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spice*
he
wanted
a
little
spice
just
a
little
would
be
so
nice

the tangy spice
he could savour
oh how he craved
its zesty flavour

every day
he yearned to taste
the spice's zing
of it he'd
waste not
a thing

bliss found
in the spice
she'd give
this small sample
his reason
to live

spice
he
wanted
a
little
spice
just
a
little
would
be
so
*nice
 Oct 2016 Jurtin Albine
athena
you were seasick
but you don't know
where it came from
or where you feel  
the discomfort
the agony
or the shooting pain

you lose sense of time
and days were taken for granted
the sea monsters
were pulling you down
and the creatures
that only existed
in your mind
broke loose
like pandora's box

they liked walking
on your ribs
and would feel their
curves and edges

tremors and heartaches
continued like how
the trees quivered
and were carried out
by the hurricane

people look at you
as if they've been to
the peak of your
highland mountain
from the base
but only sees
the tip of the iceberg
-and no i am not fine
 Oct 2016 Jurtin Albine
athena
you were shrieking about your problems
your teeth were all about this material world
everything was all about you
because that's how you wanted it
you loved yourself
and only yourself

you were spitting money of all currencies and kind
you adore them like how i adore humankind
you boast loudly about the material things you own
you loved your things so much, you turned into one
and you think people would actually love you

boisterous laughs were hidden behind the old brick wall
the you i used to know were a pigment of the past
you are now pitch-black, self centered and selfish

the pit can simply be covered with mud or a beautiful plant
but you dig deeper and fall and ask for succor
because that's what you crave for after all
-because money, that's all you have.
Love, let it **** me
dancing to thrill me
love, let it break
mending only to take
love, get what you want
At home, inside my arms
love, do not be alarmed
when you grow bored of my charm.
The irony of love is that often we use it as a form of taking, when it is actually a word of giving.
Slipping from her tongue
the way water rushes
from mountain tops
her insides seeping unedited
an adolescent freedom
doing as she is prompted
a slave unto oneself
who is the free one,
A closed or opened book?
When the tongue is tied, who is really knotted?
 Oct 2016 Jurtin Albine
Jim Hill
When the late-day sun
sent a shaft of light
through my old screen door,
I saw the places
where the paint has peeled
(such felicitous light green paint!)
and the eye-hook latch
shows signs of rusting.

I changed the screen
not long ago,
yet three rough holes
disrupt its hazy plane
like insects in a web.

Outside, the autumn air
troubles the tired green
canopies of elms and oaks.

Summer lingers in little ways:
The blue cotton rug
inside our threshold
sits warm beneath a
slanting square of sun;
the lawn outside is dry
for want of watering.

Soon the breeze grows cool,
and when I go to
shut the door I see
a single strand of  gold
the wind has found to tease,
held fast for the moment
by the ragged screen.

You left today,
and now I feel
the autumn’s chill
more deeply in my bones.
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