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there’s something remarkable
about the magical realisms
between the admixture
of writing and driving.
of course, it’s a difficult task
to literally write while driving
and I don’t recommend it
to anyone but the ideas you
can come up with in your head
become evidently transparent
like a clearing through the fog
and if I was given the chance
with a reliable car, a mixtape of
good tunes, a decent amount
of time to road trip from
Portland Maine to Portland Oregon
and getting lost in the
reverie of elucidation
and neglected dreams
along the countryside
and over the mountains
and through the Great Basin
I could easily write an overkill
of poems in my head and if I
could just get them down on
paper would be a
magical realism
in itself.
 Sep 2018 Mary Shanti
Jolan Lade
I can see the birds
I can hear them sing
I can feel my heart
I can hear it scream
No
 Sep 2018 Mary Shanti
Jolan Lade
I'm sorry I had to leave you, brother.
Brother, I'm sorry I was not by your side, that November evening when mother took her last breath.
Brother, I'm sorry I was not with you by the side of fathers bed, that April night, when cancer carried him away.
Brother, I'm sorry I was not present to enjoy the beautiful moment you made me an uncle, that sunny day in June.
Brother, I'm sorry I could not be there to give you a hug
when she left you that cold December noon.
Brother, I'm sorry I was somewhere else, and let you mourne alone, that dark January morning
when the fever took your little baby boy.
Brother, I'm sorry I was not there to stop you
that foggy February morning you decided to take to an end.

But brother, ever since you were 6, and I 10
I've been waiting for you here
Here to welcome mother, the day she slept in
Here to greet father, when cancer delivered him
Here to take care of your little boy
Here to give you that hug you need, and to tell you I know, because I've been in your heart, all the way
You are not lost, brother, you are clearing a path

— The End —