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The sound of conversation from another room
   muffled soft by walls and doors.
   voices
   of comfort and security,
Childhood memories of my mother and father
Up late with dear friends
as indiscernible words and conversation and laughter became
a comforting lullaby
For I was down the hall in bed with my cowboy sheets and brown blanket  
Their voices, a mighty oath of safety and protection
against the monsters that hide at night in the closets and dark corners of children's rooms
Children who get to make believe their monsters
I got to make believe my monsters
And they were no match for my fathers laughter or my mothers offer for more coffee.

And I think of you out there
Who did not make believe your monsters.
For whom the voices reaching bedtime ears were coarse and menacing, angry and cursing,
  And sounds that children should not hear
unfamiliar words, but their meaning unmistakable.
Mothers crying and fathers yelling, strange men threatening
At tender age, the familiar smell of alcohol  portending danger
You need not make believe your monster
For the roaring, and snarling, all too real
     was just outside your bedroom.
     having consumed  mommy and daddy already, it was coming for you
And perhaps, still does
 Mar 2013 Miraj
Àŧùl
We used to play in that playground,
It was full of uniform levelled green grass.

Here heartily played Abhishek's greyhound,
Running excitedly all over game's green mass.

We used to play cricket in the ground,
It was a temporary zone of football grass.

Here all games were near Atul's house unbound,
Free from all school-work it was enjoyable as deep bass.

But today our generation is busy in our lives making careers,
The next generation is too young yet to make full use of the lawns.

Reduced in size which used to be our hugest amphitheatre of sweetness,
Has now got grass growing untamed covering The Playground Of Wilderness.
Abhishek Thakur of Karnal, India was my childhood best friend
© Atul Kaushal
 Mar 2013 Miraj
Ann Beaver
I drew a portrait
of my memories:
dark blue and green
in purity. They are humming bold
circles swirling.
Red cores singing of
a fresh imagine.

Then,
Suddenly,
Just there,
the gray seaweed of time extends.
stabbing circles,
now the gruesome gray
intertwining twang of time
twisting itself into my memory.  

I asked him, "What does this mean to you?"
He said, "It is just a pretty pattern."
 Mar 2013 Miraj
bambi
haunted houses
 Mar 2013 Miraj
bambi
I was told that the people you love
turn to ghosts inside of you
and like this, they survive.

But no one's ever told
how it feels to become the ghosts
that loathe being kept alive.
I've been gone, feedback is very welcome.
 Mar 2013 Miraj
Morgan
Blank Canvas
 Mar 2013 Miraj
Morgan
My jaw is aching from clenching my teeth
& with my eyes burning,
I'm swallowing an other pill just to sleep
This year is a current;
Every tired stroke I make
to swim back to my bed only
sends me deeper into a violent sea
Salt water waves flooding over my eyes
This is the kind of night that ends with my insides,
spilling endlessly into my sheets
I will rip every tattoo out of my skin
until I'm just a blank canvas
between tan walls,
waiting to be forgotten
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