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 Apr 2015
bluestarfall
I have been living in these huts lately,
As this life seems aimless and desultory,
Slowly flowing like the splash of drops over the board,
Hallelujah . For me, it's still our God's handwritten story.

Two cents quietly sit in my little pockets ,
And they still fit perfectly in each,
Same as our feelings, as they huddle around our hearts,
Occupying the bijou portions and trying not to leach.

I will hold on till the day, staggering away,
In my tattered clothes, till the color withers and my story stales,
Lingering in the huts, with a hue of nostalgia,
Ailing but not wailing, after a series of massive fails.

Before God finishes writing my story,
I believe he will hand me the pen, its a fact, not a lie,
And with you by my side, I will scribble my glory,
I'll dress you your Gossamer, and myself a Suit and a tie.
There is always a story written for everyone, and as they say, there is always a room for improvement too. Stay fearless and set your mark. Don't let the silence or the hardships alter your way.
 Apr 2015
claire
This is for a girl whose name means light,
Who fights every day of her life to beat the gravity of depression,
Whose dearest pastime is turning everyone she encounters to poetry,
Who’s never stopped looking for fairies or shaking glitter over everything,
Who is tall in the flesh and tall in the heart; love overflowing,
Who aspires to be ironclad but always tender,
Who knows too much about bruised innocence and precious things ripped away,
Who can never get enough of walks in the wind and rain—all of that pulsing sensation, all of that alive-alive-alive,
Who salutes Eve each time her teeth break the skin of an apple,
Who is thoroughly in love,
Who has taught herself to bleed out with dignity,
Whose defiance could halt the turn of the earth,
Who grew up on bare feet, free will, and the softest joy imaginable,
Who would die for justice,
Whose soul is warm and messy and unfurling,
Who has a family of artists living in her head [Alcott scribbling in the cerebral cortex, Van Gogh mixing pigments near the frontal lobe, Ginsberg clacking at his typewriter beside the cerebellum],
Who dreams of avenging the marginalized,
Whose arsenal includes sturdy black boots and neon strength,
Who is ruthless yet sentimental beyond belief,
Who slipped into the world with a sweetness she’s never really lost,
Who lives like she writes like she laughs like she argues like she loves, with heat and certainty and unending vibrance.
This is for myself.
 Apr 2015
JAM
I can't wait to get off that plane
Kiss you, watch your face turn red and
Let the endorphins flood your brain

It's sad to know three days later I'll be gone
Not sure of when I'll return again

Too good to be true could fit this situation, but there's nothing "too good" about it

The lackluster notion of how much is just wants floating around in our hearts turns me to stone and I keep reaching for something to give me some type of leverage on reality

So much of me is magnetized to you, yet so much of me has no clue

What it's really gonna take to make this real, what it's really gonna take to make or break our ordeal

I'll let it run it's course, but I can't act surprised
When everything I want drowns in the blink of your eyes

Nothing ever gets in my way if I really want something, but your not just "some thing"
Your human, you have your own wants, your own needs, you have a heart, and you have feelings

I'm gonna do my best to make my chest a place where you can frequently lay your head to rest

Cause...

I want nothing from you, but if you want you can be everything to me

Now if this wasn't ******* corny enough, than I don't know what is....
Unfortunately I love you to death and I'm just "thinking out loud"

-J.A.M
My door is open
It is oak with brass fittings
Sturdy and handsome
I oil the wood, buff the brass
And I will never close it
Tanka
 Mar 2015
K Balachandran
An unknown artist's heart speaks on this subway wall
my mind drifts to the scene of creation, possibly this:
in amazement I look at that cat,at my face she looks up
and understands, this feline inaugurates the incidental show
of spontaneous art, at this street, just waking up shedding sleep
a ball collaborates with her,bouncing around with such verve,
spreading cheer,wholeheartedly, so strange for an object like it
which is not something even intended by anyone
                                                          ­                 Art has a right to happen,
like this, the morning sun, by nature, provides support,
from a long, long distance, the effect electrifies the scene
the cat, looking up by the magic of the moment,sees rays of sun
filtering through the foliage,can she imagine the distance
sun rays travel, to play with her, with such grace?

A lonely man, captures the scene,as a graffiti, within engraved,
one can imagine from the way he looks pleased,
don't you miss the mixed up pigments on his fingers,
unmistakable glee divine of an underground artist
decidedly flashes across his face, not for him,
but to express the pain  unmitigated, all through his life
he'll pack his things,stuff in a small bag and leave this place.
A moment of exhilaration for many, when they see
his essence, spread across the subway train, in colors of protest,
rooted in his mourning art,experience of the hour created,

yes there are consequences for the art,the cat, the illuminating sun,
the onlookers around, including me,are not to be concerned,
only he and his brothers in art, taking part in this attack
for him, this moment of enlightenment,is reward enough
for all the adventures, he had undertaken till now.
 Mar 2015
Arcassin B
By Arcassin Burnham


I miss you,
And when I miss you,
Its not,
Just a miss , or worry , or care,
Or a concern,
You're the best,
I'm the worst,
But by chance,
you just made my night,
Never heard from you,
Or your mom,
Or your brother,
In awhile,
Made me laugh,
Made me smile,
It was accurate,
It was reality,
When we were together,
Good morning,
I guess mistakes were made,
Then we dry our eyes,
Put on the vans,
I kiss your face,
Made you blush,
Hide your face,
I hid under your bed,
The cutest face I ever seen,
First person I ever loved,
And gave my virginity to,
Wanted us to never end,
Its like you had all the answers to my questions,
You sat on cloud nine with me,
I can't get over you,
And if I do,
Then I want someone just like you,
To kiss and touch like you,
You knew me well enough to do those things,
And get me excited,
If you know what I mean,
I miss you.
Miss her ...
I want to be clear
Crystal clear if possible
Because I love you
Haiku
 Mar 2015
beth fwoah dream
winter faded like old parchment, drawn in charcoal
the trees waited for the inevitable colours of spring.
your voice coloured silence and left me standing
away from the crowd with my head inclined to yours,
listening to you, the shadows swept away and your
voice like the moonlight, the blue inks of the sea.
i watched you unwind night skies and the night stars
that burnt in the rivery realms of lost ruins and whispering
dreams, fell like dead men before your passion and there
was no reasoning with what you believed and you had
no compassion for the world. hatred fired up before
my forgiveness and you could not forgive. how many  
oceans scattered their flowers and light, how many
armies fell before the burning amber of your eyes?
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/and-then-i-returned-to-you-you-my-poet-of-the-water-beth-st-clair/1115678228?ean=29400165

from my book
 Mar 2015
ryn
Wonder if when constellations do align
And universe would finally see.
Would it be presumptious of me
To claim that then, finally you'd be mine.

Wonder if my sense would triumph over
So that my heart would be muted.
With all its contents looted...
Would I only seem sillier?

Wonder if I walked away
In due course.
You'd then take my hand in yours
So that a minute longer I'd stay...

Wonder if you'd understand
When if these feet
Should choose to retreat...
That they had to... It wasn't planned.

Wonder if it'd make a difference
If I said that I had to...
Not for me but more for you.
Would we still be able to love in silence?

Wonder if you'd wish that you made it all clear.
Before the gravity of reality would crush us,
Before the vastness of uncertainty swallows us,
Before my presence would diminish and inevitably disappear.

Wonder if you find my pessimism exhausting.
The volatile nature of my moods...
Especially when I dive deep in solitude
And resurface with a trove of words that are no less than exasperating.

Wonder if you loved me enough
In a day...
To stop me from walking away...
Or loved me too much to plainly say

That...

Future's days would see us apart...
Future's moon would glow but not for us...
Future's stars would sing but not of us...
Future's sun would dry out the passion in our hearts.
 Mar 2015
K Balachandran
She is a succulent bunch,let me be helpful,
if you don't get the complex chemical scent,
I call her ,"a girl of unpredictable
meeting places"inotropic, is her effect,
She sends heartbeats way up.
Delectable too, she was, every time
I tasted certain parts of her.
Her avatars are numerous, like Hindu Gods
With specific  intention for each incarnation
Onee will be pushed in to neurosis,
if doesn't completely relish her infinite variety.
She is a cryptic mystic,
for a while  from signals
I discerned and firmly believed
Or is she just a  creature mysterious
Doubt raises it's head, like a lotus
From slushy pond
My eyes met her at the level of  her eyes first,
the rest in a haze to me was invisible,
Then my heart sends a message
"Right now, I missed a beat here"
Heart then recites a poem,
tells me, it is all her making
"Don't fall in love" heart's advice,
"Go, dissolve in her completely"
Even my own heart has crossed sides,
or is it truly an advice for my sake?
Love is a hallucinogen, get it?
she whistles like wind at bamboo groves
from within sings like a thrush,
she is a magpie, or is she a koel?
Nocturnal animal, in need of mating,
making calls, frantic SMS, incessant.
She is wind and water, elements
that make one burn and drown
She spreads her yoga mat on the floor,
asks me to sit cross legged Indian style,
I am already for that in my mind,
So I spread eagle in corpse pose, indicating, "All through my life", mother earth gives me warmth.
          Shanti,   Shanti,   shanti
 Mar 2015
Phil Lindsey
“Will you please leave the light on?”
Said the young Boy to his Dad.
“I’m kinda scared at night time, but
I hope that you’re not mad ‘cuz when
I am grown up big like you, I won’t be afraid no more
Then you can turn the light off and even shut the door.”

“It’s not the dark that scares me.”
Said the Father to his Son.
“It’s the early hours of morning
When the light has just begun
To creep in through the window,
Push the darkness from the room and
Sweep away the shadows like an
Illuminating broom.”

“So why’s the morning scare you, Dad?”
“I really like the day.  I get dressed and Mom makes breakfast,
I get to watch TV and play.
Sometimes we go out shopping and buy groceries and stuff,
She might buy me an ice cream cone – if I’m good enough.”

The Father laughed, sat on the bed, and held his small Son’s hand.
“I wish I could explain it, Son, in a way you’d understand.
At night the dark can hide the truth, I dream and make big plans.
Then morning brings reality to my castles built in sand.
While you and Mom have breakfast, I have to go to work.
I have RE-SPON-SI-BIL’-ITY and duties I can’t shirk.
People there DEPEND-ON-ME.  I don’t want to LET-THEM-DOWN.”
Dad suddenly stopped talking when he saw his young Boy frown.

“It sounds like you don’t like your work.”
“You should stay home with Mom and me!
Then you can help make breakfast, and it’ll be us three.
We’ll have a really good time - you won’t be afraid of day.
We’ll help Mom do the dishes, then we’ll go out and play.
Maybe you can pitch some ***** and I can learn to bat?
‘Cuz please don’t tell her, but you know - Mom isn’t good at that.
But she can go out shopping, and we’ll stay home alone,
And, DAD, if you are REALLY good, I’ll make YOU an ice cream cone!”

Dad leaned over, kissed his Son, and said, “I think I might.”
“You said some things that I forgot, and I think you got it right.
I know you and Mom DEPEND-ON-ME, and
I have RE-SPON-SI-BIL’-ITY
To help her make the breakfast and to help you learn to bat,
And maybe I’m afraid of day ‘cuz I’ve been forgetting that.
So tonight I’ll leave my light on
And I’ll leave your light on, too.
And tomorrow morning, when it’s light, I’ll stay home with you!
PwL 1990 to 2015
Started this when my son was a young boy.  Finished it tonight, about a week after his 27th birthday.
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