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 Jan 2017
spysgrandson
Father comes to me in dreams
a night phantom with conundrums I never
solve in the light of day

still he is there, lurking, locked
in memory's vault--a safety deposit box
for which I have no key

but who I have chosen to be
is an untenable version of a me
he will never see

for a dead man did not truly write
my script--he's not even watching
as I walk upon the stage
 Jan 2017
spysgrandson
though she sat only two
pews farther back, her understanding
of things was different from his  

she imagined the body of the woman
in the casket in quiet, pacific repose, spirit departed,
welcomed already in some beaming crystal sky  

he saw red lips painted on
a powdered white face--eyelids invisibly
sewn shut over empty sockets  

for he heard the big people say
she had donated her corneas, and someone
told him what those were  

she believed, as she had been told,
the woman would suffer no more, and live forever
in a place surrounded by benevolent ghosts    

he did not understand how this thing
called soul could be so hasty in leaving a body
where it had lived for eighty years  

he had watched water drain from a tub  
and smoke from fires leave stone chimneys
and long hang gray in white skies  

she had seen the same, but when it came
to this strange thing called death, the word
she heard conjured magic, not tragic  

he only knew Daddy was not smiling,
and Mommy’s eyes were dripping tears; not one
person in the big room laughed or played    

except for the girl two pews back  
who brushed a doll’s hair and spoke to it
as if it could hear
Saturday morning is a time for seeing things as children do
 Jan 2017
Micahel De Tomasso
"We forever praise the artists for the paintings
that they display.
The beauty of their work as the brushes dance
while revealing the waves ocean sprays.
A sunset grabs two lovers hearts staring at
the portrait for them to see.
Holding each others hands their minds are suddenly
set free.
Yes, we've had our Da Vinci's, Picasso's, and
Michelangelo's, but without the creation of Canvas,
Rembrant, and Van Gogh would of also been
two lost souls.
Yet, the true artist whom seems to never receive
praise. His creation of HIS earth became HIS Canvas,
and HIS stage.
His immaculate visions of beauty were given
to the earthly artists to see, but as for the paintings, they
were originally God's.
made possible for you, and for me,"
 Jan 2017
spysgrandson
others in the ****** ascended
to their white, breathing heavens
one by one, as if saying goodbye,
to them, was a solitary act

leaving him alone,
on the high branch--he did not fall
when gusts shook the oak, though
during stillness, he dropped

to the next leafless limb,
there waiting for him patiently,
drenched in sunlight that made
the crow's coat glisten  

soon clouds blocked the sun,
downdrafts pounded the tree;
he did not fall, until
the skies cleared    

then, to the lowest limb
he descended, now but feet above
a blanket of leaves, soon
to be his bed

other creatures would come, communing
with him in their way: his flesh becoming
their flesh, a sacred chemistry for all life,
after its pitiless descent to death
 Dec 2016
Sebastian Macias
Look outside when you read this.

Let's scream from a hill,
It's your life that's on the line
Nobody can pay for the "future"
It's not a guaranteed luxury
There is nobody who life owes
I know today isn't the best
And tomorrow is a cup of whiskey
So, right now, for me it's this;
I want beauty in my sight, always
Now, not the flip through tv channels
Non-substantial beauty most need
I'm talking about different beauty
Beauty like James Browns' voice
The beauty of the strong helping the weak
The man who is considerate to man
The woman carrying her child
The rich aiding the ones in need
The beauty when loving someone
Is more that grouped words
But making sure their lover is warm
The beauty you feel when
The hopeless fight for hope
When nobody else will believe them
Beauty, when a man gives his hand
Even when the world eats their flesh
The beauty in the eyes of fathers
When we know our sons future
Will be a battle they won't see
But we will have the story to tell them

The beauty miles away or feet away
Of the strong who help those
When then have nothing themselves
Except their good hearts.
 Dec 2016
Joe Black
Imagine
Just imagine
If snowman could
Think and express themselves
What would they say?
I imagine, they would talk
About creation and evolution
It would go like these:
- Do not say B.S.,
There is no creator! By chance, evolutionary  
We become like these from snowflake!
One invites you to join snowman conversation ;)
 Dec 2016
bones
If by chance
your prayers be answered
ever, could I trouble you;

whilst your palms
be pressed together
and fair is fortune's mood;

could I trouble you to pray
there some time soon will come a day
your need of prayer is gone away,

without appearing rude?
 Dec 2016
Traveler
Looking glass of god
Are you shattered upon the earth
Broken are the prophets
Who were raised up from their birth...

Used to bring a message
Then shed like old dead skin
Open up I'm coming out
From this hell you left me in...

Let silence be our guide
And peace will set us free
Or be lost within the illusions
Of some ancient mystery...
Traveler Tim
 Dec 2016
Joe Black
Dear Lord,
Please, give me strength..
..oh no, don't give..
I will waste it again and get tired more.
Better give me wisdom, for..
Oh, no.. I understand all anyway.
Better, you know what,
Don't give.
Take away laziness and stupidity
No, without stupidity will become boring
Without laziness my mom won't recognise me.
Okay, sorry. I need nothing.
Thank you
This complicated life :D
 Dec 2016
spysgrandson
the boy had never seen a rabbit so still
only its fur moved in the cruel wind

he pulled an arrow from his quiver
and took aim at the cottontail

his hands shook from the cold, but the
arrow struck its mark, almost

the shaft lodged itself in the creature's hind leg
now the rabbit hobbled in the deep snow

leaving a thin red trail on the white blanket until
the boy caught his prey and snapped its neck

fresh hot meat for the night's meal
his father would be proud

almost back to the village, the boy spotted the wolf,
white, nearly invisible in the drifts

he drew another arrow, but then  remembered
what the elders had said

a white wolf in winter may not be harmed
and a gift must be proffered

the boy sheathed his arrow, and lay the rabbit
in the snow, the animal's blood still warm

the wolf and the boy watched each other
and a great gust swelled

the boy turned away from the blast, the wolf;
behind him he heard the howls

a synchronicity, the wail of the wolf wedded to the wind
a marriage of flesh and the elements

the two were one in the boy's ears, until he found
his lodge and warmed his hands with fire's gift
 Dec 2016
spysgrandson
the days, she counts
backwards, and recalls what she was doing
5000 sunsets ago

and she does know
5000 from now, she'll be gone, if number
wizards are right

on this winter night,
she thumbs through old photos
of loved ones now far away

she finds one of a sunny day
five decades past--she and her man long departed
sitting under a tree

there she can plainly see
the pines and the bed of needles
on which they made love

and directly above,
she squints to discover, a bird
caught in flight  

she returns to this night,
places the photo in the box where
it has rested all these years  

somehow, the image allays her fears:
the father of her children, smiling, holding her hand;
the bird she finally saw, wings spread forever
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