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 Jan 2018
Gaby Comprés
tu nombre
i've whispered it into the night
a million times
i've tasted it in mi boca
like honey, slow and sweet
tu nombre
lo sabe la luna
i've sung it to the stars
to my heart
like a lullaby to calm the sea dentro de mí
tu nombre
lo llevo tatuado en los labios
en cada espacio
tu nombre
i've said it like a prayer
lo he llorado
se lo he cantado al alma
hoping it finds peace
tu nombre
is in todas las cosas
está en everything
en el verano
and its rain
in spring y las flores.
tu nombre
todo. everything.
 Dec 2017
Kaye I
she's a song
you'll never hear
because you never listened.
 Dec 2017
Tanjil Newkirk
Maybe it was in the shower or the bed but the way you pressed my hands down lit a fire. Then flames blew up and we knew everyone would freak so we kept our secrets in between our sheets.
 Dec 2017
Brianna Sich
The funny thing about love is people are always trying to tell you how to feel it.

"You hardly know the guy, you can't be in love."
"You're too young to be in love."
We've heard it all before.
From my experience though,

Love has no time constraints.
Yes, love is complicated,
But it is also very simple.

I knew I loved him when
I heard him laugh for the first time.
when I watched his eyes light up,
while he talked about airplanes.

I knew I loved him
when he made me an egg volcano for breakfast
and we pretended to be his roommate's parents.
(even though I had never met his roommate before that)

I knew I loved him
when I sat across from him on the dock
and watched the starlight dance on his face.
when I felt like I could tell him anything.

I knew I loved him when
he told me he had to leave.
I knew there wouldn't be a spot missing
in my heart where he once existed.
But a spot that he still lived
and bloomed,
where my heart still throbbed for him.

Where I still smelled his cologne,
heard him laughing,
felt his lips pressed against mine.

I would cry,
boy would I cry.
But I knew I would love him forever.
 Sep 2017
Lyn-Purcell
The twine sides of the Golden Threads
shimmers above the inky abyss.
Raining tears of pure starlight
baptise me with your grace.
Wash away my iniquities,
calm my passions that
burn with the lust of
a thousands suns,
and replace them
with the tender
lullaby of the
moons.

Allow
me to be born
again. Allow me to
wake in a sea of clouds,
painted by the daily promise
of many hues. Let me be able to taste
the sweetness that grows, away from any
lemons that dares to moan, and break the shackles.

Allow me to drift.
Not the best of days today. I just wish I could let go of all that burdens me.
 Apr 2017
Wyatt
Come through the doors
and see all of this,
the messes I've made.
Pictures on the walls
turned crooked
and fallen to the ground.
Dust all around
and trash surrounds me.
Power cut, nothing
livable about this space.

All it ever needed
was a little tidying up.
After some time
I let it all get ahead of me.
Order all of the keepings,
turn on the lights again.
Spray some air freshener
and repaint the walls
a brighter color
to cover all the marks
made in the past.

This isn't a home, this is
just the inside of my head.
This isn't a home.
It's never felt like home.
Sell the space in my head.
This has never felt like a home.
 Apr 2017
South by Southwest
That was then and now is there
As sister Sara pointed out
We were young and stupid
But our ship harbored no care

The oak was new , fresh the smell
We climbed the rigging
of the mast of life
so fast , so well

"Get down you fools"
The old crusted would say
Seasoned in salt from life's
crashing waves and spray

We just laughed and brayed
Almost depraved
"Get lost old fool"
We were so cruel

We weighed our anchor
and dropped our sails
Little we knew
of the seas of Hell

The distant thunder
lightning's warning
It didn't scare us
Life was ours to plunder

But the oak did gray
It bent and buckled
The rigging's rope broke
some of us tumbled

Beaten and battered
We limped into our ports
There was no laughter
from our fellow cohorts

The crossing is done
Sun seasoned in wear
We are the old fools . . .
That was then and now is there
Inspired by Sara Fielder's poem "This is this"
 Feb 2017
J Arturo
When the sweat is dry on my brow
I will get up.
I'll be able to focus then better, I think.
The sweat is linked to a general malaise,
where objects drift in double shapes...
Not unpleasantly.
But smarter, I think, to stay. At least,
Let the pupils dilate, and left eye
Recalibrate it's aim.
The salt and sweat malign the eyes,
which either slip too fast past the the target,
or arrive a bit delayed.

You said:
Maybe we'd be happier if we moved on with our lives.
You're seeing something in Iowa that was likely there all along.
And the more I feel like you could slip away
I become more paranoid and afraid.
Wondering now who you're with,
Whether this path ultimately leads to my replace.

Though maybe we both agree, then, with what you said.
I can't hang on to something that long got on a plane and left.
Or try and **** through wires the delusion of a scent,
that dissipates, reductively, with every breath.

Though I will rephrase, in my own way,
the sentiment I think remains:
It would be more prudent to
Let the nose and lungs to rest.

         Let us be ungreedy with breath.


If you move on I will let you pass.
I cannot hold you within me,
And these cavities have not the space.


         But I will taste your color again, perhaps,
         In the wind, a laugh,
         The wet heat of a lovers face.

         I will taste your color again,
         In the wind, a laugh,
         The wet heat of a lovers face.



If you move on I will let you not just pass but
dissipate.
And rebuild a more modest faith:
Just once, to inhale again something like what went.

(And still remember what it meant.)
 Feb 2017
JR Rhine
I broke up with God
at our favorite eatery
in our favorite booth.

We settled into familiar creases
and asked for the usual.

My eyes lazily staring at fingers
stirring the straw around the ice cubes,
God cautiously spoke up:

“Is something wrong?”

“Nothing.” (Thinking about the dormant phone
concealing behind the lock screen
the open Facebook tab
lingering over the relationship status section.)

They silently mused over the laconic reply,
til the waitress showed up with the food.

“Thank you!” God blurted with agonizing alacrity.

I received the sustenance lifelessly
and aimlessly poked at the burgers and fries.

The waitress eyed me with vague inquisition,
popping a bubble in the gum between
big teeth, refilled my water
and pirouetted hastily.

We ate in ostensible harmony,
the silence gripping like a chokehold,
the visible anxiety and subdued resolve
settling like a stifling blanket
over the child waking
from a nightmare—

Til we couldn’t breathe,
and I ripped back the covers
and looked into the eyes
of my tormentor.

“It’s not you, it’s me.”

God, taken aback by the curt statement,
dropped their burger with shaking hands,
silently begging with wetting eyes
a greater explanation.

So I elaborated:

“It’s not you, it’s me.

For your immaculate conception
was created by human hands,

your adages rendered obsolete
by human words,

your purpose and plan for us
distorted by human nature—

I cannot hate myself any longer.

I cannot pretend to know you at all.

Who my mother and father say you are
is not who my friends think you are,
nor my teachers, my pastor,
the president, Stephen Hawking,
Muhammed, the KKK, Buddha,
the Westboro Baptist Church,
Walt Whitman, Derek Zanetti,
******,
and Billy Graham.

I am told you care who I bring into bed (and when),
and what movies I watch,
and what music I listen to—

I have not heard what you say about
child soldiers, the use of mosquitos,
or the increased destruction of the earth
which you proudly proclaimed your creation,
or the poverty and disease and famine
which has ridden so many of your children—”

God interjected,
“But you’re chosen!”

I snorted,

“You say I’m chosen
to spend eternity with you—
why me?

Why’d you pick me among
thousands, millions, billions?

I’ve been told I’m ‘chosen’
since birth
by others like me—

those with fair complexion,
blue eyes,
blonde hair,
a firm overt ****** attraction towards women,
and a great big house
with immaculate white fences
delineating their Jericho.

I’ve already fabricated eternity
here among the other ‘chosen’
and there is a world of suffering
right outside the fence
and I see them
through the window of my bedroom
every day.

Am I chosen,
if I don’t vote Republican

Am I chosen
if I am Pro-Choice

Am I chosen
if I cohabitate with my girlfriend

Am I chosen
if I never have kids

Am I chosen
if I say ‘Happy Holidays’

Am I chosen
if I don’t want public prayer in schools

Am I chosen
if I don’t want a Christian nation

Am I chosen
if I don’t repost you on my wall
or retweet your adages?

I’m tired
being the ubermensch,
for it has not brought me
happiness
and I blame you.

I will not ignore
the cries of the suffering
believing it is I
who is destined to live
in bliss.

I will not buy
Joel Osteen’s autobiography(ies).

I will not tithe
you my money
for a megachurch
when another homeless shelter
closes down.

I will not tell a woman
what to do with her body,
or a man
that he is a man
if they say they are not.

I am neither Jew nor Gentile,
and I will stand with
my brothers and sisters
of Faith and Faithlessness,

Gay and Straight,
Black and White,

and apart from these extremes
free from absolutes
the ambiguous, amorphous
nature of Humankind
which I praise.

There is much pain and suffering
in this world,
potentially preventable,
but hardly can I believe
it’s part of your plan
to save
me.

I will not be saved
if we are not
all saved—

not one will burn
for my divinity.

The gates will be open to all—
and perhaps you believe that too,
but I’ve gotten you all wrong
and that cannot change,
as long as there is
mortality, and
corruption, and
power, and
lust, and
greed.”

God whined, growing bellicose,

“It is through me that you will find eternity,
I am the one true god!
I am the God of your fallen ancestors,
it is because you have fallen short
that you need me!”

I replied, growing in confidence,

“We have all fallen short,
yes,
but we are also magnificent.

We have evolved,
we have created,
we have adapted,
we have survived.

We have built empires,
and we have destroyed them.

We have cured diseases,
and we have created them.

We have done much in your name.
We’ve done good,
and we’ve done evil—

And unfortunately it’s all about
who you ask.

Your name is a burden on the oppressed
and a weapon of the oppressor.

You are abusive, God.

You tell me you are jealous.

You tell me apart from you I will suffer for an eternity.

I’m scared to die, yet want to die,
because of you.

You have made life a waiting room
that is now my purgatory. It is

Hell On Earth.

So you see,
it’s not you,
it’s me—
a mere mortal
who has tried to put a face
to eternity
and it has left me
empty.

And also,
it’s me,
for I have learned to love me,
as I have expelled your self-loathing imbibition,
and the deleterious zeal
I have proclaimed
through ceaseless
trepidation
and self-flagellation—

I have learned to love me
by realizing I am not inherently evil,
that my body is not evil,
that my mind is not evil,
and, ultimately, that
there is no good
and there is no evil.

My body is beautiful,
my mind is beautiful,
this world is beautiful,
and we are destroying it
waiting for you to claim
us.

I leave you
in hopes to see you
again one day,

and perhaps you will look
different than I have
perceived or imagined,

and in fact
I certainly hope so.”

Just then the waitress strolled back up
with a servile smile:
“Dessert?”

“No, thank you,”
I smiled politely.

And with that,
I paid the check,
and took a to-go box—

walked out into the evening rain
to my car,
put on a secular song
that meant something real to me
and drove off
into the night—

feeling for the first time
free
and alive.
 Nov 2016
Terry Jordan
The first thinkers were poets
Naming Mother Earth
Beginning symbolic thinking
Of nature, death and birth

Though themes are often repeated
Love, Beauty and God
Poetry in the guise of Religion
A prophet or a fraud

The poet resurrects the Primitive
Through allegory and similes
Disarming the unknown like explorers
Sublime Prophets and Visionaries

They must lay bare those treasured images
That must be expressed
Unraveling and revealing the sounds
At each soul’s behest

Encompassing the entire Cosmos
So lyrical the beat
The poet’s excitement flows outward
Laid at the Reader’s feet

So original, individual
She won’t examine or explain
Letting go the festering feelings
Disturbances in her brain

He exposes his dark, wounded psyche
Just to release and express
Such capacity to see and compare
Hyperbole at its best

I love, I hate, I suffer
A special dance in rhythm and rhyme
The poet as a buffer
Lessening the pain and sting of time

Laden with symbol and feelings
She gives you sweet relief
From something urgent, revealing
Confusion to belief

Through a cinematic kind of seeing
The poet purges to transform
By leaping through Alice’s looking glass
She never was one to conform

Quite intolerant of convention
Just like The Mad Hatter
His passions immune to all logic
In syncopated patter

Jamming up the poet’s mind
Struggling for expression
Seeking order out of chaos
An infantile regression

Cleaving to his imaginary world
The poet breaks out into words
Creating sound paintings to be unfurled
So his own agony is blurred

She succumbs to storms of passion
With instinctive techniques
Rhymes and rhythm still in fashion
Out of hand flows mystique

The poet mines from his unconscious
The Reader is not blind
For every single line and symbol
Means something to the mind

Causing an inner liberation
Enlightenment or flight
It is a matter of life and death
When darkness turns to light.
Been working on this piece for a while; my thoughts on the inner mind of poets.
 Apr 2016
Gillian Drake
When days roll by a little at a time
trickling on the rocks,
drip drip
the time flows by endlessly into the night.
Peaceful these days seem and soon you are bombarded
unwittingly under stress your soul cries out
and like hail pounding on your roof in quarter inch disasters,
you pound your fists.
Time still flows but it is staggered now,
there is a storm tonight.
Out of control, it leaves a trail of sorrow behind it.
A light flashes and you are startled for a moment.
You wait.
The floorboards, ceiling fan, your appliances rattle all at once.
Lightning strikes and not a single person is hurt but the storm
rages on.
ITS STORMING OUTSIDE LIKE A LOT so needless to say I felt inspired yes. Expect a part two soonish.
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