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 Jun 2017 Eliot York
Paul Jones
I sit on the fence       that keeps two sides from
tearing each other      down. I built that fence.
10:00 - 02/06/17
State of mind: doubtful; contemplative.

Thoughts: from thinking - about how I am sometimes accused of sitting on the fence and not having much of an opinion on current affairs.

Every conflict needs a mediator, a diplomat to quell or cool the heat of an argument.

Questions: what is the value in seeing all perspectives of an argument only to side with none? Is that really indifference or is there something deeper to do with acknowledging that there is no truth, only interpretation?

09:50 - 04/06/17
Afterthoughts: change is important because it encourages diversity. Conflict stimulates change.

I think what I am developing with this thought is more to do with the conflict in shaping what people believe is the best environment to exist in. In reality, there are many. There should be many and we should be free to move between them.

The internet is an environment. Some people ascribe to it, others don't. But both it and alternatives are important. Many facets has the diamond.

I believe the fence is symbolic for realising that there is not one perfect way, but many and is wrong to tear down the diversity we have in favour of a singular way.
I was looking for a friend,
when you tapped my shoulder
from the back and
I was confused how to
respond back to a recognition
from a person
that was not mutual.

Last time this happened
I was in a hall
trying to remember something
about microprocessors
so that I could at least pass,
when the invigilator stood
on top of me,
just staring me, writing.

Cold sweat droplets
started racing on my face,
assumption: he was
from my department.
When he finally spoke
he asked which exam
was I writing, and in
absolute bewilderment
I forgot, the name
of the exam I was giving!

You girl with an accent,
I had watched your poems,
writing you on stage
like the broad nip ink pen
that road trips with blue ink.
I just forgot,
in the sun burst of your face,
standing in front of me,
as if you knew me
for eternity.
For Simran Narwani
 Jun 2017 Eliot York
Traveler
Okay
Let us take a moment
And break this down
If you don't believe  
In global warming
By now
You're probably not
Going to come round

But perhaps
We could take a step back
To when pollution was indeed
A matter of fact
Such as
The black factory smoke
And runoff waste
That fills our water ways
Coal soot that fills our lungs and skies
Sewage that fills our bays

Poisonous smog
Settling over our industrial cities
Toxic chemicals giving birth
Have you no empathy nor pity
"As our"
Emissions are ever choking
Scorching the earth

Can we start over
Sure it's no big deal
Can we at least agree
That pollution is real?
Traveler Tim
 Jun 2017 Eliot York
martin
She's planting out her window box
Young shoots are showing through
She thinks about the Springtime
And the garden she once knew

There were primroses and daffodils
Sweet violets white and blue
She thinks about her husband
And when their love was new

Buds and blooms open up
They scent and colour Summer long
She thinks about those happy days
When they were young and strong

Sunset's falling sooner now
Petals drop, the show is done
She gathers up her Winter shawl
Prepares for what’s to come
Delighted to be the daily
Thank you He Po
And thank you Eli Yo
Eyes open
Upon the silent abode
Marvel at me
The heavens echoed

Predicaments dissolve into the trivial
The mind is spotless
You forget the greed, the hate
You remember only the love which intoxicates

Their watchful eyes
Shining upon us since antiquity
Embedded into the skies
An ever lasting source of serenity

Their melody decipherable to wanderers
Providing solace to the adrift
A message from our ancestors
Whispering that clear will be the mist
your little voice
                    Over the wires came leaping
and i felt suddenly
dizzy
     With the jostling and shouting of merry flowers
wee skipping high-heeled flames
courtesied before my eyes
                             or twinkling over to my side
Looked up
with impertinently exquisite faces
floating hands were laid upon me
I was whirled and tossed into delicious dancing
up
Up
with the pale important
                          stars and the Humorous
                                                  moon
dear girl
How i was crazy how i cried when i heard
                                            over time
and tide and death
leaping
Sweetly
          your voice
 Jun 2017 Eliot York
ᗺᗷ
Our human senses
Anchor us to space and time.
Dreams control the slack.
 Jun 2017 Eliot York
JR Weiss
the woman.
she is no more than
a lump of formless clay,
pure, vast, and unfiltered potential.

he was a songwriter.
promising to sand, shape, and polish.
skimming through her journal and jotting down
shorthand versions of a heart.

he was a stressed money maker
who wanted practical usefulness.
a pillar of support that got only the pleasure
of being part of a palace.

he was a writer.
who got her drunk and scribbled notes as she talked
and called it writing together
after the fact.

he was a teacher.
who only wanted to show her what she could be,
if only
she let him...

from cup,
to vase,
to ashtray,
to bust.

the clay cracks and varnish is sometimes chipped away
fire and tempered shell crushed to dust
only to be reused again,
as flour on a forming table.

the he in these landscapes is not to blame
for readily available medium
calling out for artists hands.

sometimes clay just wants to be clay,
and it has the right to decide,
when it feels like
being something more.
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