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 Aug 2016 meana
Francie Lynch
If you'd been here
When I was young,
You'd not forget
What we'd have done.

We'd climb roofs,
Jump in the river,
****** neighbour's pears,
Then skedaddle,
Laughing with sweat-matted hair,
Wiping off those grown-up cares.

We'd bumper-jump in four inch snow,
And never let our parents know.
Oh, such fun we two would do,
If I could stay as young as you.

We'd skate and bike,
Play street ball,
Act up in school,
Stand in the hall;
We'd hike with jars
Along country brooks,
Read and trade
Our comic books.
Lie in the sand,
Burn in the sun,
Forgetting it was time for home.
We'd never tire of our treats,
And often we'd forget to eat
Because we're having all our fun:
If you'd been here when I was young.

We'd play Tag and Red Rover,
Flags and Chase,
Then have sleep-overs.
We'd swap tomorrow
For daily pearls,
Then swap each other
For pretty girls.

We'd be up to our shenanigans,
Sleep the sleep,
Then start again.
This is the way
We'd have our fun,
If you'd been here
When I was young.

But now you're here,
And I'm much older,
The things we'd do
You'll do with others;
But when you need a  boost to climb,
This old man has a shoulder.
Yes,
I'll sure have lots of fun,
For you're here now.
That keeps me young.
For my new Grandson, Xavier (b. July 23rd.)
Thanks for all your readership and support. I hope you enjoyed the read as much as I enjoyed the write. Peace.
Do not stand on my grave and cry
I am not there, i dont sleep
I dont eat
I am a thousands word that blow through the wind
I am a diamond that shine on snow
I am the sunlight that give you light
I am the gentle autumn rain that give you water,
When you awaken in the mornin'g darling hush
I am the swift upon your skin
I am the quiet birds that chant in your head
Do not stand on my grave and cry
Be happy.
 Apr 2016 meana
ms reluctance
There is a certain thrill when you are
teetering on the very brink.
An intense, almost perverse
curiosity to
see whether you will
continue to
stand tall or
will you
fall.
NaPoWriMo Day #12
Poetry form: Nonet
 Mar 2016 meana
Denel Kessler
Ten black crows
in a red-budded
cottonwood tree
basking in the eerie
glow of the waning sun
bruised, livid sky
weighted air
waves shush, shush
on the receding tide
serenity reigns
but I can feel it
hovering offshore
a curled fist
wound tight
ready to strike
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