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  May 2018 Frances
Emily Dickinson
1035

Bee! I’m expecting you!
Was saying Yesterday
To Somebody you know
That you were due—

The Frogs got Home last Week—
Are settled, and at work—
Birds, mostly back—
The Clover warm and thick—

You’ll get my Letter by
The seventeenth; Reply
Or better, be with me—
Yours, Fly.
Frances May 2018
He was dying
Panting at her fingertips
Ingesting each print
So she cuts them off
The pinkie to thumb
Hoping she can escape his presence
Before he can finish his first meal
She weeps as she runs
He prefers the chase
Not the satiate
Taking more than he needs
Insatiable greed
Some live through hunger to avoid the fears of the forest
But the forest belongs to no man
Nomad or not man
We are all human
So why do some seem to be at the bottom of the food chain?

Why are men living as rats, mice, vermin
Swallowed by the system
We find our own selves choking on the moldy food they feed us
And breed us
Collapsed at the hands of the scientists
Squirming against the foreboding
Injection of complacency
Death, oh Death
Please not me
Spare my flesh
Who decided it was yours to take
The mercy of freedom,
Debased,
Monetized,
Capitalized,
For the gain of nothing
Of my soul resistance,
Of my desires,
Of my thickened blood and scarred skin,
Sleepless nights, apocalyptic dreams, blood cutting screams, and pipe scheams
These night mares awaken me to the reality-
The fires, looting, not knowing where you'll sleep, how deep will it steep?
How long can we sieth and writhe in our unchained skin,
Unsure where to begin?
They shove our noses to the grind until we lose our senses
and fall into the dog food stew
of a greasy McDicks burger
Chewed up and spit out
Stumbling and wandering
And the panic only rises
until we think we've found and outlet
somehow able to see a shred of time where the aren't walls arent climbing
and our feet aren't aching
And our chest breathes slowly with the waves
Frances May 2018
Their figures stiffened but not aching
Her fingers poised, as though gracing a hollowed egg
At great length, unyielding their preciously mastered positions
Like snowflakes in the bell jar of an icy tundra

Tickled pink by the fine point brush of her creator
She spins, embracing your gaze
    Yet she is paralyzed
Her grace and strength bleed through the same wounds which rest, unhealed on the block of cedar which her weight dutifully suppresses as she suspends herself amidst the voluptuous starlit glittering illuminations

Their beating, breathing counterparts whose swiftness grants nostalgia to a world where clocks no longer resemble Dali's
    But instead are made of gold
With hands spinning faster than you can see

Her feet daintily hault the gears of this robotic stimulus,
She becomes the mesmerization
  Calling the onlooker like an herbivorous siren to a safe and warm pool of ablution
This piece was the first I wrote after many months of a poetic drought. I thought of it while staring at a ballerina ornament.
Frances May 2018
Sinking sands untouched by the eternal sun rays
burn holes through the hours' glass
It shatters

Disintegrated
By a pacing shock like a blooming spring's lightening

Blackness falls as eye lids flutter
Blue lips tremble in the cold
But the unchained heart is warming and radiant

Radiant like ephemeral breath
These pulsating branches weaveing us in enchantment
The rhythmic breezes wrapping

Rapping on our silken tender necks
Furrowed in a feathered nest
Bunking with Zues
Eating his grapes next to the fountain of youth
Frances May 2018
Mellow
Mundane
Mutiny
Meets the madman
Conducting orchestration
For our mothers lips
Saint Frances
Saint Frances
Saint Frances
I hope you've arrived
Cacooned eyes awaiting
Ephemeral steady fluctuation
Persephone gaze
Diana's rage
Eternal blue flame
Dripping crimson fingertips
The heavens eloped when you left us here.
us.
here
Remains.
Remains on the fire escape
An external buzz
Heard during my cigarette break
My sight caught by persephones polenating powerhouses who remains meditative and floating
Above the clover grass
Elucid and fleeting
Yet evermore
Remains on the tumbling limestones and mounds of our ancestors.
I beg for your wisdom
Sometimes I think
I'm hearing your voice
Asking me to be calm
And stop searching so deep
Saying your "with me
In more than the form of a humble bumble bee
But still keep running for me through the vast trees
Until you find your self unmoving and buckled at the knees"
I hear my grandfathers voice when I see a bumble bee, and my Grandmother Frances' face when I look at a church. I never met them or heard their voices while they were alive, but I'd care to believe they're with me always.
i.

in the wild, drumming rain
blossoms sink, confetti pinks,
riotous whites, collapse
in spring’s paper mache pools.

ii.

on a hot tin roof
the rain plays her wind
guitars and percussion
while the sea recharges
her engines with the
thunder of the waves.

iii.

the sound of the rain, chiming,
a crazy singer on the forlorn
lawn, stretching like an
accordion, wild in her
wilderness,  crashing
like the waves
drawing me closer to you.

iv.


you kiss me and
my heart skips a beat,
flutters with excitement.

i long for summer with her
gold sun, warm, rushing
streams and bottle-blue sea...
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