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 Sep 2014 Paula Lee
Joe Cole
At an early age I was trained to ****
To enjoy the moment enjoy the thrill
When the 7.62 found the mark
And ripped apart another's life
Getting high on cordite smoke
Turning the moment into another joke
Dipping fingers in the blood
That from my victim on the ground had spread
To glorify in his death
Then deprive another of his breath
With another one through his lungs
Wow killing can be so much fun
Do I care that their families weep
No they were just a bunch of creeps
And I'll **** some more if I get the chance
Then walk away without a backwards glance

BUT

No it never was like that
Because you become enmired in the crap
You **** yourself and your stomach heaves
From the stench of blood and ****
Carried on the breeze
No thrills no fun no stupid jokes
Just ****** pants and sweat and trembling limbs
No glory in the site of blood
Turning sandy ground into puddled mud
The stink of gunsmoke in your throat
It could have been me
Not the other bloke
No, its not like it's shown in the films
 Sep 2014 Paula Lee
Joe Wilson
I was never one to complain - like hell, I complain about all kinds of everything
Nonetheless I had never for a moment thought that I would be the one chosen to go
To travel that far with no guarantee I could ever come home
To live with the knowledge that we might lose everything I valued
But it was a risk I knew that one day I would take, a choice that one day I knew I'd make.

But Mars! This was gonna be one hell of a journey
One we'd trained for for years, one we'd hoped for all our lives
But way back then none of us had children and wives.

Blast off successful and we were heading up at thousands of feet a second
No going back now. ******* it, it was better than all the *** he'd ever smoked
But it was serious stuff, despite all of this and that that they joked.

But then when he thought about it he realised the nonsense of it all
We can't even look after the planet that we live on
What right have we to go and probably destroy another one!!!

The spell was broken - he woke up. It was just a dream.

©Joe Wilson - στα όνειρα (In dreams)2014

A whimsical bit of nonsense about distance.
There will always be someone who wants what you have, for its easier to steal from someone who has already performed the work, whether a material object, idea, or talent, etc.. Someone who takes credit, where it isn't due, for what you have accomplished, worked hard to attain, or saved for a special purchase. Hence, the PLAGIARIST!

The counterfeiters, whether it be money, or the reproduction of the "Old Masters" oil paintings, claiming it was purchased at a garage sale, or found in an old trunk in the attic of an old house they purchased. Many scenarios, many such events, and mostly untrue. Plain, and simple, they are nothing but "THIEVES." They have been around for thousands of years. Aggravating, yes! Frustrating, absolutely! Discouraging, you bet! The difficult part is knowing"they don't care!", as long as they get what you have, or think they can.

To my friends at HP: Regardless of whatever name they wish to use at the bottom of your piece, your signature is still inside the piece itself. Whether it be a particular phrase or word meticulously placed, the style of your writings, the way you approach your thought, the rhythmic flow of your prose, the softness or harshness of expression. All which has created "your signature". That, cannot be reproduced.

To those literary "thieves: You will continue to try and steal our work. But, for each letter stolen, for each word stolen, only creates another rung on your ladder, leading you deeper and deeper,further down into your abyss of loneliness, until the blanket of your depression, discontent, and hatred suffocates you. That is when your name will become known only as, "WHO?"

copyright: Richard Riddle September 08, 2014 10:00am(CDT)
 Sep 2014 Paula Lee
N N Johnson
These are all just bad beginnings
in my search for a show-stopper,
a jaw-dropper,
trying to be just the right balance
of sarcastic and lovely,
the right balance of writer
that I idealize and am not,
of course,
what am I, a narcissist?

I'm trying to put into words
the feelings I told you I danced
because they are wordless (spaceful)
and because of you
I have to say them with voice;
what a dilemma is this--

That when I tell you with movement
what I can't say
you put me in the place
of having to voice it and now
I have no words
other than bad beginnings.

So is that it?
When I word to you
instead of dance for you (for me?)
what you have to return is a nothing,
a less-than-nothing saying,
saying nothing, leaving me

hurt and confused because
maybe there was a something
in all your nothing that I can't find--
because we are dealing in words now,
and I'm a movement reader.

And I know I will forgive you for this
but I won't forgive me for knowing that.

Even while I'm still so angry, it just reveals
my pathetic (patient?) desperation for your love,

But I didn't say this right.
I need to move (dance) this.
Wonderful word wanderings
 Sep 2014 Paula Lee
Edward Coles
A toadstool is swelling
inside my limbic system.
Spores sweat amongst tissue cavities,
dining out on grey matter,
until they force me
to stay in bed through the day.

What a thing it would be.
Depression as a fungus.
A mildewed mind as damp sets in,
the trumpet player
with athletes foot,
casting out the air-borne blues.

Misfortunes follow one another
along straits of fate,
as if sadness were a colony itself.
I want to take a pill
to **** the mushroom
that plumes over my head.

You can only diagnose
through words and symbols,
only treat once you set down your pen
and hold the hand
of a patient lover,
of the savant drinking at the bar.

For now I will let air in
through the open window,
watch the dreamcatcher sway
and hang like a tarantula
over the stars and crescents,
spilling out over my bed.

When I close my eyes
I hear the ocean in distant traffic,
sounding as waves when rolling by the door.
I will drown in seawater
and hallucinate a scene
of happiness.

Of a place for a poet's retreat.
c
 Sep 2014 Paula Lee
Twinkle
Don't make me laugh
Your not in love with me
Let me tell you why
It's just your fantasy

Cause this is not love
You surely are mistaken
You've never felt love 
or anything close to it
Cause you never had 
love to under stand
You were too busy with pleasing
Standing up to expectations
Trying to fit a larger than life figure
Chasing dreams that were impossible
You drove yourself harder 
Hoping that somehow you'd make up for the affection you did not receive.
Your running on empty 
And empty is all you can give.

Love is not keeping yourself bottled
And taking flight for the smallest threat.
To your grandiosity.
Love is not sending cryptic clues
Trying to gauge responses
Love is not in hiding
But in making itself felt
Love's presence is silent
Yet the warmth radiates.

So I have nothing to expect from you.
Your tethering is not astonishing
I can understand the see-saw you feel inside.
An emotional wave you fear to ride.

So it's best we let bygones be what they are meant to be.
Don't start the process all over.
Try not to kindle the spark
Cause the fires have blown over.
I've healed myself, of the emptiness you've left behind.
I am not turning back this time.
My resolve is deep,  my mind made up.
I have promises made to myself.
To live a full life and always be content.

So, heads up I walk into my future
Closing the door of my past.
Letting go of the riddle of a relationship
And leaving the hurt behind.
You are now a closed chapter.
The book I could not complete.
Sometimes they just don't get it when it's over.
Trapped in bubble of illusion
Believing it to be the only reality
Future didn't beckon
 Sep 2014 Paula Lee
Joe Wilson
My many coloured life...

Colour me brown for the woods I played in as a boy
For the bow and arrows I used for a toy
For the friends and the fun and the unfettered joy.

Colour me beige for my calm and neutral look at life
The nothingness that could have been spread with a knife
The colour I felt before I loved my wife.

Colour me green for the nature that surrounds
For the children we had and there ever happy sounds
For the promise that their future hopes abound.

Colour me cream for your quiet elegant ways
That fill my life with beautiful days
The joy of being in a life-long phase.

Colour me blue for the truth you speak
For the trust you gave when my life was bleak
For the quiet solitude we sometimes seek.

Colour me pink for the true love you give
For the beauty of each and every day that we live
For the small thoughtless sins that you always forgive.

Colour me red for the passion we still feel
For each other a passion that is still very real
For the hearts that we tied with an emotional seal.

Colour me purple for the compassion you hold
For the sensitive spirits that with you unfold
For the judgement and dreams that help me feel bold.

Colour me yellow for the wisdom you set free
For the knowledge I learnt so empowering to see
For the sunshine in your heart saved especially for me.

Colour me all the colours so magnificently
You gave to me life far far less ordinary
You gave me your love and you showed to me…me.

©Joe Wilson – My many coloured life…2014
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