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 Aug 2014 TrAceY
Nandini
Windmills
 Aug 2014 TrAceY
Nandini
Windmills of the shadows
Turn by turn they dance
Past the lost fragrance
Future is the mystic in trance
Today is the sun you hold
Hold it high to sparkle then
the shadows have no chance
The past is cold , future unborn in the mould , today is what you hold !!
 Aug 2014 TrAceY
ryann
no title
 Aug 2014 TrAceY
ryann
How could one not crave
the kind of truth that makes
trust skip a beat
and fall
amidst wisteria storms
when the rageful season
swarms
and sneers, shamelessly
infesting the senses?
 Aug 2014 TrAceY
Poetic T
Hanging from the tree
Red berries of winter call,
Suspended from decay
Frozen in life by the cold,
Substance hard to find
Foraging for scraps
Nuts,
Berries,
Leaves,
Are no more,
For trees have shed there coats
Leaves like skeletons,
No life just the remnants of before
In this winter cold,
Where the wind is the enemy,
Howling,
Freezing,
   Pulling you closer to deaths door,
But in the sun light
Red berries,
Glisten, life's benefactor,
Hanging there, beckoning
To keep hunger away,
Frozen as if for me, the best tasting
For any animal to feed,
Eating my full, hunger kept at bay,
Still many left,
Will I be the only that is saved from death,
I bury a few more,
May be for a later day,
But for know I must sleep
And be safe from winters chill this day.
 Aug 2014 TrAceY
a m a n d a
i think it's all
i ever wanted in my
whole life,
to lay under this tree
be swept by these great,
weeping branches.

i think it's all
i ever wanted in my
whole life,
to feel this violent wind,
the spray of water and
the filtered sun.

i think it's all
i ever wanted in my
whole life,
to hold this pen
and see this lined paper,
hear the traffic and the birds.

it's all i ever wanted
it's all i ever wanted.
 Aug 2014 TrAceY
Sally A Bayan
Friday Night Symphony


The light shower has stopped tip-tapping
Upon the blue-colored roof of the veranda...
Suddenly, a cloak of darkness prevails...
The moist coolness of the air gives
A refreshing feel this particular evening.
Two frogs are throwing croaks at each other...
One would quickly reply to the other's croaking
Within seconds... it seems
They are engaged in a conversation,
While above us, the roof creaks as
The green-eyed stray cat slowly walks...
By its measured footfalls, it is obvious
It is lurking in the dark,
Carefully waiting for the right moment
To grab its prey,
The one with the careless, scratching
footfalls...

The crickets are having a grand time
Singing their monotonous song...
Across the street stands a big mango tree, where
A gecko is nestled on one of its branches,
Making its night calls repeatedly...
Could this be their mating season? For
This particular night, it calls fervently, scaring
The night vendors selling "balut,"
Or freshly boiled duck eggs,
The home-bound residents hesitate,
More frightened  now,
As they pass through the vacant lot...

All these are happening, while distant stars
Spread glitter over a vast sky
As blue as indigo,
And an ivory crescent moon
Hangs suspended...

My delightful mug of coffee is steaming
While I am stargazing,
To a unique symphony i am listening,
This Friday night of a week ending...
      
        

Sally

Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
***Our old folks claim "Balut," or boiled duck eggs, provide more nutrients, strength for those  who work the graveyard shilft, and those who easily get sick. In my country, it is sold by vendors starting at late afternoons extending to late evenings.***
 Aug 2014 TrAceY
Nat Lipstadt
ex libris,
from the library
of my vocabulary,
draw a slender text,
old, yet untitled,
needy for a birthright,
transforming unlined, unwritten,
into a flesh and bloodied word concoction

there are many similar such,
empty volumes,
on my mental bookshelves,
literary clocks that
have yet to commence ticking
from floor to ceiling,
from soles to mind sight,
their patience untested

this book, these words,
are ex-me!
for they are a
welcoming,
a thank you note,
a hello,
all of which can only be extant
if in the mind of a receiver

as I compose, I own,
as I post, I disown


they are more than shared,
more than gifted,
they are ex libris:

briefly my own,
but now wholly yours...
originally posted elsewhere.
 Aug 2014 TrAceY
Third Mate Third
this time different,
the crafting, the words knitted,
care taken, no quips or easy rhymes,
metaphors few, but the stitching is yet
rhythmic, disciplined,
beholden to its construct
~~~
yesterday,
spoke of the more and the ever less,
and the alpha seas restorative,
today,
the ****** quick and the ever still

the beating of jumpsuit orange fabric, wind-whipped,
musical homage to the terrifying
silence of a battlefield,
your utility belt,
body parts and soul silences,
a composition of what was
and what will now never be

you were there
you are there

witness-combatant,
no denying the voyeured carnage
of a human self destructing,
or being destructed in a way
**turned you on,
worse, temptingly familiar

the horror meets you, it recognizes, locates
its place within that is stored close by,
where you keep it just close enough to surface
for quick retrieval

you postulate, pose, clap hands to heads,
make groanings awful, rethinking fearful pictures

I don't believe in free will
I don't believe in free
I don't believe in will

there is good and there is no good
there is the quick and the still
the still comes fast and stays longer,
the quick lasts longer, the obvious now
always seconds of too long,
all implausibly undenied and factually reversed

I hang myself crudely,
my throat slit quick,
and the still images that follows
everlasting and unerasable,
no matter how quickly,
how often temples hard squeezed

I see the images,
the quick and the still
they won't let go of me

text me that you know,
exactly what I mean,
know what I know
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