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 May 2017 martin
John F McCullagh
She was a most beautiful girl with splendid golden hair.
Her prized violin was in its case by her side.
She was just come from her Julliard audition,
with the world on a string in her talented hands.

Richard Rojas was high as a kite, his blood on fire with ***
His Honda Accord he drove into a crowd.
The voices in his head made him do the deed
There were curses and screams, then weeping.

A lovely young tourist lay dead on the street.
Several others, severely injured, might never rise again.
The beautiful violinist was thought one of the lucky ones;
Her left hand merely mangled, her violin shattered in its case.

Richard Rojas was quickly apprehended.
He’ll go on trial for this thing he’s done.
Parents weep for the dead and injured,
And feel their souls dead in New York.

She was a most beautiful girl with splendid golden hair
Her prized violin, which she would never play again,
left  in splinters on a street in New York,
in the gutter where her dreams lay shattered.
This is a fictionalized story based on the recent incident in New York's Times Square
when the air is clean, where the glass is dry.



look back , is every star venus?                   so.



bright. drops     shine .                          notes on

honey.                 a dead bee in the back  room.



i have not removed it . yet i have a paper moth

ready as a gift.



30p it was, made with cotton buds, the world

museum, liverpool.



sbm.
 May 2017 martin
Quinn
becoming
 May 2017 martin
Quinn
to be you is to leave a life
painted with regret in twitchy
strokes that reveal unsteadiness
in every movement of the brush

i work in certainty more often
than not, seeing the colors before
they splatter on canvass, a predetermined
image fixed in my mind's eye

my palette has changed, no longer
faded and full of sadness, now there
is a luster to the tones splayed before me,
a freedom to the movements i make

i am becoming the you, the me, my
art had always dreamed it would one
day be, i am unveiling my greatest work
yet, effortlessly beautiful in it's simplicity
 May 2017 martin
Gaby Comprés
the magic of poetry.
is that it makes everything
beautiful.
it fills your lungs
like air.
it turns your soul
into a sky full of stars.
your heart
a field of wildflowers.
you.
into a poem.
did you say passe partout?  did you say alone  in this corner?



i have been to ireland recently, took my documents,           my bag

and passport.



it is another country.



we were away a week and on returning felt slightly low.  lower

now since the article.                the helicopter crash up the road.



can you imagine?



they were going

to ireland too. they

never got there.



(  written  with respect )



the roads are still closed,

i just drove past.      been

to buy plants.



it was a red one.



sbm.







daily post : passport
 May 2017 martin
Sally A Bayan
Long before
orange-purple-pink-bluish shades vanish,
......before light evens out upon us,
before billows of clouds scatter and
fill the magnificent powder blue skies,
...fields...and other workplaces, are
already humming with activities.
:::::::
air drowns with a stream of sounds,
human, and otherwise.......voices,
...teaspoons against cups, mixing
a dark waking brew...rushing footfalls,
instructions given..revving up tractor motors,
chairs, tables moving...computers starting,
:::::::
comes  coffee breaks...and day's end
then...we go home to whoever, whatever
meets us at our doorstep...whether
our life is a bed of roses, or a bed of thorns
...or, something in between....or a mix...
:::::::
minor, major changes occur here, there,
everywhere...every second, every minute...
some seasons, dragonflies overpopulate,
wasps and honey bees swarm for their own
different reasons...flower buds turn to blooms,
various birds build nests based on their needs,
cocoons hang hidden...in silence....yet,
when time is right, new butterflies unwrap
....................and emerge...
:::::::
each day consists of old and new patterns
that lead to magical, new beginnings...
new discoveries,often called miracles,
...they happen while we are sleeping
...............when no one is looking
........or, even when we are awake,
.....but, just too busy to notice...
:::::::
from a nearby...or distant river
a sea breeze blows, and cools,
brushes..and touches... then tiptoes,
prancing upon other running currents,
acknowledging...emphatically reminding
that blessings from God are ever flowing
every breath taken, is a miracle...occurring
....while we are awake...or sleeping
whether or not, someone is looking...
:::::::


Sally


Copyright May 21, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
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