friendly
full of turkey meat and cheap French brandy
the music goes on even though
Santa's gone
chestnuts burning on an
open fire.
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