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who knows if the moon’s
a baloon,coming out of a keen city
in the sky—filled with pretty people?
(and if you and i should

get into it,if they
should take me and take you into their baloon,
why then
we’d go up higher with all the pretty people

than houses and steeples and clouds:
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody’s ever visited,where

always
            it’s
                   Spring)and everyone’s
in love and flowers pick themselves
I may be simple words
But if you
Write me some music
And let me translate them
With my voice
Then I will show you
They are simply
Not just
Words
Anymore
Artistry of song writing and singing is such a gift. At least I can enjoy listening.
The papers are wet with ink.
Russia is losing it's war.
North Korea is swamped with the Covid.
Tucker is backpedaling his replacement theory.
Finland and Sweden are enrolling.
Armament shipments are making a difference.
The Pope is apologizing.
That needs repeating: The Pope is apologizing.
(But why stop with the Aboriginals. Consider the Jews and Irish).
Fossil fuels are on the decline.
(plastic microchips are in our fat)
I can still buy Roundup.
Tobacco is banned in most public places here.
*** is not.
There are more drunks, and more behind bars, and in front.
We have safe injection sites.
I have robots asking me if I'm a robot.
There are more tv stations selections.
TV is not worth watching.
LPs are making a comeback.
Right to Life is Wrong for Many.
... and on... and on
I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)
 May 7 Elsie Greek
Benzene
We all evolve,
even the plants, flowers.
Think about the flower when it blossoms from a bud.
Such a pretty sight,
BUT
Ask the flower how much pain it's going through.
It's tearing itself open, getting ripped apart.
It's the same with certain events in life.
AND
It's all right.
I feel like we are a generation of beautiful words, broken hearts and piles of hopes...It's kinda strange. I don't even have anything relatable but still I relate to every single poetry here......
 Apr 2020 Elsie Greek
VOID
Daniel
 Apr 2020 Elsie Greek
VOID
I would quiver into dust for him
Convert back into the atoms and stars I once was
I would melt between the crack in the warm pavement
turn into nothing but a puddle of water  to be stepped in
I would be burnt into ashes
Become nothing but a rusted gate
I would give up every thing I possibly have
Just to hear him say I love you like he said right now
 Apr 2020 Elsie Greek
Isabine
I
wait here alone,
in breathless nothing.
If you tap me,
I’ll shiver like lightning,
or melt like daylight,
or implode like a star,
consumed by the weight of my own gravity.
I am not formed to be caressed,
but would die,
just to be touched,
for a blazing instant,
by you
"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

— The End —