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  Aug 2019 Mike Adam
JaxSpade
Transformation

I saw a butterfly change back
Into a caterpillar

Anti metamorphosis
Was a backward mask
Of a record player

And all her colors
Faded back into a green exterior
I watched her inch forward
Noticing her wings would no longer carry her

And at that moment she knew she'd have to buy alot more shoes

I asked her why she changed back
Maybe she didn't like to fly
Or the way her colors portrayed her
perhaps

She said what is the difference
In what you're looking at
Do you not find beauty in each way I dress
Has it changed my laugh

But what about change
And what about
Growth I said

Then she replied that's exactly what I did

I changed by not changing at all
I didn't prefer the flight to the way I crawl

I fought nature with all my creature
To be myself

I am a caterpillar
Not a butterfly at all
  Aug 2019 Mike Adam
Elizabeth Squires
a profusion of colors
unfurled from small buds
to bring forth their splendid
spring flower gala
  Aug 2019 Mike Adam
Al
The flames rise,
sending smoke
signals.

Tonight I erase
these ink-filled
pages.
  Aug 2019 Mike Adam
anthony Brady
Be kindly, gentle, with the hoary toad,
help it whenever to cross the road.
Confused quite often with the frog,
that smooth amphibian can leap a log.

In meadows strolling, keep in mind
mound-maker mole created blind.
Another creature, it’s called a vole
please do not disturb it in its hole.

Field mice have exquisite charm.
to they and dormice do no harm.
Over fields of clover vetch and rye
take delight in fluttering butterfly.

Just think, such creatures, two by two,
in Noah's Ark, it is written, came through
the biblical Deluge and so survive
so long as we allow them all to thrive.

Life would be bleak - Nature bare
if some day we deigned  to stare
and to our dismay became aware
of precious species no longer there.

Tobias
  Aug 2019 Mike Adam
wordvango
Along the in and out
Bank of the river
Eroded in twisted knots
By time rain and currents
Roots exposed like veins
On the skeleton of a skinny old man
Grass barely clinging
To what hasn't washed downstream
Yet, in shade given
By age old scrub oaks
Paltry in beauty
Compared to a willows grace
Grown in the sparseness of
fertility lacking any
Other space
The moss seems complacent
At home age old a centerpiece
Of a feast here,
No roses grown
Not any vermillion
Just washed wasted dirt
Sand loam,
An existence
For growth
A persistence
I've known
Mike Adam Aug 2019
Weeping

Bank
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