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Sometimes i cant b r e a t h e

and i think, maybe
there is water clogging the bottom
of my lungs

Sometimes i cant h e a r

so i try to take
the cotton ***** out of
my ears
and make the rush of noises

Sometimes i cant t a l k

when my words fall
over each other i
zip my mouth shut and
hope for the best

Sometimes i cant b e

who i want
to be
and i think
there is no
to this
 Oct 2014 Olivia Frederick
 Oct 2014 Olivia Frederick
treat people
better then
the world
treats you.
The lines on your skin tell stories, my dear
And if they could speak
They would speak of the pain
Of the loneliness and heartache and betrayal
Of the emotions that came too strongly or never at all

Of the blood that fell like tears when your eyes ran out

But the scars are quiet now
As silent as you were when you refused to cry for help

Let me read the words on the pages of your skin
The unfinished thoughts and the sentences cut short

So I can finally finish them
And give you the happy ending you think you don’t deserve
Beauty is all earth,
History, Her-story naught,
  .  .  .  Else sheer vanity.
They say that you are the lung of the world
An umbrella for the street light.
I know you can, and this I trust
Turn my bad habit into something of use
Unlike dear reflection, contemplation under
The stars.

At the concourse of many lives,
How much spite you must have caught,
I ‘hale a generation’s lot
Could I ask cleanliness that follows me
Into silence? Surely in the summer of its
Passionate body—
Surer towards its autumn.
 Oct 2014 Olivia Frederick
my town
where wild flowers grow
between tram tracks.
there was a time when
it was hardly morning,
no bridge into daylight.

walls had ears,
neighbors had eyes
whispering behind the curtains
there was an emptiness in the guts
of the city
and poetry locked in the drawers,
Borges was read under the blankets
while Dostoievski was  a comforter:
demons were embedded.

yeah, people were clapping and smiling
watching the nub of history, numb
they had a life to live,
what can you say?

one day the radio
burst on in the streets
some were shivering in the attic
"we are free", they said
"we are free",
came the echo in trance

"shhhhh"! said others,
let us wipe the blood
don't disturb the sacrificed
so we can sleep
without dreams

it's Thursday in my town
streets are weary
and our souls are
slowly expanding
Thank you, Eliot, for this choice! I am glad that this poem was chosen for the Daily Poem because for me it is a reminder that people died for freedom and struggled against oppression in times when "Cruelty knits a snare,/And spreads his baits with care", as the poet says. (William Blake, The Human Abstract)
We walk immersed
in an ocean of mist
If that mist would vanish
we would vanish
Our  husks would crumble
without shape to be
scattered on dry winds
Fill your vessel with water
then plunge your hand
into its mysteries
With it our faces are formed

Our dreams wander
paths of its currents
Where it touches earth we gather
drawn to kneel and drink
so that we may know it and live
As the moon rolls it follows
and we follow with it

We call it by name
Grave of sailors
Crown of mountains
Mother of thunder
Quencher of fire and
Sister to the flame within
Transparent yielding womb of all

In it breath forged in stars and
cast out to form rain and bear fruit
Without it even cactus wither
It sustains the scorpion and the king
A hawk beneath the cloud cries five
times in tribute to its beauty
Trees ****** spiraling into great
heights by its power

Deep in the forest it conspires
with stone to make music
And wherever sounds that melody
life springs forth and
that life cannot be forbidden
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