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 Apr 2017
Gidgette
To hold hope is a dangerous thing
Memories and dreams lacking colour,
living in the glint of light in tears for brief,
and painful seconds as they fall
only to be absorbed by my skirts
Each holding false hope in secret things,
bound to a twisted finger of cruel fate
I hide my face from light and sight
as I breathe life into shadow figures of
Once was, wasn't, and will never be
Undecided if reality is dreamt up by
a cruel child who derives its pleasure by
pulling legs from lady bugs and wings from
Butterflies
And being the escapist that I am
I play out my grey dreams in the fake lives of a family I seem to have imagined
And drown the rest in flowers and filth
 Apr 2017
Steve Page
His words were leavened with love
as He shared His last mortal meal.

If you listened with care
His voice maybe cracked with grief
even while His hands were laced with grace
as He broke the crust
releasing the warmth into the chatter
He shared with His friends.

And if you watched closely
His hands perhaps shook a little
as He poured out His full bodied wine
intense in its dark flavour
infused with fragrance
as if ripe for an altared offering.

And if you looked into His face
you might have seen a sheen
in the firelight
over the determination
to see this through
to the last.
The Last Supper was tough.  Matt 26:17-30
 Apr 2017
Hannah
She will cradle her own soul
within her hands,
and treasure her precious life ~
holding it tight.
She will not slip away,
like sand lost to the wind.
~ for anyone fighting suicide,
do not slip away ~
 Apr 2017
Butch Decatoria
I barely know much about him,
Just another homeless man
I give my aluminum cans (minus the pop)
"Where's Wallace?"
Got Glad bags full of tin
Look for his shopping carts
If you connect the dots
Within its circumference
You may find him
in the shade
Or sleeping on the lawn
Outside the closed apartment gates
Or between the carnaceria's walls
Alley cat black
A good guy at that...

He's one of many
The growing crew of indigents
Nothing new to city streets
I met the semi permanent fixtures
The regulars that camp out
Here on the boulevard, near the Strip
Know them by name
But barely know who they are
I try not to get that close

Because you know what they say
You feed one pigeon
They all flock at once,
And Hitchcock's horrors are
My own,
Nowadays when it's a luxury
To have a home,
Mine is precarious
We all protect our own,
That's what they say...

Wallace mostly dives alone
In the darkness of night
Or the end of days
When they throw away the food
Rules of expiration dates

With what I give, it's always fresh,
Perishable even for microwaves
Those convenient stores that let him in
But he's burnt most bridges
With his angry mouth
"****** it up" dropping F bombs
Even half asleep
I barely understand him
But I begin to when his wife
Visits the prison of his concrete streets
Brings him the warmth from home
Her petite loyalty bigger than any shame
I notice that she doesn't notice
The looks of blame
From the eyes of disapproving
Bigots and creeps

Wallace becomes someone else
As they sit together
It's more than just being fed
It's an intimate meal.
(there's tenderness I see)

I couldn't come near to understand
How and why he lives
This way, under this desert city's iron sky,
What a fool he is for romancing the night
Collecting minutiae treasure
All with broken worth
A vagabond crusade with the finger to the world,

I can only hope for the best
I have no opinion

But should he decide  
To wake up or realize
Such folly of a life
I say, it's better to grow and get old
Together with his wife

But then again
I barely know much about Wally
Or how the streets are calling

Away untoward
Those nights that're howling
These streets he's prowling
Much ado about

Wally.
 Apr 2017
r
Tonight watching the waves
break over Dead Woman's
Shoals quite a ways away
through the windows
of the Riverview
where I once thought the bar
was the bottom of a boat
scarred deep from the drink
on the rocks and sand bars
until I realized it was a coffin
shellacked black
as the hazards of marriage
between a waterman
and a lonely woman
black as the soft leather
of the stool climbed
and kicked away
black as the water
the night
you found her there
still swinging
from the rope
of the nets
she repaired
for her man
while he was away
chasing the catch
deep in the darkness
of the black waves.
 Apr 2017
SteffyWeffy
The victims deal with the abuse.
Then when they get enough courage to leave, they have to go into hiding.
Afraid every-time the phone goes off, that it is them.
Every-time someone knocks on the door, they wonder.
Have I been found? Will I have to move again?
When they go out, they look behind them constantly making sure no one is following them.
Careful to post any information on social media, so they cannot be cyber stalked by them.
A friend request on the internet makes them suspicious, wondering if that could be them.
Someone who is friendly sets off alarms, wondering if somehow this person could be related to their abuser.
The victim did not ask for any of this yet, the only way to survive is to leave and hide.
Forever wondering if they will be found and put through the abuse again.
There are many forms of abuse.
If you know someone or suspect they are going through abuse please reach out to them.
Or someone who can help them.
Because they need to get out of  the situation, even if the abuse has happened once or many times.
Because often times it will keep happening until it goes to far and the victim dies.
Or becomes seriously hurt physically or mentally.
 Apr 2017
ryn
.

•see-
min-
gly tied, moored to this bed•
rust
enc-
rust-
ed, e-
mpty
,beat-
en an-
•                       d un-                       •
•••                       man-                       •••
•••••                    ned•                    •••••
a wreck long forgotten... and ghostly
dead• anchored but afloat,
never touching the
sand




.
 Apr 2017
phil roberts
There's a quiet murmuration
Of figments of my imagination
Dreams and broken notions
Feelings and emotions
Swirling and rearranging
Into ever-changing shapes in my mind

There are absent gods and howling dogs
And the broken backs of the poor
While jugglers perform tricks with wealth
As nobody seems to care anymore
Amidst marching boots as children shoot
And hope lies dead on the floor

There seems to be a ghost somewhere
Wandering high in purple mountains
And low in deep green valleys
And this roaming soul may well be
A kind of long lost truth
Inside my hidden mind

                               By Phil Roberts
 Apr 2017
Gidgette
Awful
Black butterfly,
Lacking even the blue dots,
worn upon the wings
ripped off by smiling children at play
I dwell in the shadows of low light
I'm forlorn and forbidden
Alone
My feast,
contains saline and salty tears
Unloved
Grasped by unpoetic hands in the stillness of midnight
No matter how pretty
How soft
What expensive things I decorate my unholy self with
I dwell alone
One of many
Forlorn, forbidden things
 Apr 2017
Kelly Rose
How I wish my life was
Just a dichotomy
Or even “Fifty Shades of Grey”
I am standing still
And moving forward
Living in the present,
But pondering the past
While worrying about the future
I am neither here nor there
But somewhere in between
I go so easily from feeling good
About myself
To self-sabotage
So even though
No matter where I am, there I am
I am in my dreams
Or somewhere
In between
Oh, how I wish
I was either here or there
But no!
I am everywhere
I am nowhere
And everywhere in between.

Kelly Rose
© March 30, 2017
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