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The Ending Of The World

I was sure the world would end today
It was the beginning of the fall
That others would tell the story
And pass it on to all

Not sure that I would hear the news
I'd  see others on their phones
As they talked about the days events
And wonder if I know

I was sure that this would happen
For the day it started wrong
Realizing as I drove to work
I almost turned to go back home

There was an emptiness inside me
And a panic not the norm
Yet I did not exit on the ramp
For my half way point was gone

So I spent my day just waiting
No connection, all alone
I know that you can feel my pain
For I left my phone at home

The world it did not end today
Was not the beginning of the fall
I realized this when I rushed home
And saw I missed no calls

I am so so not important...lol

*Carl Joseph Roberts
Don't you hate it when your more then half way to work and realize, crap I left my cellphone at home. You are just sure that today will be the day the world will end, the day you really needed it...lol.
Sealed With A Kiss

Each kiss you place upon my lips
A cherished moment in my mind
A reminder of a love that's shared
Between your heart and mine

As our lips are pressed together
And I slowly close my eyes
A passion builds within my soul
Each and every time

The emotion of a morning kiss
Or an afternoon delight
An evening made of true romance
Or just before we say goodnight

No matter what the time of day
Or the place where we may be
A kiss from you upon my lips
Is all I'll ever need

Our lips they tell a story
Of a love that's held so true
Two hearts that beat now as one
Each time that I kiss you


Carl Joseph Roberts
 Jun 2014 Mary R Short
betterdays
a poetic collaboration
with Elizabeth Squires,
(thank you for the privilege)*


high in the infinite skies,
above the clouds.
where no, naked eye can see 
particles in the ozone layer,
bounce around.
in a manner, most carefree. 
these minute, wee, little things,
e'er bobbing and moving,
so happily. 

we on the ground,
would delight,
in their existence of joy.
but we're tied to the prosaic, daily grind working,
in our nine to five,
coalface coal mines.

with axe and pick,
we chip and hack away...
whilst our minds delight,
in front-lobal play.
of waxed wing-ed flight,
of acrobatic, aerobatic display.

whilst working,
in the cramped and dubious
spaces we inhabit....
we dream, of spaces, blue, boundless and arcing-wide, forgeting, forgoing, forgiving the mindless, daily grind...
we leap,
with fragile hope,
into fledgling flight....
up to the ozone,
up toward the light...

there, in the freedom,
of this spacious playground,
we're at no command,
of employer's tools,
of work.

on our faces, we'll wear 
those  effervescent, unfettered smirks
hopping in rambunctious 
fun 
in the ozone's air,
upon the weary brow of labor release, is found.

in it's mirthful atmosphere,
which eliminates, our obligations, to our bosses.
we then farewell,
with liberating tosses.

and so we soar
in insouciant grace, unfettered,reckless,feckless 
freedom, sliced and pared, away across our wings
and faces,
joy ungaurded,
is this moment's prey
unbidden, unbound.

no longer hearing,
the sound of the grinding axe.... at play
we soar eagle high...
we soar to the sun's eye
but we are not made
for such undulterated bliss our wings of feather
and wax....
become, around us mist  
and to the ground
we do spiral....

into our adult occupations,
where there is little time.
for us to be engrossed,
in exuberant glee.
we're shackled 
and yoked to,
our heavy work day shrouds.
but our dreams of play,
with those ozone particles,
seem too impractical.

happy little vegemites
we'd be,
if our days were free.

take heart, our days off,
are nigh and on the lounge
we'll sigh, 
a well earned sigh.
her strings
had gone untouched
she so yearned
the caress of a man's fingers upon her bridge
the tonal wonders
of her inner core
he'd coax to amor
with his bow gently
gliding over her strings
together they'd assemble
a symphony
of sweet rapprochement
 May 2014 Mary R Short
Theia Gwen
All or nothing
I've reached this crossroad
Before this, I've been hiding in fiction
In every word I've read and wrote

I'm stepping up to the plate
Because I can't stop the world
How much do I want to live?
How hard am I willing to battle?

Can I count on you
To lead my through this Wonderland?
If I take the easy route
Would you still hold my hand?

The road I walk on now
Is shrouded with hate and shame
And I'll have to fight impulses
As I'm inclined to stay the same

Because the future's in my palms
And I'll meet a dead end
If I keep up this way
And don't stop this trend

Standing at this pivot point
Preparing for what comes next
Since the hardest part of getting better
Is taking the first step
Things have been crazy recently. I've started talking to adults about my emotionally abusive mother and my dad's been talking about moving in with him or someone else and getting help and also I have a huge other world of problems like my suicidal ideation and my eating disorder and I feel like getting help and facing my problems is impossible and yet it's so close.
for SJR
who lets me borrow his voices, a good man, asks for nothing in return
and therefore, is given all I got...

~~

“She's as sweet as tupelo honey
She's an angel of the first degree
She's as sweet as tupelo honey
Just like the honey, baby, from the bee
She's my baby, you know she's alright.....“

Van Morrison


~~~~~~<<<<<>>>>>~~~~~~~~~

old folk listen to old folk
and rock,
stung and sprung
from Pandora's box

someday
maybe,
you'll understand,
certain phrases,
from certain phases,
first tasted at a flavored oxygen bar
where youth drank,
worshipped and adored

and when those certain
word combinations reenter,
slipping in from unawares,
recalling easy the first time
you tasted with your ears,
Tupelo Honey

but what you remember is

that differentiating phrase

and
what you believed,
what you needed,
why you existed,
all because there was a new knowing
,
that
an angel of the first degree,
was out there waiting for you...
Tupelo Honey is the gold standard by which all other honeys are measured. For two weeks every spring, White (Ogeche) Tupelo Trees in the Southeastern swamps bloom with fine sunburst-shaped flowers that glisten with nectar.
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