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 Dec 2014 Emily Moser
R Saba
cold morning, warm heart
and burning concrete beneath feet
that are tired of playing along
to the off-beat rhythm of the cars that pass
covering any other sound

and i contemplate the difference
between the ocean and the sea
in an effort to stop thinking

well, there it goes again
no matter the metaphor, i'm always full circle
swinging back into this pattern
looking for noise, looking for colour
looking for a distraction

distracted from myself, i turn
to speak to empty air, just trying
to start a conversation with less meaning
than the days have been holding for me

give me weather talk, give me politics
give me capital punishment, for crying out loud
give me something to debate
that will not affect me

and i contemplate the difference
between me and my feelings
in an effort to prove that they are
without a doubt
separate beings

cold morning, warm heart
beating away from my chest
as fast as it can
I think that's how it feels anyway
Boy
You really wanna know
what grinds my gears
what pushes my buttons
what ****** me off
People. Like. You.
You can't play me like that
You can't play her like that
You gotta pick your choose
You think that I don't know?
Boy I'll pop you one square in that pretty boy jaw of yours
And you'll be sorry
You got nerve ya know -
I'll give you a pat on the back for that
You're trying to be sly
See what you can get
before you dive in
All I gotta say is
watch your back
Love
Cuts with a
soft knife.
Bleeds lavender
On the white sofa
In front of the
Fireplace.

Curls up
To die
alone
On the rug
Where the dog
Used to
sleep.

Was Carried to
Heaven
By the birds
That  sing
In the snow
Covered
Trees.

Returns
In dreams,
Tired and
Naked,
To lay
Under the cover
Beside us.
A little while, a little while,
The weary task is put away,
And I can sing and I can smile,
Alike, while I have holiday.

Why wilt thou go, my harassed heart,
What thought, what scene invites thee now?
What spot, or near or far,
Has rest for thee, my weary brow?

There is a spot, mid barren hills,
Where winter howls, and driving rain;
But if the dreary tempest chills,
There is a light that warms again.

The house is old, the trees are bare,
Moonless above bends twilight's dome;
But what on earth is half so dear,
So longed for, as the hearth of home?

The mute bird sitting on the stone,
The dank moss dripping from the wall,
The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown,
I love them, how I love them all!

Still, as I mused, the naked room,
The alien firelight died away,
And from the midst of cheerless gloom
I passed to bright unclouded day.

A little and a lone green lane
That opened on a common wide;
A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain
Of mountains circling every side;

A heaven so clear, an earth so calm,
So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air;
And, deepening still the dream-like charm,
Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.

That was the scene, I knew it well;
I knew the turfy pathway's sweep
That, winding o'er each billowy swell,
Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep.

Even as I stood with raptured eye,
Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear,
My hour of rest had fleeted by,
And back came labour, *******, care.
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