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 Sep 2016 John Rameu
Stephan


A bloom is not forgotten for its fragrance lingers on
Captured in the morning dew that plays upon the lawn
Delicate the petals when no longer we do find
Still its beauty follows us forever in our mind

The melodies of nightingales within the trees do sing
Until the time they wander off, the wind beneath their wings
When off into the distance finds these birds no longer near
Still their song it plays its tune that we shall always hear

On the beach we build a castle very tall and fine
Made of tiny grains of sand this summer day we find
And even when the tide does wash away our grand surprise
Still we find the magic it did play upon our eyes

When the sun is setting out along the western shore
The warmth upon our skin we felt, we come to want once more
Now as the darkness falls and this new day does turn to night
Still we can remember that the sun was shining bright

As we turn the pages in the brand new book we read
Every new found place into our minds we slowly feed
Coming to the last page and “The End” the words do say
Still we find the story it shall never go away

A bloom is not forgotten for its fragrance lingers on
Captured in the morning dew that plays upon the lawn
But like its beauty this I see when you come into view
I can’t forget a blossom that’s as perfect as are you
 Sep 2016 John Rameu
Roanne Manio
They told you to fear forest fires.
They told you how dangerous it was.
How destructive.
But they didn't tell you how
it's the earth's way of renewing itself,
of ridding itself of the grit,
so it can rise anew.

I want a forest fire to take over my heart,
to let it burn the walls,
to purge the sorrow,
to take away the mud seeping through the cracks.
It will not be a pretty sight.
Flowers will be set ablaze.
It will destroy
but it will bear.

You will see me standing
in the middle of the trees reborn—
the one who set the forest ablaze,
the one who rose up in smoke.
Changed.
Radiating.
The wind at my command.
 Sep 2016 John Rameu
Roanne Manio
The earth is getting warmer,
the ice are melting,
the polar bears are endangered,
mermaids are not real,
my dad's never getting clean,
you'll never drive two hours to bring me Butterfingers,
you'll never listen to the songs I send you,
you don't know my middle name,
I feel like I have to beg to be with you,
you'll never read this poem because it's so tiny and insignificant,
and my heart's going to break any day now
but I'd still ask you to pick up the pieces for me.
shall we go away to reinvent   ourselves,

come back angry,                      writing

bitter words of                      discontent,

expecting other’s            understanding.

shall we write vile words              about

our  fellows, to them ,  hiding in profile,

masking internet.               complaining

widely rather than deal, as we are    dealt.

shall lines deepen, etched in           glorious

bitterness, or shall we return quietly, remain

just the same?

sbm.
first it has to be said that

the swallows are back here,

down over the dunes.

cutting through sand,

walking through time,

deep  paths

show layers

of blood.

he talked of lizards, he talked of wood,

the size and fear of endearment.

he was many men,

he is one.

the tin hut stands empty,

revisited often.

the swallows are back.

©sbm
it is quite an obscure book,
the mouse and his child
by russell hoban, some
of you will have heard
of it.

pictures by lillian hoban,
perhaps a relative.

the photo is of r.k.narayan,
breaks a rule
so this may be deleted.

this is an installation, a
love of old things.

some members will be sad
today, and we shall
empathise.

sbm.
alongside a list of tasks
repair and defend, cut
small twigs with gusto
and imagination.

make conversation,
explore philospy at
the kitchen table
all gingham and pastry knives.

this was the order
of the day. thursday
the handy came, instead
of tuesday.

plans change.

sbm.
so the bear has become a companion.



of sorts in times of sress

and needlessness.



i call him darling sometimes,

not often.



some days he stays in bed ,

not often.



some people are witnesses, study

the evidence.



i prefer the bear.



sbm.
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