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 Oct 2017 M Blake
r
What can I say
about changing places
and the weary night song
piled outside every window?

It can weigh you down
like happiness, like rain,
like the notion of destiny
or an obligatory farewell
that you carry strapped
to your shoulders.

Believe me, if it would help
you see things in a different light
I would only write poems
about love and dream gardens.

The sun and the fresh air
would do you a world of good,
and I would make it rain just enough
to spruce up the flowers.

I would read these in a French dialect
and part my hair accordingly
like a slight, wry smile.

But the truth is
I could never understand
why a single language is not enough.

Breath blown into an empty bottle
and tossed into the nearest stream.

This human need for a philosophy
of words when a howl would do
much better; after all, we are only dogs wearing a fancy leash and a collar
of home we sometimes call a house.

Places change because with the years
we change even less. We’ve spent
too much time in the dirt
and now everything is relative
because it is under our fingernails.

Scrape away rinse and repeat and still
the hounding memory of nights
under the stars, backs to the chill
of dry ground and nothing but a long sigh
for a sheet to pull up to the neck.

How many sighs does it take to make
a death? Just open your eyes
when the night peaks at its most
exotic and serious black.

We’ve been here before, you and I.
Heard sounds that would never
make sense out of context.

But there was no need to ever
translate what the crickets said.
Was there? For us, once, never a need.
 Oct 2017 M Blake
Janaki Devi
Hope
 Oct 2017 M Blake
Janaki Devi
The rain sang songs of despair
Hapless romantic she was
Solo, beaten and a damsel in distress
Courageous she was
for she managed to leave a tiny droplet called 'Hope'
 Oct 2017 M Blake
David Bremner
At Gordon Hill
I climbed aboard
A lazy day
For being bored

Enfield sweltered
Beneath the sun
Then I saw her
She looked like fun

Her torn blue jeans
Showed sun-brown thigh
As Hertfordshire
Slipped quickly by

An English miss
Of that no doubt
My usual type
Is short and stout

But on that train
Just her and I
Her slender form
Did keep my eye

Both Welwyn bound
A summer's day
I fantasised
Us in the hay

That kept the shade
Of her fair hair
They put her there
For me to stare

A poster girl
She was you see
On British Rail's
Class Three One Three.
 Apr 2016 M Blake
the dead bird
you turn me
into someone
I am not-
but-
the only time I am myself
is with you.

you are the sunshine:
with a small taste
I feel
radiant,
effortless,
full.
with too much,
I get burnt.

like a moth
to a light-bulb;
I seek you.
I will fry myself-
I will burn-
just to feel your warmth.

the hot sunshine
in the desert
forms
a mirage,
an oasis,
a luscious stream of water
to quench
my endless thirst.

when I am close enough
to reach it,
I realize there was
nothing.
all along-
my paradise-
nothing
but the hot,
dry sunshine
and my
never-fulfilled desire.

engulf my planet,
fatal fireball,
disguised as an
angel from afar;
I want my skin to melt
in your
blistering light,
like a candlestick.
I want to
melt into a puddle
of who I once was.

I don't know how to live without you.
 Apr 2016 M Blake
the dead bird
caress me with your words
they are honey
that drips over
all of my existence
coating me
turning me into something
more sweet

I am tastier
when dipped
in your sugar
savor me
devour me

but often
you enjoy me
raw
 Apr 2016 M Blake
the dead bird
critical thinking
as you call it;

that which
I seem to lack.
need to
improve
upon.
and I agree in ways.

you said,
it is observing
the situation,
the pieces,
I have at hand,
and deducing
the best possible way
in my knowledge
to make them
fit together.

sounds
quite simple -
common sense.

simple,
if my mind
ran as smoothly as your own.
a trait of yours
I admire greatly.
a trait of others
I am envious of.

but critical thinking
is different when
my mode of
thinking
is not the same

I do not see
my surroundings;
my life,
my reality,
as cogs and gears
that progress
this existence.

I admire
the way you,
and others
pick up on the
little
small
hidden artifacts
that allow yourself
to discover
the best
possible way
to proceed.

if I were to say,
you noticed
the overlooked
and finer details,
I would say
I notice-
no-
I experience awareness
of it's entirety.
how it feels
to me
and how I feel
about it.

if our
individual
thought processes
were placed
in an ever changing river,
whose currents
vary
and are unpredictable?
yours
would be
picking up the driftwood
the sticks,
and objects in grasp.

and as the current carries it,
it would be constructing
a raft
to stay afloat:
safe
and
in the most
comfortable way,
so it could eventually
construct
something suitable
and sturdy
to rest upon,
and relax with content,
while enjoying
the splashes
and warm sunlight
from a safe spot.

instead of
deducing the situation
as yours did,
my thought process
would drift along
the same river,
letting the current
take it under -
if that is where
it felt like going.
finding logs
and debris
to hang on to
when the current
became too much
and it needed a break.

yours may be
high and dry,
but mine has felt
the pebbles
along the bottom
of this river -
the depth and pressure
almost frightening,
but the experience
in itself
always beautiful.
mine floats upon it's back,
like an otter,
enjoying the sunlight
as yours does,
experiencing
this journey through
the rivers path.

and maybe,
if the current gets rough,
if mine is struggling,
it will find the hand
of yours
lifting it up
to keep it safe
until the rocky waters
have passed.

I experience
as I feel,
which may not
be the best approach
all of the time.

but with this,
I am able to
feel
what I believe
is the best choice,
based
on my experience
of the whole.

you make me
feel
and want to
try
new ways of thinking,
new ways
that may help.
you are always pushing
pushing me
to do more
to be more;

which is just one
of the many reasons
why I love you.
umm idk I kinda started writing and then went with it!
 Apr 2016 M Blake
Kush
She had the sweetest little eyes
Cheeks that, when kissed, tasted like dual apple pies
She’d reach into your heart for some love to “borrow”
Leaving you half-empty and ensconced with sorrow
She was unseen-had a blacklisted history
Wrapped up foolish lovers with enticing mystery
She gave out the absolute greatest of kisses
Alas, love charms fail, Cupid’s bow misses
I was able to see through the veil, past her charade
I suppose this was punishment for my reckless serenade
She had the sweetest little eyes
Ones which would coldly watch on if the world ever dies
 Apr 2016 M Blake
Kush
Alter Ego
 Apr 2016 M Blake
Kush
I am not your savior and sure as hell not your friend
I’m the cleanup crew-your life’s dead end
I am not one to be toyed with, not one to be trifled
I’m the clearest voice you’ll ever hear with no way to be stifled
I am not prone to begging so watch me smirk at your prayer
I’m a lie concocted in style, a silver-tongued soothsayer
I am not a guy who feels very much, whose heart can ever cease to darken
I’m a product of reality’s riptides, the thing your nightmares harken
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