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 Jun 2018 madpre
Bus Poet Stop
~for those who will read this and weep~

the quiet ones,
the silent Job ones,
who quote not from the
Book of Lamentations,
but author their own,
based on-the-job experience

localized versions of cryptic elegiacs
accepting the wooden crosses borne,
stepping up to the
unrequested unforeseen,
then buried under, burnt alive,
yet never relieved by dying,
nailed by words, stronger than iron,
promises sworn, promises kept
with no ending date relief,
promises by and to themselves,
but not for themselves!


the wearers of crystal glass shackles,
adorned with decorative locks for which
no key did the maker make,
nor any divine creator
dare conceive an early release,
never no escape contemplated,
for the lock human, unrepentant unbreakable,
a decorative useless metaphor gesture,
a blunt “life *****” advertisement

I compose amidst a
bus pond of mismatched city folk,
a tapestry of ages colors and differing views on god/no god,
none would believe that as the bus sways me,
it’s in rhythm to holy choral music,
hundreds year old,
divinity masses and motets worships,
where one human can hide temporarily
a safe house,
to calm his questioning relentless
from the horrors of no answers,
for when the mind has no solution
to the rough and tumbling lives,
lived in glass shackled confinement,
the poets desperation equals theirs


summon eagles to transport these imprisoned,
but the shackled refuse,
I come to them but they wave me off,
I go crazy for once I was enslaved,
thirty years war that left devastation,
from which so many poems created

so I speak with heightened regard
of one who planned futures for others where his
non-existence was a founding father (ha!)


but the day came and
I was released by my own inactions,
but means nothing until a way to
away found
to release the yet bound early


got a couch, airline miles, hundred dollars
in my pocket and an unrelenting need
to save them, a consumption disease,
the glass shackled, at ease,
won’t rest till all are freed
this my creed
no one left behind

these cyber words do not mock
for they are unbounded, set free,
when
the flesh connects and the needs of the flesh
are stronger for they are in heart conceived
 Jun 2018 madpre
woolgather
The irony of the doubt
Of the one that came out of my mouth

Is that this head won't make flowers out of words
Or gardens out of stanzas;

That when these hands write or type
None would be so quite the hype,

That words would be just words:
They are, yes, but the irony is that it still hurts;

When I said I can't make more out of a word,
My head sabotaged me, albeit absurd:

I made flowers out of words
But, out of nowhere, it'd hurt me:

For the thorns of the rose I plucked,
From the garden I thrashed, crocked,

To the truth that the one I plucked the rose for
Would do none but to abhor;

Now I cry, knowing,
What the irony of the doubt would sing;

How I'm bound to fool myself with words,
And hurt by them, soon after;

How this heart would endlessly flutter
Over love that is destined to falter.
I can't write right
 Jun 2018 madpre
Roanne Manio
Maybe the end of the universe
does not lie in an explosion
or a hole that breathes black,
maybe it is right here
where stone benches reside
and the raindrops taunt like pesky little children
waiting for you to see them,
loud enough to mimic the silence
loud enough to sound like sorrow.
Maybe this is the end of the universe—
cosmic loneliness.
The stars are in a bitter drink
and the sun lies anywhere but within you
and your moon—why do they say that? To the moon and back?—your moon is a rock in your stomach
and only the fingers of the almost rain
weighs you down on dear, old Earth,
washing you off your tears.
For that one lonely afternoon in R.H.
 Jun 2018 madpre
ryn
Love & Grace
 Jun 2018 madpre
ryn
What sun will shine upon graves
dug fresh and shallow

What moon will shed light
upon silhouettes in embrace

What butterflies would flit amongst
the flowers stowed in a tree’s hollow

What stars would sing in twinkles -
hymns of love and grace
 Jun 2018 madpre
harlon rivers
a ****** of Crows
gather Carpe Diem;
fluffing their throat feathers,
commiserating
the dead-weight
each unshod foot
bending the world below

the horde of cleft feet align
      leaving no footprint behind ―
bowing the antique
frayed telephone wire
party-line swaying with the wind
over the washed out road;

at any moment
the land-line
might break
     from the overload ―  
downcast,
abandoned,
level with the ground ―
but no one
on  earth
    even cares ...

they've  got
the whole world
in their palm
      beneath the sky ―
and the crows
have wings
    to fly away ...


harlon rivers
June   2018
The intelligence of crows vs. humans starring into a "smart phone"
— HANG UP!!! LOOK UP!!!! Go build a garden —

Carpe Diem:    Used as an admonition to seize the pleasures of the moment without concern for the future.
 Jun 2018 madpre
Specs
Be Yourself
 Jun 2018 madpre
Specs
"Be yourself," they tell you as a child.
And trusting their advice, I was me.
I shrugged off contacts, and stuck with glasses.
Because being yourself is key.

"Be yourself," they say before you grow.
I nodded and I agreed.
So I learned a new instrument,
In the music, I let my heart bleed.

"Be yourself," they tell you in high school.
Yet, now I'm not quite sure.
The me I knew is now evolving,
It's currently obscure.

"Be yourself," I tell myself now,
And spread black gloss 'cross my nails.
I'm really quite confused though,
When you say I'm off the rails.

I've searched myself all deep inside,
and dug a few yards deep.
I'm fairly sure this is the me
That I'm going to want to keep.

So why do you look at me with scorn,
With a tiny twinge of disgust?
Could it be I've been misguided?
I'm confused now, I might combust.

I guess I've learned that "Be yourself" Can only apply to the few
Who come to accept that "Be yourself"
Really means to be exactly like You.
 Jun 2018 madpre
anilkumar parat
Tell me what it is like
to quit your house in silence
to wander invisibly
among friends and dear ones.
do you hear that silent welled up tear?
do you smell that hurt in me?
it seems like yesterday that we joked and laughed
at silly little things
loud and ribald
now that laughter seems raucous
and empty and cruel,
as if echoing from some bottomless cavern
something hurts deep within
as you return again and again;
your impish eyes and naughty grin
taunt and haunt...
How is it that even a happy memory is painful?
Maybe now you know
Maybe now you can tell me everything i want to know.
Farewell, my friend.
Even if you didn't feel it necessary to say so.
 Jun 2018 madpre
Jane Austen
This little bag I hope will prove
To be not vainly made —
For, if you should a needle want
It will afford you aid.
And as we are about to part
T'will serve another end,
For when you look upon the Bag
You'll recollect your friend.
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