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If I should labor through daylight and dark,
   Consecrate, valorous, serious, true,
Then on the world I may blazon my mark;
   And what if I don't, and what if I do?
 Apr 2015 HRTsOnFyR
Tom McCubbin
I hear you say
you are hiding
this inside of you,
but can’t find
what rises; the
colored bubbles
give strange poundings
to your brain.

Every day
moon, sun and stars
lift without your
understanding,
doors open and close,
spilling heat.
Your face is lost
in busy streets

You go to empty
work all day,
and to God
in evening moments,
where the anger cannot hide,
where dreams
whitewash
until morning.

First light opens
steadfast hatred
that you always feel,
the way sips
of wine spin you
toward old death.
Emptiness again
says hello.

A quiet day
among common
villagers
would give much relief–
frightening beasts,
unending storms;
you feel vulnerable
as babies

and the poor,
the robbed, the widowed,
the filled grave sites
in warring lands;
victims of an
unseen torrent
that rolls beneath
your very day.

A wave of cruelty
enters you
from deep
and desolate places,
your eyes swollen,
thirsty for tears–
relief you need
found in crying.

Your hidden room
is filled with heat
and decorated
in carved masks,
as a rumble
underneath comes,
allowing
slow catastrophe.

Your body image,
shocked by anger
and hatred, makes
your room stifling,
the pillow retreat
of hard moments
swept in
recurring lava flow.

Your beating *****
wants life back,
rather than
rolling, burning stone–
a pathetic rhythm
inside,
expecting
magma cruelty.

If only helpful
sleep would come,
overlook the
smokey darkness,
the madness
that is still rising–
oozing mountains
badly singeing.

A heart–
a new colored bubble
helping tortured ribs,
screaming flesh,
settle and
cool a lava bed–
brings soil and seed
to the old flow.
 Apr 2015 HRTsOnFyR
September
57
 Apr 2015 HRTsOnFyR
September
57
You       make    me         feel    like      this    is    more    than       a          "more than,"          a    "less than,"          an    "equal to."
                  More       than       infinity,    a    vector,    a    scalar.    A       page-fifty-seven-numbers-one-three-and-twenty-two.        More ­   than    "x"        approaching      it's       limit.               More       than      a   dopamine,       seratonin,       oxycotin         cocktail.


      I'm   a      little                   drunk    and                I       love       you.
               You're          worrying             and                               I       love       you.
   You're          overthinking       the          unthinkable    and       rationalizing    the    irrational    and          I          lov­e       you.
      You're    crying          into    my                ex­istence    and                   I       love          you
      You're    spinning    in          circles    on    the ­   second          time    we          hung    out          and  ­ * holy    mother          *******             God-playing-hide-and-seek,                         I             love          you.*

      You    make    me          feel    lik­e    Moses    parting                seas    and    leading    al­l    of    my    dreams    across    to    a    Holy             ­   Ground.
         Like    a             supernova    explosion             and    you're             my    black          hole.
Pulling
       me
                           in.

Pillow       talk    of       original    sin.

         You       remind          me          of       documentaries       :    curl       up    on          the    couch          and       spend    the       day             away     in       blankets             and          still                not       have               wasted    a           ****        minute.

                        I                   ­      love             you       more    than       words    can       know,    and       when    I       told    you    that,       you    held    me    tighter.
My    head       feels    heavier       but    my       heart    a       lot    lighter.

I       feel         lucky          to      know          you,       let       alone       love    and       be          loved    by       you.       I      don't      believe         in      miracles   but      I      believe      you      are            a         blessing.

               I    hopped       to    the       edge    of       my    bed    and    found    the       Atlantic    Ocean       staring          me       down
You    haven't       even    gone,    yet          I    still       find    myself    counting       down       the    days    until       you    return.
Now read the title again.
57
i feel my fingers
sift through her hair
but i must remind myself
that she is not there
 Apr 2015 HRTsOnFyR
Joel M Frye
57
 Apr 2015 HRTsOnFyR
Joel M Frye
57
Pawing through
the dusty box
of memories,
well-covered now
with a thinning coat
of gray hair.
Rummaging,
setting aside years
better suited
for a Goodwill bin.
A few keepers;
but must pare down
the hoarding
and prepare
to travel
light.
Another year creeps in on cats' paws....
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