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 Jan 2012
John Mahoney
she
is a love poet
     sentimental
composing beautiful
wondrous
     poems

of romance
longing which
     emerge
in particularized, idiosyncratic
rhyme schemes,

and
     stolen
is such a harsh
word
 Jan 2012
John Mahoney
imagine lips
like delicate peach-blossoms
I await longingly fingertips'
suggestion
 Jan 2012
Shukorina
Listen* for it.
Whats trying to be found,
it was within grasp,
but lost when not put to use.
Where is it?
Why won’t it come back?
Insanity is beginning to creep with out it
please come back
                                                                ­                                                                 ­                     to me...
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                    before I lose myself with you.
All that's left is apologies and tithes,
amends that should have been extended long ago.
Words with out direction that need to spoken.
                                                         ­                                                                 ­           I feel you near
but constantly
                                                                ­                                                               you remain evasive.
Constantly craving                                                                                   our past,
when you would drift to the edge,
tip forward showcases,
and present the different reality
                                                                ­                                                    *of who I am.
 Jan 2012
John Mahoney
almost true
seems to me your words
although endearing
are not really you
that now you seem
as partially hidden
almost blue
as though i have
said something
i can't undue
some vague trouble
haunts my memory
but i can't see through
what we say to one another
now seems to be just
almost true
 Jan 2012
K Balachandran
electric night,
an unreal moon-
shining like
pouring white wine,
making the air intoxicating;

in the canoe the girl and i
rowing along the calm backwaters.
water birds with snake like necks
mating noisly in water beds
make us curious,

we stopped the canoe,
near a moon lit creeper thatched grove.
the girl was wide eyed
and wild,

caught me by my waist
and said:
'you should have done this first'
( i was a silly idot,
moon struck, with only poetry in my bonnet)

we fell in to that rosy pit,
without an end,
and i got grounded, delighted
hearing her wild ecstatic outburst.
 Jan 2012
K Balachandran
she had undue haste , like a filly in gallop.
i was slow and stedy, an ambling horse.
our road a broad bed; but how did we reach there together?
 Jan 2012
Megan Hundley
Just because my eyes
are slightly more red than the
average, and my ears listen more to
                                                                ­                                                    roars

than normal talk. My fingers are
more greedy, reaching for things
never yearned
                                                                ­                                                    before

I met you. Why now do familiar faces wish to
pour into my sharp eyebrows
                                                        ­                                                            speec­hes

I don't care much to hear. Does
it matter that running feels more
natural, instinct that I should feel
                                                            ­                                                        afraid

b­ut I don't. Do I care to
figure out
                                                                ­                                                    the monster

that reflects back into my cheekbones.
What does it hungar for? What does it
know? I'm not sure if I have the  
                                                           ­                                                          will

to overcome it. Or the ability to pry away
the nails that resemble too much
the rage of
                                                              ­                                                        claw

mar­ks. Dare I take a light into these dark
thoughts and search for long sentences
that traveled
                                                        ­                                                              awa­y

from the mess. What do I expect to find, what
is it I look to now for answers? Should I
stand on
                                                                ­                                                       what's left

of this old bridge with these rotten logs and
aging secrets? This sight- is it part
                                                            ­                                                            of me

or is it just a sad painting I keep confusing
with a sad memory. My heart aches for beauty
in the intriguing hues of gray.
                                                           ­                                                             or maybe

this gallery, this mueseum of
inner maps will lead to new rooms.
Red eyes, angry claws, mighty roars,
sharp eyebrows
                                                                ­                                                        the monster is

what I believed to represent. Perhaps
it is only a mere splattering of
                                                              ­                                                            brush­strokes

I allowed my mind to be absorbed into. Like
all good art, it captured my soul, paralyzed.
                                                      ­                                                                 ­     and I

was unsure of reality. How funny
it is to be so lost and not know it. Now
I see clearly, now I can
                                                             ­                                                              continue

to know. Know what I hungar for, what
I crave. I am what I want
                                                            ­                                                                 to be

and that is as comforting as walking
onto a porch to observe the sun as it
dives into solid ground.
                                                         ­                                                                 ­    Free

as the cool night air, welcoming
the stars and all the promise a new
morning has to offer.
Roars before speeches afraid the monster will claw away what's left of me. Or maybe the monster is brushstrokes and I continue to be Free.
 Jan 2012
John Mahoney
come to me, silently,
    during the night
speak my name, softly
    pretend it's all right
go to the fountain
    wish for insight
depend upon constancy
    keep a hold tight
tomorrow find trauma
    let your spirit take flight
come to me, lonely
a surrender outright
    trust in your nature
*now just turn out the light.
 Dec 2011
K Balachandran
women deserve top position,
i argued with my friend,
suddenly becoming thoughtful
he said," for the heavier ones , it's difficult"
 Dec 2011
John Mahoney
you said
the sky would never reach you
the pressure seems to increases
no goodbyes and no good reasons
just a time to pick up pieces
no good time to face the music
once we were not future seekers
the lightening serves to defuse
the energy defeats
the sky would never reach you
you said
 Dec 2011
John Mahoney
abandon your lost innocence
and come to be my lover
maybe in that instant
you will know another

cling to me so fiercely
that we no longer wonder
what it is that makes us
feed the hungers

so meet me in this mystery
hold on to me tighter
abandon your lost history
and let us light the fire

a hot night, a cool breeze
static down the wires
forsake all your promises
throw them on the fires

can you feel the heat
sever the last fetter
we will not be free until
we get lost in our desire
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