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 Nov 2017 BeeLo
Ngamau Boniface
Little standing duck whose weight wobbles her feet,
Simple sallow duck sways in shallow water,
Unconcerned.
Dips beak in silt for grit and looks up,
So much gratitude for a little, a grain.

The known, the too well known is sneered,
A little vanity in understanding the latent perhaps?
To keep hid secret humour, whose hue only remains seen?
Reddened cheeks and jutting veins,
Or just leave it all unsaid, maybe.

Duck does not tuck it in.
Dredge she will for the least and lift it too.
Sinister chuckles she cackles at, what insolence!
Yet the vulnerability is unearthed any way.
Against the sun's glare little lingers,
Of the conceited ingenuity.
But why is being figured out such a scare?
There's some good in the simple too. Being cryptic, mysterious is great!
A petty foolish man holds the diamond in his hand,
At less allure and worth than the opal in the sand
 Nov 2016 BeeLo
Doug Potter
We stand on the sidewalk
cousin Jamie and me, with

a bible in my right hand,
I drape my left arm

around her lopsided
shoulders and cold brace;

she seldom smiles,
even as the shutter clicks.
 Oct 2016 BeeLo
Rapunzoll
my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.
© copyright

NOTE: i've noticed people sharing this to other sites without having spoken to me about it beforehand, I do not give permission for this and all poems are copyright, keep this in mind.

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my mother never actually said this to me, but i figure i'll probably end up saying it one day if i have children.

it's pessimistic yes, but i know there are exceptions. please don't take to heart. it's more a criticism of myself than all poets. :)
 Oct 2016 BeeLo
Doug Potter
Photograph an evening sunset
of a lake, wide and long,

one thousand times more
blue than the morning star,

and vulnerable, like a late
October Rose of Sharon

blossom, minutes before
fall’s first killing frost;

hold the picture close, as
it is your life, our lives.
 Oct 2016 BeeLo
Ngamau Boniface
Like
 Oct 2016 BeeLo
Ngamau Boniface
Nothing was.
Believing the talk took time,
Everything appeared to be,
But none was.

"It was like..."
"As in..."
...on and on were pictures painted,
A queer kind of talk etched in vagueness
My face turned away with a grimace.

Where did clarity clumber to under this onslaught?
When we made everything nondescript,
Opting to settle down low,
Reason and beauty away to stow,
Blurring vision and obscuring thoughts?

We coat emptiness with colour,
Stamp out order with valour,
Enhance vanity with splendor,
And all around us, life drains away,
Flowing unlived
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