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 Mar 2013 F White
mûre
Should I stay, or should I go?*
Reveal the consequences I first should know
If behind the red velvet drape
it means I lose you, do I still escape?

We courted across mountains and cherished our flaws
If I head to the coast will you stay true to my cause?
I waited for you across thousands of elk
Will you now linger, as I re-boot myself?

How might I render your mind at ease?
I seek only to love, if not to appease.
Let me have a summer by sea.
It isn't you, my dear, it's me.
 Mar 2013 F White
mûre
Served best cold, the soup of the day:
Should I go or should I stay?
In between stations, tossing rocks
settle in the seat, or get off next stop?

I want the whole cake
big as you can bake
I want the biggest slice of my future
I want a bellyful of something pure.

I want the wind, I want the rain
I want to dance, to love again
Should I go or should I stay?
"Everything seems perfect from far away."

I weary so fast of the City Games
I'm a Shire-born Took, I long for old names
Life isn't green here, the hues do not play
Colour-blind amidst the shades of grey.

When I run, I run in circles
I try to dream, my dreams are purples
I know you try to assuage my alone
I love you my dear, but I want to go home.
 Mar 2013 F White
mûre
Dear Wallamo
 Mar 2013 F White
mûre
Oh, my cherished-
If I could give you him
I'd wrap him in picnic plaid
Like the gift he should be
(I know you'd like that)
And I'd tie him to you by
his tweed and sheepish smiles,
so tight that you'd turn into
a Great Ancient Tree.

Darling, if I could
shake the demons out of your forest,
I'd holler at them in a pentatonic fury
and bend them from your nation.
(With air. Not fire)

My Siamese twin,
connected at the heart,
If I could give you the world
I'd carry it to you
like Atlas
though I'd have to work on my long distance running.
I'd do it for you.

I'd do it a hundred,
and bring you all the jam ever jellied.
 Mar 2013 F White
mûre
In the Garden there was a man
a quiet maker of boutonnieres
whose sunflower grin stirred pollen.

In the Garden there was a bird
a hummingbird, a quiet maker of songs
who steeped within his mirth, thirsty for more.

And now she tastes his flowers everywhere
as he weaves them into his lapel
that she might always flit home
just below the crook of his smile
and just above his April heart.
 Mar 2013 F White
mûre
I never much cared for watercolours
I always lose the pigments in the wash
vistas doomed to be overcast
in the pine groves wept from a flaking brush.
I don't like that kind of responsibility.

Give me oil. Thick like Cleopatra's
the meat of all mediums
heat the world with ochre, umber, crimson
spread me with a knife, with sinning hands
my eyes flick around the canvas
wipe the frosting on my red dress
a guilty nun's habit.

But the tide is out again.
The spectrum fades.
Today is for watercolours.
I'll drip steadily from the canvas
and live in the stains on the hardwood floor
peering upward and waiting for April.
 Mar 2013 F White
mûre
Sticky hands-
the price of touching delicious things.

And no matter how I handle you...
from the spout, with a mitt, upside down,
you get all over my mind
you sneak your way into thoughts that
haven't even come close to you.

And for each drop of soap
an ounce of appetite comes to tip the scale.

A sticky heart.
That's the price of touching delicious things.
 Mar 2013 F White
Andrea
If you cut her open
I'm almost positive
that you'll choke on a cloud
of cigarette smoke
and glitter.

Then when you look back
on this sorry life,
you'll see a teenage girl
who watches too much TV
and smokes too much ****.

When you see what she went through
and how she brushes it all off,
you'll see her quietly in her room
sobbing,
roughly swallowing those tiny pills.

But she'll get back up,
you'll remember
how every day she'll jokingly
talk about her imminent demise
but do you ever see the truth behind it?

She just wants to have fun,
but the damage that was done to her
****** it all up,
so then the fun
turns into an outlet to forget.

With all the flashing lights she sees
to the flashbacks she endures,
to the strangers she welcomes
to the strange ones she avoids,
she does it all with a cynical smile.

This girl will continue to burn her insides
and pop those
sweet pills,
she'll down that liquid that
burns her throat, to make her smile.

So if you cut her open
I'm almost positive
you'll find charred organs
and confetti.
She's a whir of reality and euphoria.
 Mar 2013 F White
Miri Kane
I want to build a house around us
And in it our favorite things,
Walk here, jump there
sniff around, pull the strings
Laugh loud, spin around
And when we are through,
we will rest in the mess we made.
 Mar 2013 F White
anne collins
**** sonnets
she screamed, half awake,, raspy broken chords
**** mistletoe
He responded, barely breathing, words are a chore

**** surrender
She moaned, lonely against the canvas of silver and gold
**** alarm clocks
He smirked, craving the fabric and minutes to unfold

**** ghosts
She whispered to the abrupt emptiness of 4 in the morning
**** stairwells
He mumbled to the steps that tripped without warning

**** forever
she breathed, breathless against the waves of waterfalls
**** sidewalks
He admitted as he wandered aimlessly appalled

**** flowers
she scowled at the precipice of tomorrow
**** candles
He gritted at the concept of unrequited sorrow

**** Thursday
she exclaimed at the notion of fresh beer blossom gardens
**** July
He exhaled against the women who dressed without pardon

**** Twitter
she tweeted three nights deprived of sleep
**** Xanax
he stumbled five Klonopin deep

**** stars
she wished with a mouth of cigarettes and strangers
**** memories
he insisted accompanied by potions and danger

*******
She would have laughed against the midnight canvas
**** me
He would have crafted versus the twilight lanterns
 Mar 2013 F White
anne collins
Klein
 Mar 2013 F White
anne collins
Half formed shallow glances across the dawn
Breaking in crisp spring
a hunter means harm
(say it back)

Precious slanted words in crushed song
Landing slowly, raindrops cling
The sidewalk is long
(breath we lack)

Slaughtered bouquet petals in Central Park
Burning acidic in the winter light
Our sun is victim to the dark
(Gilded armor cracks)

Aimless gallivanting learns to command the heart
Inspired: the reckless wilderness can ignite
villains and matchsticks to spark
(Absence means love lacks)

and if all letters are to crash like hailstorms
why write and feel and fill
the blank parchments with potential eardrums
whose souls we make anxious- ill?

and still
the alive will die or ****
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