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 Oct 2020 ConnectHook
Astral
Confidence feels scarce sometimes.

Most times.

But over the years,
I can tell that I've grown.

So thank you.

Thank you to the boy,
Who in eighth grade
Told me that my smile was beautiful.
Before that whenever I smiled,
Or even laughed,
I'd cover my mouth,
Or I'd hide my face.
But he asked me why.
I told him plainly I didn't like my smile,
But he told me it was beautiful.

Thank you to the girl
Who just last year
Told me my nose was unique and elegant,
Like sculpted marble.
My nose is, and always has been large,
But ever since,
I've been able to hold myself with poise,
At the mention of my nose.
Somewhat proud of its size.

Thank you to my friend,
Who told me last summer,
That my haircut was cute when it was down.
I had cut my hair impulsively,
It was shorter than it'd been in years.
I always wore it up,
I thought I looked dumb down.
But she told me my hair looked great on me.
I wore it down that night,
My friends complimented the look,
I've been able to notice the beauty in it since.

I have been built up by compliments.
I can see my own beauty easier now.
Selflove isn't always summoned purely internally,
Sometimes it takes a little help.

So thank you,
Thank you all so much.
Happy holidays! Its holiday season, and Christmas is just around the corner.

This poem is about selflove because I realized today how lucky I am for some people.
 Oct 2020 ConnectHook
Astral
Poetry
 Oct 2020 ConnectHook
Astral
When I was a child,
I was taught poetry wasn't mild,
It was deep as the sea,
And it seemed truly unachievable for me.
I was taught poetry had to rhyme,
Every single line, every single time.
So poetry seemed out of my reach,
Like chasing a seagull down a beach,
Jumping ever so slightly away,
Or soaring into the sunny day.

So I never thrived for what I thought would,
No, Could
Never be.

I guess now I'm fixing the mistakes of past me.
For men of a certain age,
who recall when  Emma Peel
was all the rage.
No one can  ever take her place;
those dangerous curves, her beautiful face.
Who could forget
the scent of  her perfume and leather?
Ldy Diana Rigg, grand dame of the British stage has died at age 82.  In her prime no one rocked a leather jumpsuit like she could.
 Oct 2020 ConnectHook
july hearne
the flowers
broken from the stem
have been vibrantly colored and trampled
on the sidewalk for weeks
withstanding days of passersby,

a despotic government in town
and citizens so filled with their jodi arias kind of love

knowing nothing of
their coming gulags
or how they can only fail

because the dumb mob is the city
the streets of the city
the boarded up windows of the city,
the defunded police department of the city,
the shattered glass of the city and the ****
in the streets of the city

it is only important to who might as well be no one,
but not to the men who will never be men
but not to the women who will never be women
and definitely not to the men who will never be women
a generation hated from all direction
failed before they even began, they will never begin
there will never be anything in it for them

they totalitarian so much totalitarian
not exactly wild or stallion
just sickly miniature horses
tough as owned prison ***** bronies

no hope
for the plastic garbage in the ocean
plastic garbage intended to pollute the ocean

never a time to get over things and move on
in an intellectually inferior time zone,
never a time to teach or learn about mao zedong.
for Carmen Best

*sung by Roberta Flack
 Oct 2020 ConnectHook
july hearne
haman is losing
but always has solid plans to cheat
the saints he hates
are marching forth
they march in every color
they march in from the fray

i can hear them in the night
i can hear them in the day
one thousand two hundred and sixty days
of marching days

come on elijah
come on elisha
come with any plague as you desire
give it to them good
tell it to them good
from your mouths of fire

haman is kicking pregnant women in the stomach
haman is ****** children
and the self-righteous among nations weep to save him
they turn the day into yesterday
they demand all the say

i can hear them in the night
i can hear them in the day
one thousand two hundred and sixty days
of deaf and weeping days

come on elijah
come on elisha
shut up the sky
command it get real dry
in their sanctuary cities
where the self-righteous among nations
pick and lick at all their pities

come on man
come on street preacher
preach it at eleven from the speaker
the self-righteous among nations
make a lot of noise complaints
so preach it to the saints they hate
haman is a loser
haman is a waste of a kidney
a fat coworker named eric
who ogles child **** on his computer
eric is a loser
haman is a loser
an overconfident case of
dunning-kruger

For Dorre Love, Bevelyn Beatty and Edmee

haman is kicking pregnant women in the stomach
haman is changing his name to george floyd
haman is ****** children
haman is changing his name to jacob blake
 Oct 2020 ConnectHook
a m a n d a
does anyone else
k n o w they lose
entire poems?

a whole world imagined,
words stream suddenly
come together
perfectly

s o m e h o w reading
your own mind story
almost as if
an observer.

a glimpse of understanding,
an ( ((awareness)) )

and it is only
together but for
the moment of
creation


immediately the structure frays
the words come a p a r t
| scramble back up |
and it is
gone.

i have imagined
and lost
entire lifetimes.

births and deaths.

ways to be
and ways to
unravel.

noticed and appreciated
and listened and described
and understood
in b r i e f
moments
of clarity.

alas,
there is nothing to be done,
except wait attentively
and with excitement
for the next loss.
 Oct 2020 ConnectHook
a m a n d a
*******.
and i even think
that by acknowledging i
can’t remember,

i have remembered.

i can get on board with this color palette, i suppose, but only briefly.
for a moment today
the trees glowed orange
   and red and yellow in the gold light
   and my breath caught,
   (it really did)
   but only for a second
because i don’t like the green
mixed in.

i like my reds and yellows
in the sky where they belong
at dusk sometimes
on beaches

and where the water is blue
and the sand
is white

the smell of leaves
is the smell of death,
in a way.

i prefer clean palettes,
and no sane person
goes around putting
  orange and green together,
   i’m just sayin’.
The cry of an eagle floats across a distant peak
  bear tracks visible in the spring thawing snow

Sunlight, spreading its dance upon the land
  the Ponderosa Pine and Aspen in bloom

The glaciers look down smiling the higher you climb
  searching for that redemption never offered below

The wolf trails the hare back inside its snowy den
  the road to all new entry having now been cleared

Permission never asked for, granted, as the music starts
  it’s early May in the Rockies—the January of renewal

In a celebration of new life, flowers wrap the landscape like ribbon
  tying close the promises like good wishes on a Christmas morning

It’s springtime even on the highest peak, and old questions lost of meaning now seem gone away...

Until reborn in the arrival of yet another desperate beginning
  —holding nothing back

(Columbia Falls, Montana: September, 2003)
After Midnight
The narcissists fall
After Midnight
A new lyric calls

After Midnight
Last bugle to blow
After Midnight
There’s more left to know

After Midnight
The lizards collect
After Midnight
Old tales to reflect

After Midnight
The ticking will stop
After Midnight
The bottom will top

After Midnight
A cancerous tome
After Midnight
Malignancy known

After Midnight
Betray and deceive
After Midnight
Alone in the siege

After Midnight
All footsteps fall deaf
After Midnight
Lost palates are cleft

After Midnight
New story to front
After Midnight
Two stars for the dunce

After Midnight
The comets rebel
After Midnight
The coroners yell

After Midnight
A suit made of steel
After Midnight
Its melting reveals

After Midnight
That voice in the back
After Midnight
There’s no turning back

After Midnight
A sacred oath sworn
After Midnight
All memory forlorn

After Midnight
The wheels bend and churn
After Midnight
Lost vision returns

After Midnight
False birth is stillborn
After Midnight
Old vestments are torn

After Midnight
The here and the now
After Midnight
That one sacred cow

After Midnight
Past-Future unseen
After Midnight
  —creation redeemed

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)
Sleeping with the Muse,
  my nights have grown short

Sleeping with the Muse,
  my spirit comports

Sleeping with the Muse
  words dance with delight

Sleeping with the Muse
  confronting my fright

Sleeping with the Muse
  her will tests again

Sleeping with the Muse
  not lover nor friend

Sleeping with the Muse
  my dreams sacrifice

Sleeping with the Muse
  all rest put on ice

Sleeping with the Muse
  the whispers come clean

Sleeping with the Muse
  excuses demeaned

Sleeping with the Muse,
  my spool is respun

Sleeping with the Muse
  divorced from the sun

Sleeping with the Muse
  in darkness I learn

Sleeping with the Muse
  the day will confirm

Sleeping with the Muse
  till dawn’s freeing light

Sleeping with the Muse
  —new words to take flight

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)
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