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Thump. Thump. Thump.
That's the sound of your heart,
Thump. Thump. Thump.
That means you are alive,
Thump. Thump. Thump.
All of your cells, all of your beautiful cells,
Thump. Thump. Thump.
They are here for you,
Thump. Thump.
You didn't listen.
Thump. Thump.
You didn't care.
Thump. Thump.
You were in so much pain,
Thump. Thump.
The bullying,
The screaming,
The pain
Thump.
Everything, stopped,
Including the pain.
 Jan 2017 Doug Potter
MOTV
Fissures
 Jan 2017 Doug Potter
MOTV
rocks
oh
the rocks are
cackling
moving
the motion
got the Earth
collapsing
oh
these rocks
these rocks
aren't stable
no fable
retaliating to man's
response to odds
at ways
these days
are still strange
still for a millisecond
while the fissure hits
into the abyss we step
into the dream we
are thrown as a mass
relapse into the rafts
of a savage under
the skin of a man
the core expands
from fissures
comes molten hands
from eye to Earth's
ends it expands
oh
anticipating the wake
a strange
sweet taste
like crepe
Await oh
thoughts of fissures coming
one day just to say
hey
I am awake

tuh

tuh

tuh

time to celebrate.
 Jan 2017 Doug Potter
Little Bird
A lifetime ago, you were my life
But now, you're just someone I use to pass the time
you would never say about a Kandinsky: where's
the Mondrian?
                 luckily we have enough information
     about Goldberg's sardines,
without asking another poet (other than O'Hara)
to sniff out Billingsgate -     and so too:
if Burroughs said: all writing limps behind painting
       by 50 years -           enough said,
     hence came speedy Gonzales
with his shotgun and his canned paint...
  and i know just as much as sardines in
see-through tins -
                          well: it was worth a joke,
someone was bound to **** into a champagne
bottle at some point, and celebrate:
     in abstract - or to the point:
in concreto - ecce artifex!
                            at least enough
humility would be worth the same dosage -
   specialisations are such:
demanding concepts as aboriginal
in anthropology -
    likewise anthropological:
schizophrenics in urbanity -  after all...
a concrete jungle - like any half-wit
and ****-naked in the Amazon...
                    applause for
comrade Gagarin and Laika -
                   and if Darwin wrote in
cyrilica - then it too would have been
Mohawk and Brain - salutations and applause -
    and if ever in doubt:
call it versailles - to denote all forms of
                     luxury -
     i know: versailles better hides luxury
than the hermitage -
                     or as King Duck could say
being a burden on the Vavel Mount -
                                 even the Vavellian
dragon died from laughter, even though
he was given a sheep stuffed with sulphur -
and drank the Vistulla dry...
but only when King Quack was laid to rest:
and the volk - the naród said:
         Katyń 1 - Smoleńsk 3...
                                    and there was even
a composition by wojciech kilar.
    so then... 50 years lagging?
    disorientating? muddled, spaghetti loops?
   well, as the introduction already mentions,
painters can't write - suddenly everything
has to have geometry!
      any geometrical instrument
      in an art's class is seen like a Sunni in Iran -
or a Buddhist, at a Bar Mitzvah:
                                          boom-town slap-head -
choppy waters, brightly illuminated
                                                     by the polished
cranium sheen.
   so why except a Mondrain from a Kandinsky                          
                             ­  ?!
                                     what a brain-drain!
 Jan 2017 Doug Potter
nivek
Here, the Orkney Islands are wracked by unstoppable winds
like all small archipelagos, at the mercy of great sea distances
unbroken natural forces vast in their cumulative strengths.
But that is the holidaymaker, tourist, toe in the water folk
who come and go, come and go, to experience and send home postcards
bemoaning the wind , if only they knew the Islands true heart
like us resident Orcadians, new, and old, they would forget the wind as the wind often will not blow, and stay until their bones are buried with the forgetting of the outside World.
 Jan 2017 Doug Potter
Divi Sharma
Pale pink tights wrapped in an elastic hug
around a little girl’s strawberry plump thighs.
With wavering fingers, she gave a mighty tug
at her silky ribbon wraps, and began to fantasize...

Basking in the heat of a glimmering light,
a dancer shuffled her way across a wooden stage;
she was weightless, her body contorting away from the night,
as she flaunted her lyrical ritual under a spotlight cage.

She extended her leg and twirled her arms,
perpendicular against the forces of gravity.
She wanted to reach the sun, to touch the stars,
but the crescendo ripped through her balance, and she was considered free.

Spinning, spinning, like a dreidel;
Every muscle poised and ready to be a bulletproof vest.
Spinning, spinning, until she was unable;
A thunderous applause erupted from the crowd of unwelcomed guests...

“REBECCA!” a voice snapped outside her dreamscape.
Drooling little girls with tight buns and runny noses
staring at their tutus, mouths agape.
A shoe in one hand, she ran to do her first lunges.
(Haikus)

pale sky weeps stead'ly,
frozen tears soundlessly fall
white blanket...rises...

lone red-winged blackbird,
flies through dropping snow...eyes roam
.............towards kitchen eave...

blackbird finds shelter
whisks snowflakes off its body,
roosts..........and folds its wings...

a lone soul watches
smiles...as blackbird settles in
hot brew warms the soul...

(Dec. 17, 2016)



Sally

Copyright December 17, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
and I can;t even write about it anymore
does his love make your head spin
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