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 Jul 2018 John Stevens
Rahama
Retrogressing.
          Always stressing.
For no reason.
          But you don't realize it,
                       Or do you?
Do you willingly overwork yourself over nothing?
Do you make plateaux out of plains?
Make an ocean out of a little rain?
Because I don't see them;
The things you see;
The roadblocks that stopped you,
That made you halt,
That made you give up.

All I see is a boy;
Not ready for what life has to offer;
A child still being fed with milk.
All I see is an individual;
That wants to be free,
But doesn't know what it means;
To be truly free.
You have liberty but call it;
Freedom!
No one is ever free,
Not you, not me.
Not even the wealthiest man, you see?
He's tied down with maybe health issues;
And the greed for even more money.

Retrogressing.
          Always stressing.
For no reason.
          But you do realize it,
                      Don't you?
You know that the only way to get through,
Is to fortify yourself,
Get rid of fear,
And bulldoze your way through;
All the invisible roadblocks;
Life placed in front of you.
They were only placed there;
To strengthen you.
Always remember that God doesn't give us more than we can handle, no matter how difficult it may seem at the moment. You just have to get stronger and face whatever situation straight on. What doesn't **** you makes you stronger. I feel like I went a  bit off-point there but I liked the diversion with the freedom part. I might turn that verse into another poem entirely Thank you so much for reading♥♥♥.
 Jul 2018 John Stevens
L B
Drifting off in mid-day
She is there in my parent's house
Where she should not be
She's never met them
been inside their home

...and besides
She's dead...

Don't know where I drop my brains off
or my heart
when sleeping
I so clearly know this
but I dismiss it
for the moment--
go along with joy
to have her with me once again

She looks so well!
Her pale skin flushed
below her ragged, reddish hair
Wearing peacock blue sateen
as always
dressed to ****
to go somewhere
anywhere
away
from loneliness
from cancer

...and she had included me
on her glorious outing
without title
without honor
I had been her teacher-friend
like an elder wedding guest
she had grown
beyond ...

She helps me dump my canvas bag of poems
on my parent's bed
Where I conceived them
or they conceived me

“What about this one?
Or this is a good one too!
I know you can do this!
You read so well!”
she says
I'm thinking, “This is not like Jenn,
so reversed
for her to give a thought...
and besides, it is not even my event!"

Now she's in my mother's place
in her 1950's closet
pushing hangers across the rail
She would find it--
something
I could wear

I am so transported by the smell
of memories
that I don't care
mothballs, lavender, perfume
I get distracted deep within
almost losing track in the euphoria
to have found my friend again
I lose a moment in the soft fur of mom's mink
clipped together mouth to tail
to form the stole
an ouroboros
With its beady eyes
on me
like death
would drape across my shoulders
given half a chance

When from its mouth of glamorous lies....
Jenn shoves me through life's opened door
She has found that dress!
I wore...

the one with hope, and future's
purple flowers
dropped waist and scalloped neck
Yes, It would do, “Yes!"

But now,
she makes excuse to leave
...of meeting Joe
...of going on ahead...

I know
she must

as this is all some clabbered past
a gift of dreams
Still, I want to hug her
just one last....

but she feels empty...

In embrace
she turns to ash
Jennifer was my friend of fifteen years and a fellow poet.  Dreamt of her yesterday-- like she was actually here.
 Jul 2018 John Stevens
L B
An early evening gust
broke the back of the day's blaze
Still 90 degrees at eight
in orange haze
Sweat runs down my neck
Through the gorge between my *******
The wind lifts my linen shirt
runs its hands along my sides
reviving memory
of Forest Park
of a blanket in the grass

Where the pines trace
so many faces
Crackling popping kids
stolen matches, running
screaming victorious!
Blowing tin cans up with fire crackers
Bicycles, sparklers, fireworks at dusk
That whole afternoon
I spent hammering caps

Noise really makes us kids
really
especially
annoying

Mom wants us out!
Gone! All of us!
No needs. No excuses!
No cookies! No slices of bologna!
“No more Kool Aid!
Out now!
Out!”

That evening I tried
to dismiss the itchy sweat
of stupid-sister-Suzy-matching-sun-suits
at Gino's family picnic
When some kid
(I don't know?)
between the rigatoni and the sweet corn
Some kid
tosses a sparkler
into box of fireworks
I don't know?
whether to cry or laugh
I was pretty scared
Rockets going off across the lawn
and onto porch
Craze of colors through the trees
Some at eye-level horror!
But the sight of Aunt Nedda
diving under picnic table
Stockings, garter belt upended
Capsized beyond her caring
of uplifted dress

Some images just stay with you, ya know?

July 4th always lands for me
on a firework's ***
"Caps"  are little red rolls of gunpowder dots, originally made to give a snap to toy guns of the 1950s.  We figured out that by layering them and using a hammer, you could get a bigger crack.
After reading about some tribal warfare in a far away land, I wrote this true story down. Now re-published every year on this day. Seems more appropriate than ever

one July 4th,
many years ago
walking the streets,
of the city of Nice,
situe on the Cote D'azur of France,
on the Mediterranean Sea,
where ships of navies
may safely park their sailors,
sending them ashore for R&R,^
they, leavened to disembark^^

how I came to be there is a
poem for another time

walking the streets,
palm tree resort,
along La Promenade Des Anglais,
coming at me,
Three Sailors,
unmistakably
American

one white,
one black,
one brown from California,
which I believe,
is still part of the USA

how we fell upon each other
in warm embrace,
smiling, bestowing
blessings of grace
not as strangers,
but as fellow signatories
on the Declaration of Independence

brothers,
long lost, reunited,
as if it had been many years,
since we last had our arms entwined,
one family from one far away united place

dialectical differences ignored,
even the wide-eyed 'Bama boy,
totally comprehensible, for on that say,
we spoke a language that
encompassed a single brotherhood,
a common histoire,
all on that
holy day

no tribes in America, no colors,
no religions,
only sisters and brothers-in-arms

I need not choose to believe,
for it is certainty guaranteed,
that should it happen again
twenty years hence,
perhaps with their great grandsons,
my embrace will,
exactly the same be,
for I know it true,
there are
no tribes
in an

American heart
^ Rest and recreation
^^disembarked to be leavened....either ok

written in 2013, but true story that occurred many years prior
how timely for this day and time
 Jul 2018 John Stevens
Edera
Silence
 Jul 2018 John Stevens
Edera
A shadow leaf sleeps in her abode facing north.
In the forgotten garden a litany streams, to coalesce with the flow of a river, shaping its way along the lost shores.
It is dusk. Vesper choirs chant softer than a shy breeze, the forest nightingale weeps without a sound.
For how long shall the story stay unvoiced?
She thinks of eternity.
 Jul 2018 John Stevens
Lily
“I love you, but your laugh is so weird!”
“I love you, but you shouldn’t have
Failed that test.”
“I love you, but you shouldn’t go out in
That ugly dress.”
“I love you, but why is your car so *****?”
“I love you, but please at least try not to snore?”
“I love you, but keep your distance, okay?”
“I love you, but stop getting so
Worked up about things!”
“I love you, but your anxiety is hurting me.”
“I love you, but I don’t think this is
Going to work out.”
This is all my ears hear, but
My heart doesn’t hear it, comprehend it.
I just want you to know,
“I love you, but I’m not sure if I should.”
 Jul 2018 John Stevens
Lily
Spilled ink.
Old film.
Crumpled paper.
The click of a shutter.
Pens dying.
Wiping lenses.
Flashlights under the covers.
Struggling with a tripod.
Daydreaming.
The Rule of Thirds.
Tattered pages.
Beautiful sunsets.
Coffee shops.
Skittish animals.
3 am.
Cropping.
Always thinking.
The horizon line.
The frantic search for pen and paper.
Frustrated with trying to capture the beauty of the world In a small package.
HP won't let me change the words, but the "poet" things are supposed to be bolded, and the "photographer" things are italicized.  The final line is italicized and bolded.
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