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 Jan 2017 Mona
JWolfeB
Up throw
 Jan 2017 Mona
JWolfeB
He told her

It is the beauty on the inside that counts

Her response

Then why do my insides continue to find themselves in the wrong place
Lifted into white porcelain gods
Asking anyone to compliment my withered self
Please make love to me
Tell me I am better than the acid on my tongue
The regret powering my mind as I struggle down my dinner
Inside is where I find these thoughts
Thoughts powering my actions
Into a spiraling pit of self loathing
Tell me I am pretty one more time
And I will show you my insides to prove it
Bulimia is gnarly and all too often hidden under the facade of everyday life.
 Jan 2017 Mona
Taylor Perkins
Happiness, the evasive Lover of Man
Never wanting to commit
Always dancing out of reach
With enough charm to make you chase her
She teases and tempts
Seduces and beckons
Promises and smiles
But remains her own force
Unyielding to those desiring to claim her
Some brand her a myth
Others an urban legend
But those of who have seen her face
Will forever bask in the memory
Hoping to one day reclaim its vision
The splendor of her beauty
Our unattainable hope.
Hoping to find you again, Happiness, one day.
I'm scolded even in my dreams
By the inner me who judges
Everything so harshly.

All I do is try to help
And even in my slumber
This is not allowed.

Sleep knits up the raveled sleeve of care
So Shakespeare says
But I unravel in my dreams.

I'm lost, I'm chased
In in a house of many rooms
And cannot find my way.

The clock is running out
And I'm not ready
So the wedding will not start on time.

And though I look, I somehow never see a bride
As I am searching for the candles
And bows I need to do my job.

Variations on a theme
That always spells inadequate
And failure to my sleeping mind.

Why am I so mean to me
Am I so bad, compared to all-
And who must I live up to.

What angry fire burns deep inside
That nightly roasts my spirit
In the oil of it's incompetence.

Why can't I ever win the race
Or find the prize in question
Or be the one to take the bow.

I am my own worst enemy
A therapist once said
Why didn't I believe him then,

Forgive myself and let me be-
To see if I could build a dream
That ended with me smiling.
                    ljm
When I was a kid I dreamed I cold fly and I  found coins in the grass by the sidewalk.  Now my dreams just beat me up.
 Jan 2017 Mona
Valsa George
Winter, winter how we feel your icy touch
The earth is now under your freezing clutch
All that falls in our ears is the howl of gales from far
The night sky is covered in grayness without a single star

In the dawn, nowhere can one spot the buzzing bees
      Icicles hang from boughs of leafless trees
Birds sit with drooping wings in their woody nests
      Within eye shot, no trace of any roaming beasts

Trees stand sleeping in the biting cold
And the sun has lost its bright sheen of gold
From nowhere comes the song of a single bird
On the slopes, one cannot sight the grazing herd

Roof tops are crusted with flakes of snow
Which the sun with sharp beams alone can thaw
Piles of snow lie heaped on the barren ground
And the entire Earth lies in a sea of ice drowned

Busy streets and pavements are now lying bare
People stay indoors and to be out, they hardly dare
      The rodents have gone into hibernation in their ditch
And life altogether has gone out of pitch

In the smiting chill of a dreadful wintry night
When through every fiber n’ nerve is the cold bite
How we like to sit cocooned beside the hearth
Sipping a cup of steaming tea in rising mirth

In such quiet hours, one can peruse into the pages of tomes
That will transport one to enchanting magical zones
Or engage in a hearty chat with friends and family
Thus turning even the bleakest hours sweet and lively
This poem is written visualizing the freezing winter of the West ! Dear friends of the West, spend your winter dreaming of the coming spring ! I know I am a bit old fashioned with a penchant for rhyming verse!
 Jan 2017 Mona
Lazhar Bouazzi
A rugged sidewalk cried hard by the way-side;
Its cracks could not hold their grey tears anymore.

A puny man pushed a red cart in the tide
Down a darkling, narrow street in Salammbô.

He gasped behind his overladen chariot,
As he hurried toward the “Sunday Market.”

His merkabah bore many a lost gadget
Which he had found buried in the quicksand;

Among them a fountain pen and a helmet,
A pair of eyeglasses, and a trumpet.

I wondered, gazing at the small man’s wet face:
Will this worn-out scene ever reach the market?

© LazharBouazzi
*Salammbô is a neighborhood in Carthage, Tunisia.
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