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"It's not beautiful to be tragic"
He tells me idly as he watches himself in the rearview mirror.
"It doesn't make you special."
I almost spit out my strawberry milkshake when he says this.
He painted me this way.
All heavy eyes and shaky hands.
The tires squeal under the weight of silence
And he rolls his eyes to fill the space.
"You did this"
I tell him,
"You made me miserable."
He laughs,
But his voice breaks before he can finish.
"Look at me"
I sob,
"Look at the mess you made of me."
 Sep 2021 Winter
Seven Nielsen
Wishes
suspended
in a filmy lacquer
like a child's secret utterance
set
  in
       invisible
                  liquid-hope
                         ­        based on nothing at all
are like blemishes in an otherwise perfect diamond

How, in a lugubrious world
     hanging
     by
     a
     single
     extruded
     wire
     of
     tenuous
     mercy
can there be
mines beneath shallow graves
dug by slaves with crossed fingers
and frightening visions
of those thousand-foot-deep-burial-wells
drilled into the forehead of the world
     in fake-searching
              of a new
                        and magic
                                        element
           ­                                         to brag-mix
into toothpaste or 'new and improved' Brylcreem
  (now formulated for your pets and guaranteed to make a difference)

                                             PLEASE NOTE:
A child's wish or question should be disqualified due to the lack
of subtext and connived distortion to fashion the desired answer
                                                or result

The space between burial plots
is reserved to bury the mental oozings
of wishers and questioners
and the ceremonies are to be torchlit processions
                                               marching
                                            back
       ­                                 into
                           ­               rotting
                                          ­      cemeteries
                                      near darkened woods
                                 on the edge of civilizations
              where truth sleeps in the above-mentioned shallow graves

There are caves and mines below,
                                                      you know
                 encroached and heavily toothed
                 with stalactites
                 and stalagmites
                 of stalac-rights
                 and stalag-wrongs
                 of revivalist lies
                 gurgling up in groundseepage
                 of blackened deceit
                 fought with limp-wristed efforts
                 by attempting reasoning
                 and pale blue innocence
                 which always clouds up the lovely prejudice in play

Do wishes petrify
or just hold very still under glass
to not frighten the proctors
or their undeveloped wards
                                                  in hoards
                                                          ­      on field trips?

The secret to making wishes come true is hidden in the puzzle:

                    K         R          O          W

                    R                   ­                 O
                                     UOY
                    O                                    R

 ­                   W         O           R          K

                     unscramble and despair

The current judges always remain unmoved
                                 unimpressed
                      uncaring
and refuse to blow out the candles
until the day that someone judges THEM
in all prejudice and bias of the mind
of good and proper scale bearers
and compromised judges

What might the answer be
when a foolish soul, surrounded in questions, asks,
"Does anyone have change for a parent?
It seems I only have a single father to my name."

"I have two career choices in the arts, so I can break him."
           is the reply
"No,"
            answeres the hopeful.
"I need four erroneous opinions to fit into his ear
or the machinery doesn't grind to a halt.
Doesn't anyone have the proper change?"

It looks like someone always sits on the low end
of the teeter-totter of wishes

Won't anyone play with me?
I wish someone would
I need contra-ballast
Somebody?
Somebody?
Anybody?

                    ­               Is everyone here made of stone?
 Aug 2021 Winter
Seven Nielsen
Snow whispers as it falls
gently filling mountain halls
Does it ever speak or see
as it crowns the autumn tree?

Snow whispers as it flies
when it dots the feathered skies
Can you hear its soulful cries?
for it weeps when spring arrives
 Jul 2021 Winter
David Lessard
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)
 Jul 2021 Winter
David Adamson
I met a woman
brutal in her mercy.

Her embrace was a clinch
to prevent hard blows.
She pulled me close to push me away.
Seeing my nakedness
she leant me a dream
of chainmail and shield.
Taking love from me she gave a reprieve
to a mind resigned to the slow death of feeling.

Ignoring my words she heard
my faint silent heartbeat and
understood that it was music
too quiet for the world to hear
and turned it up louder
than I could stand.
I wept in my deafness
as she danced.
 Jul 2021 Winter
Sunset
Ring
 Jul 2021 Winter
Sunset
He knelt
Holding a ring
Saying:
"I'll be with you in joys and sorrows
I took off my gloves
Put out my hand
To be ringed
and
He stood up
"Sorry! I am drunk "
And left  
But I ask you !
can't we ring another
if the ring finger is amputated?
 Jul 2021 Winter
Rain
Tonight
 Jul 2021 Winter
Rain
Tonight I am sad
Tonight I am lonely
The demons are screaming
So please someone hold me
for those who think the stars burn out
it's not true
some stars go on and on
giving birth to new stars
in a never ending
cycle of eternity
our sun
will burn grow expand
become a giant red planet
burning our atmosphere
to empty itself of gold
to those deserving
in this evergrowing
always knowing
Uni force
why restrict your future
watch the timeless dance of infinite amount of stars
infinite celestial bodies
infinite time
 Jul 2021 Winter
Ayodeji Oje
Hear once
but listen twice
for misinformation
is the mother of all ******.

Hear once
but listen twice
for misinformation
is the miss in information.

Hear once
but listen twice
for misinformation
is the salt in the deep cut.

Hear once
but listen twice
for misinformation
causes miss in our formation.

Hear once
Listen twice.
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