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 May 2015
ryn
.
••••••••
••••••••••••••••
sound of running puddles•
listen...to the          as they make
window pane•             their way out
   pelting my                         of stagnant
       the rain•                    troubles•listen
            sound of                  ...to the calm
                   ...to the                calling of
               listen                     the moist
            •                          breeze•as it
                 whispers its hopeful
        promises and decrees• 
listen...to the chaos in
   my heart •  heals it-    
self everyday  be-    
fore again it gets    
torn apart      
••••
        

.
Begin reading from mid left of the poem
and work your way round.
 May 2015
South-by-Southwest
I see her in hooded head
Walking by in the night
The dusked shadows dewy in thought

Rumors fill my inquirious desires
As she transcends the vacuous light
Dare not I to ask where you go

She fills me full of fright

But alluring to me like catalepsy
Mewing the cats-eye of my discontent
Then around upon the angled corner

My phantasmagoria bent
 May 2015
Debbie Jean Embrey
the little girl I knew
is all grown up now
out on her own
never alone
wild parties
racing up and down
the highway

the little I knew
is all grown up now
loving memories
candlelit dinners
hosting parties
at her home

the little girl I know
is all grown up now
her own children
twins
a great mother
is all grown
keeping house

the little girl I know
is all grown up now
party days gone
but still not alone
sitting back
watching her own kids
grow up fast

the little girl I know
will always be my little girl
no matter how old
how many parties
how many mistakes

I think of this
as I watch
my grandchildren
shout and play
○☆♢☆♡☆♢☆○
She sends her love
She sends her love down
into the Mother
that holds her dearly
pressed deep within layers
crystalline veins
become fingers of light

beneath the surface
precious stone
purple points of symmetry
down through darkness so dark
ancient dreams she remembers
She sends Her Heart
Heart Pure

She sends her love
She sends her love down
into the Mother  
that holds her dearly
millenniums of rotation
meld together in perfect form
full, round and firm

layers upon layers of
bones, stones n' trees
leaves laden with mud
pressed dense n' deep
beneath the surface
orbs of precious stone
purple points of symmetry

crystalline veins
become fingers of light
tunnels of silver
copper and gold
milleniumms of rotation
meld together in perfect form
full, round and firm

stones trees n' bones
mud laden with leaves    
pressed deep n' dense  
down through darkness so dark
ancient dreams She remembers
She sends her Heart
Heart Pure

fingers of light
Illuminating
the Warm Core  
Beating Heart of the Mother

  ☆○♢☆♢▪♡▪♢☆♢○☆

Copyright © 2015 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved
She Sends Her Love
A Mantra
 May 2015
Richard Riddle
PRELUDE

Who is this man with name unknown
with silver hair, and beard long-grown-
Who walks among the birds and beasts
with nature catering to his feasts-

"An eremite", say the village folk,
"the hermit on the mound!"
A mystic, an oracle, philosopher, or seer?

"Perhaps, ye'll find the answer,
buried here!"

.........................

He was sitting on a sidewalk bench
a wrinkled hat laid at his feet
Passers-by would drop their change
as they meandered down the street

"God bless you sir", or madam,
he always replied-
In such a gracious and mannerly way ,
that made him impossible to deny
                                    
Some folks would make a comment,
most were polite, others, mild rebukes-
I went to speak on his behalf,
to these young and naive groups.

When I laid my hand on his shoulder
a glint in his eyes put me amiss!
It was then, that I realized
just who this old man is!

"I'll tell you a story, I said,
to the folks standing near,
a tale of caring and compassion-
That I think you'd like to hear"

" I've read legends about "lost gold mines"
and  indian folklore
And I tell you folks, without a doubt,
I've met this man before!"

"It's been 'nigh on to fifty years
since I've been back this way
T'was a time when I nearly lost my life,
I  recall it, as if it happened yesterday!"

Now, the crowd began to grow a bit-
to listen to my tale-
Of exploring an old, abandoned mine
when the walls began to fail.

I told them of the rumble,
when the ground began to quake
How the ceiling began to crumble
when the walls began to shake-

I told them of the stranger
with silver beard, streaked with tan-
Who came out of nowhere
to help a fellow man

The stranger, who gave me water-
who smiled as he gripped my hand,
while I quenched my thirst
from the curse, of this forsaken land

The folklore tells of a holyman
a name he doesn't bore
who strolls the mountain ridges
and across these cactus covered floors

But, I know who, and what he is-
and up my spine it sends the chills-
When I tell you, "you've  come
       face to face
           with......

"The Angel of the Hills!"

copyright: richard riddle May 01, 2015
50+ years following the incident related in my work titled "1894"
 May 2015
Vinay Kr
I gazed at thy icy peak,
And something in you finally silenced this freak.
Powerless and stunned, I sat down,
Staring at your majestic white crown.

Something like you, I never saw before,
With your intensity you took me back to my core.
Looking at you I began to wonder,
How are you such a divine expression? And me, just a blunder.

You said to me that I am failing to realize,
What was being said by every man so wise.
That I too am just you, we are no different,
Me too, another divine expression, but with an ego and judgement.

I dropped them and looked at all your snow,
I realized to be one with you was to know.
I began to melt,
Like this, never before had I felt.

We are all here by divine will,
I missed it because unlike you, I was never still.
I was fooled by them people, into thinking I am not enough,
You drilled the truth into me, so beautiful, yet so tough.

I sat there unaware of what was me and what was you,
There was nothing left to know, nothing left to pursue.
In your majesty, I realized mine,
We were both equal expressions of the divine.

Finally you silenced this freak,
And I can never forget thy icy peak.
Was at Fagu Valley in Shimla, Himachal, India when I wrote this. Was wandering alone in the gigantic snowy mountains, the highest in the world and was awestruck by their beauty that I had to pen my feelings down.
 May 2015
Kelly Rose
She will prevail

It can hurt
To have one's integrity or honor
Questioned

She lives life
By her own rules
As the roads of life's journey
Are often like a maze
Filled with twists and turns
Leaving one confused and dazed

As one navigates their way
Through the labyrinth of life
Hard lessons are learned
One must live by
Their own rules
As they wade through
The deceptions and lies
Thrown their way by life

She rises above the petite hurts
And false accusations

Knowing the truth
Whether it is known to all
Or buried deeply inside
That she will prevail
5/8/2015
 May 2015
Dark n Beautiful
My narrative Reportage
They said that I made a better storywriter than a poet
However, poets get their ideas from stories,
But my creativity comes from a glass of Moet Chardon (:)
Yesterday, I saw a homeless man got on the train during rush hour
He passed right through the crowd and went on his way to the front car
and leaned against the moving  door

His sudden outburst of laughter made the passengers looked around
He was a sight for sore eyes this character,
but instead he became my instant story to tell
Or behold a Poet laureate mastered piece  
Dark soiled clothes he wore, his dingy T-shirt he use for a hanky:
With empty pocket hanging low, toothless he smile and kept on smiling
Slurred speech and some missing toes he became my focus point
What’s the use of having lot of money and not sharing?
Within those moments, I saw a decade of homelessness within his character
An ex-mariner, a husband, a degraded broken hearted soldier,
America a failing superpower country:
and most of all New York City a FAILING disaster
So I began my journey, either to compose a poetry piece or tell my eyewitness story into sections of poetry and fiction:
One of my favorites of Joseph Campbell quotes:
Life is without meaning. You bring the meaning to it. The meaning of life is whatever you ascribe it to be. Being alive is the meaning. ”
― Joseph Campbell
 May 2015
niamh
The wind whipped
The rain
Upon your face
As they carried you out
Of the mangled
Wreckage.
The elements gave
No thought
To your dignity.
Nor did the drivers
Who slowed
(ever so slightly)
To catch a glimpse
Of a fantastically, horrific
Twist of fate
That smashed your bones
And stole your breath.
My heart bleeds
For people
I've never met
Who may not yet know
of the end you met.
I grieve with them
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