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 Oct 2015 Joel Frye
sanch kay
every day, speak a little less
reduce the number of words you say from half to
ten less, and then none at all.

Don't forget to be soft.
Kiss your mountaintop goodbye for
one last sunrise and descend
into the night
where it's quiet
like you should be.

one by one, pull back towards yourself
the orbs of energy you've left
bouncing around you in the
atmosphere.
be their chalice
one last time
and watch them burn out.

and when you're reduced to
dying ashes and deathly whispers
a strong voice will suddenly falter
and they wonder -
*didn't we once know a ... ?
loud no more. i apologise for all the trouble caused.
 Oct 2015 Joel Frye
CA Guilfoyle
Cerulean blue, the mad rippling
how I crave water, sometimes even green
in spring the melting of me
smooth ****** skipping
blue pools swimming
to feel an ocean inside
the storm clouds collide
unhinged from fire's dream
a torrent, a waterfall
of holy water
evaporating into
steam.
Bangshi looked at the rolling gold before him.

Not a day would be without two square meals this year,
the surplus produce would earn him good money.

It was then his eyes fell on the thin little girl.

She belonged to somewhere else
always seeking something from the sky
showing little but her ribs jutting from dark skin
and if she ever swam her limbs in the wind
she would run up to the pond
to catch the reflections changing with the hourly light.

Her home wouldn’t see harvest this year
as her father had been ill for months
that could only mean starvation for the family.

Bangshi followed her eye to the sky
autumn blue without a speck of cloud
but for a spot of rain gathering in a corner of his eye.

What if instead of selling the surplus
he shared it with Malini’s family?
In meditation it happens
quite often
abstract
bliss
finding its way
into an
unconscious smile.

Smiling in my sleep
begins with you
and your
lovely kindness
finding me somewhere
in my unexpecting
grateful day.
©Elisa Maria Argiro
 Oct 2015 Joel Frye
Nat Lipstadt
be ever gentle to thy words
treat them, your tools, well,
cleansing and protecting,
wrapping them in cloths of chamois and moleskin
that they may be well conditioned and
pour forth with a temperament clear and viscous,
reflecting their high honors and a noble lineage,
they are well-intentioned to exist far longer
than your meager temporal life,
upon this ever hasty, ever perpetual, orbit

give them all respect, their fair due,
they are treasure immeasurable,
for which you have been granted guardianship,
custody received from others to be gifted onwards,
yours, but for the duration

so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction

more truffle than trifle,
find them in the dark forest of your life,
use them sparingly, just for soaring,
take them from the roots of your trees,
shave them with a paring knife,
counts them in bites and measure them in grams,
even in grains,
for words are the seasoning of our lives,
agent provacateurs that can modify the moment,
bringing out to the fore
the flavor of the underlying

speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor them at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them
Oct. 6, 2015
4:30am
Manhattan Island
 Oct 2015 Joel Frye
Sally A Bayan
...thought i was on the moon's surface,
tumbling high, low, over its dark craters
but, no...i was floating on the earth's atmosphere,
where winds of all seasons blow without cease
where fogs and mists do exist
where clouds do form and mold
they are, in truth, in their own world...
  
but, it suddenly rains
can't help it... i slowly descend...

...i am transformed  into an umbrella.  
for, Gene Kelly  soon takes me, while singing a cappella
"I'm singing in the rain," to my ear he whispers
... and a bit later, the song,  he would whistle
in his free hand, i become a blooming, pale- rose-y stunner
claiming eyes of passersby, through my magical flower power...

but...all wonderful dreams come to an end
when the aroma of steaming brew permeates the air
right through my nostrils....and i suddenly choose:
cream and sugar.........for my coffee
while reading classic works...or writing sad or crazy poetry
radio plays, "My Funny Valentine"....and i feel
like a singer, who sometimes sings off key
singing of thoughts of who i wanna be
singing of dreams of who i wanna be with
singing, i wish i could dip my feet into different seas
singing, i wish...i wish, i could travel with thee
but now, i'd rather be, there.....in my cozy nook
to slowly scan through the pages of a thick book

my life...a hardbound, glossy-paged book, rimmed with brown and gold
where half of my pages still choose to be unturned, unread, and untold
while half...the rest of me, dog-eared or otherwise, have started to unfold.
  

Sally


Copyright September 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
***....in writing this, i chose "I" instead of "You." Sorry...
      This playful write...from another rainy September day...***
Rose petals devoured

   of inky promises

blush off garden passages

  of amaranthine radiance,

written words decayed

  on  bruised vines

   of intertwining madness,

as poetry climbed the

    walls of befallen sunlight
 Oct 2015 Joel Frye
v V v
We bury them in flat graves
or convert them to ash
and wear them around our necks,
or place them in urns.

And what’s this about burial pods?
Your rotting corpse providing nutrients
to a tree that will one day be
cut down to make a casket
for the person that hung themselves
with their necklace of ash.

I recently read about
mechanically pressed ash
pressed so hard and
with so much pressure
that your loved one becomes
a diamond.
Albeit grey and dull,
and quite expensive.

Effectively if you die first
you can still be buried
with the one you love,
its almost like dying twice…

why do we no longer honor the dead?

Please don’t say an urn or a pod
or a flat marked grave honor the dead.
Google Highgate Cemetery.
Google The Monumental Cemetery of Staglieno
and you will understand the difference.

It is good to honor the dead.  

A death so honored that
a hundred years later
They’re as beautiful as ever.

Go,
look and see how beautiful it is
to honor the dead.
I'm sure it comes down to expense, but oh how I wish we still honored our dead in this way. Google images of Highgate Cemetery and the Monumental Cemetery of Staglieno for specific examples of such beauty.
 Oct 2015 Joel Frye
v V v
A painter's wooden palette
is used to blend color,
if it isn’t quite right 
no problem,
just wash it and start over.

A clean slate with  
no layers beneath,
no previous unused batches
or miss- matches.

A fresh start without guilt
and the constant reminder
of mistaken color.

If my brain were this simple
I'd be soggy from starts over.

Instead,

my palette is thick and
crusty with mistaken color
and every new mix
blends the old with the new.

These multi-layer batches
will never dry out or wash off
so I’ve stopped trying.

I'm tired of all this
mixing and matching
where no matter how bright
the color I add,

it always ends up storm gray..
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