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 Mar 2017 Mike Marshall
Phoenix
I looked beyond the crescent moon;
As they went out to slumber with trees.
It was a night, some night in June;
It still paints a vivid illusion of the memory.

It was a time,
A time where we were young and carefree.

Maybe at that time,
I was the one who could actually see.


We danced some tune;
The trees were at it too.
We burned brighter than the fire
And of that he knew.
The stars were smiling,
The winds were singing and crying;
Everything I felt was so anew.
We were there dancing or sitting or laughing;
Anything but frowning,
This was a world,
A world in which it was new.

I remember..

I could hear my heart beating;
I could hear everyone’s heart.
I never felt more connected;
More whole.

'This was nature'


I looked out the bus window;
At the varied morning colors the sky painted to me.

'Cause maybe at that time..
I was the only one who could see.
Thought it'll be great to share this poem with y'all since this was the poem I submitted to a school contest & won! :)) Please enjoy cx
To my friends
who can write
fresh-smelling
bouquets of words
with splendid color,
I offer my envy.
Mine are the blunt, stunted words,
rooted in the cracks
in pavement,
or forcing their way
to light around
overbearing rocks.
Some useful
in their own way,
edible or flavorful,
some with a
pedestrian beauty,
but few that one
would bring home in a bunch
with a box of candy.
More appropriate
in a grimy, young fist
crumpled in love,
destined to be vased
in a water glass
by a doting mother,
or shredded petal by petal
for the sake of soothsaying...
he loves me, he loves me not.
The beauty of your words takes my breath away some days.  Thank you.
 Mar 2017 Mike Marshall
L B
I stood in the February snow
the freezing sleet
no boots
no coat
Steam wafting off my fury

My father read the lie
two hundred yards away
and walking toward me

So I owned it
told it
With a snarl
Without a flinch
Both knowing

I held my ground before him
and wore the red of his hand
on my face for a week
Thank you everyone for the views and comments.  The Daily was a nice surprise this evening.


There were five of us kids.  I was the only one who ever did anything like this.  It was like my father needed someone to stop him sometimes.

My father asked, "What are you doing out here?"
I lied,  "Getting some air."

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1801472/the-mayor-of-wesson-street/
Atlanta is 45 miles far too close
The only sound I want is Bear Creek
flowing , morning cattle off to the
highland , topwater bass in the stream lowland
A snorting old buck in the grassland
A Massey Harris turning plowland
The sound of rain tapping on a tin roof
The clicking of a stallions hoofs
Distant thunder on a lazy Hill Country night
The March moon shining bright* ...
Copyright February 28 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Particles striking one another
Breaching , interacting , consuming ,
releasing
In color , in darkness
Haphazardly , in order
Harboring immortality
Defining microscopic realities
Passing , moving forward
Invisible
Indivisible*...
Copyright March 1 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
On the day contact is made we will be
harvested like worms to supply an ever continuous
" galactic fishing trip*" ...
Copyright March 1 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Have you worked a crowder pea field in July
As the Georgia sun fries
When humidity sits you down every half hour ,
where the weather deals great power
Showers are few and far between
Dirt fills every pocket of your blue jeans
Sweat blinds
The day seems to grind
Humor and inspiration are hard to find
Picking peas by moonlight
Mosquitoes feasting by lamplight
Filling bushel baskets by day
If the good Lord be willing , please call the paper wasp away* ..
Copyright March 1 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
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