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 Jun 2020 lua
Ellie Sutton
Guilty
 Jun 2020 lua
Ellie Sutton
Guilt's a funny thing
Sometimes you almost forget
Other times, it kills
I have charged myself
Signed and sealed the death warrant
Accepted my fate
And I suspect I'll
Punish myself much longer
Than you will hate me
 Jun 2020 lua
Divya Kaushik
We don’t talk now
I understand you are busy
Surprisingly, my mind doesn’t plead
Your memories to not become a history
My feelings for you play silently
Arousing everything but sadness
And I wonder why there is no void
Why I don’t feel cramped  
Even with your reflection’s occupancy
  
With you as my guide
I discovered the greatness of brains and numbers
Honestly, I still feel the awe of it
For what use are skills and experiences, if not appreciation
I have known being a source of your pride
But how come there is such detachment at your end
May be your sources kept expanding to the extent
That I became a lost fraction of even thousands  

You gave me your clothes when I was soaked  
Laughed and gave me directions when I got lost on the road
Gave me the stage to show, and to answer
I helped your daughter cross French and English waters
But  I  couldn t help  her with German
How  could  I  draw  a  map,  when  I  didn't know the land
So I was  kicked to  the curb, to  never be contacted
You  told me to not become  a  calculator
But I don't remember ever being calculative

And I  never held anything against you For the free and  reasonable  me  would never  approve
Teachers like you  are still the reason
I  like to  be a student,  through and through.
Students have a few teachers in their lives, but teachers get a lot of students in their lifetime. And I felt the bond is not quite as strong with the teachers as I may have perceived.
 Jun 2020 lua
Whit Howland
Play Doh
 Jun 2020 lua
Whit Howland
As we got older
the windows

stayed open for only
a brief moment

then they shut
for a very long while

seconds mattered
and so did accuracy

Whit Howland © 2020
An abstract word painting with a straight forward message.
 Jun 2020 lua
Carlo C Gomez
I. The Boy With The Cuckoo Clock Heart

Born with a frozen heart,
abandoned in
Edinburgh.

One kind physician
laid her hands upon him,
in a bit of medicinal salvation,
by placing a cuckoo clock
inside his chest.

Now an orphan,
among peculiar friends:
tear-filled flasks,
eggs containing memories,
and a man with a musical spine.

There's but one catch
for this boy:
his heart is fragile,
he must never, ever
fall in love.

Existence is undoubted.
But without this one emotion,
can he really live?

Love is a bitter token.


II. The Girl With Glass Feet

"It was a humid night,
later to become a hated night."

Upon an island sound,
feet first, she is slowing turning
into glass.

By sheer happenstance,
she meets a shy boy
who lives there
with an extreme fear
of being touched.

As she slowly disappears,
she untethers herself
from self-pity,
by teaching the boy the value
of interaction.

Inchmeal, he begins to reach out
and feels everything
she has lost to the night.

Love is a bitter token.


III. The Snow Child

"November was here."

A married couple,
in Alaskan remote,
suffering from one great sadness:
no child of their own
and unable to talk of it.

He's buried by
the weight of the outer ice,
she's crumbling
from inner despair.

And so on a rare
friendly day trek,
they built a child out of snow,
outfitted with mittens and scarf.

A day later it is gone,
remembered only in absentia,
yet there appears
a beautifully arrayed
creature of winter,
a little, lissome girl in the woods,
hunting with the red fox.

In wishing to understand
these encounters,
the couple come to love the child
as their very own daughter.

Yet will she ever accept them
as they do her?

Or see them
merely as snowdrops?

Figurines frosted over by
the harsh landscape
they each wander?

Love is a bitter token.
BLT's continued challenge - to write a poem using the Merriam-Webster word of the day, lissome. It's in there somewhere.
 Jun 2020 lua
Carlo C Gomez
There once was a lady,
(and there actually still is),
who clandestinely preferred
the growth about her garden gate.

The talk in the village square
these days was all about
pruning the living daylights
out of it, until it was a sad
but smooth barren surface.

Apparently visitors had weighed in
and made this some kind of rule.

Nonetheless, she liked how
the twisting leaves and ivy
created a picturesque latticework,
a natural tapestry,
evoking mystery and anticipation
for what lay beneath.

Oh, she trimmed her foliage
here and there,
keeping the overgrowth
from running wild,
but all things considered
she was not about to change.

Her garden was beautiful
just the way it was.
 Jun 2020 lua
Carlo C Gomez
Death
has a way of stirring the ***

It brings out
the best in some

And the worst
in others
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