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 Oct 2014
Francie Lynch
Between brain and skull
Lies the cream of memory,
Distilled love,
Cheese-clothed infatuation.
Between brain and skull
Rises the O-Zone, internal cloud
Of pin-heads with choirs and hosts.
The pulp beneath the skin.
It's not in my heart,
So fragile
You could be passed by,
Where a dead man's loves lived.
You don't keep shop there,
But between brain and skin
In chronological flashbacks
Like real time re-runs
And infitismal longings
For beliefs.
You are infused there.
Squeezed as grapes,
Rightly aging,
But not to be tasted
Again.
 Oct 2014
CharlesC
Center of all our experience..this we know..but
looms a question..when time appears in its solitude..
lone standing..independence declared..it also echoes of
separation..suffering..of a brevity with loneliness tinged..
and hope departing..we ask and wait for something
unknown..clocks persist ticking on and on..gloom directs
sitting on a storied park bench..then lo an inkling..time is
not found in this experience while sitting..mind rebels
at this most outrageous inkling and shouts fraud..but
the inkling is a message with eternal dressing..and
a primordial center our experience Now claims...
The ghosts in the trees,
They're all staring at me.
I'm out here alone and lost,
Can't they just let me be?

The ghosts in the trees,
They seem to be scared.
I just want to go home,
But I don't know my way there.

A ghost of a raven
shrieked from the tree.
You may hide in a ravine
You may jump in the sea
You can run to the mountain
Pray to the craven
But I will find theeee!


That ghost in the tree,
It knows my name!
Turning, I start to run,
I don't like this game!

That ghost in the tree,
That shrieked my name.
It's starting to follow me,
Does it know I'm in pain?

Raven, Raven
Stark and mad
No safe haven
To be had
Yellow beak
Upon your back
For evermore,
Forever more.

Ghostly raven in that tree,
Why do you wish to torture me?
I'm simply lost, I don't want trouble.
Can't you just go to hell already?!

Ghostly raven in that tree,
I didn't really mean that.
I'm already so afraid,
I can't stand your beak upon my back.

Flee, fly, foe, crumb
My claws in your hair
Till your heart grows numb
-Begone or your'e done

Evil black bird I can see,
With your mocking and taunting.
I see a glowing light ahead
Your ghostly image is fading

Evil black bird I can see,
With your hatred and torture.
The glowing light is within reach,
I'll be gone and you have no future.

*Begone, begone
The night is long
I fear your fear
Unbidden here
Forever more
Forbidden.
Thank you to r, his fantastic poetic abilities really brought this collaboration to life.
 Oct 2014
Silence Screamz
Does this poet
put down his pen?
Dark sadness grips tight,
tearing his skin.

Ripping his heart out,
buries his soul.
Feeling all tortured
and taking it all.

Looking about,
at all of the gloom.
Stirs up the ***,
sweeping his broom.

His mind is a mess,
seeking an answer.
Alone in the parlor,
with no private dancer.

His ink had dried up
and his pages were heavy.
One lasting poem,
come home, nice and steady.
It is all
up to
our
discretion.

That is,
simultaneously,
our greatest gift
as well as
our greatest curse.
 Oct 2014
Traveler
Young and alone I was left home
When I heard the creak up stares
Chill bumps ran down my spine
As if it were only a matter of time
Before the killer would pounce.

Slowly reason seeped in
I recalled what my parents had said
The house sometimes settled
And
That tree out beside the house
Would brush up against
Causing creaking noises

Although the feeling was quite real
There was no killer in the attic
Unfortunately
Feelings can not always be trusted...
 Oct 2014
Phosphorimental
I'm putting the tea to boil...
finding a spot on the earth in which to sink,
a heart string to play, my mind to think
and untangle a knot of toil
I'm putting the tea to boil

Something warm to come
porcelain cups and waiting lips
hibiscus leaves and rose hips
within the heart a thrum
stirs a ripple in a steeping conundrum

My last verse has gone missing
it’s sound, sans words, lost half in slumber
so half awake, and torn asunder,
by answers hissing then bristling
then comes the awaited harmony of a kettle whistling

— The End —