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You’re going to find yourself alone.
You will be in a hospital room
Or in the backseat of a car
Or on a park bench
And you will have decided you’re alone.
You will have convinced yourself
That there isn’t anyone in the world
You can trust.
Not her,
not him,
not the clothes on your back,
not the air in your lungs.
You will have made yourself alone.
Again.
And you will pay for it with the same currency
As before.
With the same realization
Of emptiness
As always.
And you will stand up
And declare war on yourself
For the way you have been treated
By no one.
 Oct 2017 John Hawkins
victoria
Take your needle, and paint my skin
Tattoo over, under and across my territory, so they won't see inside me
Pervade my body with rainbows of pain

With Striking colours, hide the black and grey mass of my being

Take my skin to another land
Where flowers bloom, fairytales live and rainbows glow
Where my heart is hidden

I hide myself well, my skin draped with powerful ink
It's how I protect
How I live behind
How I survive
 Oct 2017 John Hawkins
Cné
The surf provides lullabies
as ocean echoes roll.
Too soon, the sunlight glitters
as the dawn turns gray to gold.

I wake and I rub my eyes
beside the sandy beach
My love beside me, languid lips
within an easy reach.

I whisper, sweet good mornings
as your dreams I brush away.
You stretch and yawn, responding to
requests to "come and play".

Lingered memories caress,
of last night's rising moon
with silver waves and ripples,
beyond the dark lagoon.

In shades of colors that mix and smudge
you take your time, no rush
My ******* tingle, at the thought
upon my skin, spreads flush.

In reverie, flutters reminisce,
your wanton body on mine.
Whispered moans in my ear, you ******,
"I'm yours", I hear on rewind.
When last night's... turns into this morning's
Bound by the soil
The richness of knowing
Self, home, heart.
Who she was there was only
As true as the roots that clenched
County to country
Tree to earth.

There was a ****** to
Each footstep
Having paced each step thousands of times.
Some sets of eyes marked the way
As much as a
Curve in the road;
A sign on the street.

Perhaps it was the memory
The recollection layered in thick
Varying shades of red, gold
Ash and dust
On everything to see.
So many whispers, all vying to eddy against her skin
Her flesh.
I woke up this morning to noises,
cars, a refrigerator, TV,
and I felt empty,
fear and dread poured into my empty shell.
I'm tired of listening to men who've read books,
books by men who read books,
by men who read books.
The monotonous drone of idealists,
arguing with idealists with ideas
by other idealists.
Unoriginal blabber
and outright lunacy,
telling the free man how to be chained,
blocking out sunlight,
restricting our branches.
Copyright Barry Pietrantonio
Cold beer fills a chilled mug
The crackle of tobacco , the creak
of a rocker , the croon of crickets ,
Alabamas distant thunder* ...

Deer run in brown grass , water bugs strike
the porch light , cars hum along the distant highway ,
cicadas foretell the shroud of night
...

Clocks become amplified , ceiling fans -
tickle door chimes
Drab curtains brush plastered walls , dry
corn fields trill , crackle and moan


The final slurp of Michelob as -
someones trash crawls down a forgotten country road
...
Copyright October 10 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
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