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colors  
slide over  
ink-slick
○°○            skin           ○°○
○°○°             °○°○°          ○°○°
○°°○°○stretched○°○°°○
°°○○°○°°○°○°°○°○○°°
a skein of
furtive fabric  
wrought of woe    
and wrested    
from futility  
°°○°○°°○°○°°
pundits posture
○°°○°○°imposing ○°°○°○°
○○°○°°○°°postulating○°°○°°○
○°°○      ○°○their ○°○     ○°°○
○°○°      importance    ○°○°
°○°○°○         ○°°sleek°°○       °○○°○°
°○°○             insolence             °○°○
curls °°○
crafted○°
  churlish
     like a
             pre
          °°         hen
     °°          sile
       °○°○tail    


SøułSurvivør
(C) 6/28/2017
I hope this comes out!
They  call  my  flat
a  museum.

Because  of  all
my  stuff.

But  as  a  keen
collector.

I  can  never  get
enough.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.2017.
~~<♡>~~

a blossom falls
it has lasted until winter
so has blessed many

~~<♡>~~

in loving memory of
LENA MUNRO
July 1917 ~ June 2017


~~<♡>~~
My brother-in-law's mom
She would have been
100 years old next month

He appreciates haiku
So I thought this appropriate

Lena was
A beautiful lady
May she Rest in Peace
I can’t take Sam off speed dial
I’m expecting his call
Especially Sunday mornings
Warming up, stretching tall

That’s when he always calls me
Though sometimes I call him
Now twenty Sundays have passed
My chances getting slim

I can’t delete my brother
I’m still yearning for his call
He owes me one, even though
He died one Sunday last fall
A sentimental piece from real life-I keep Sam's number on my speed dial & miss him terribly since he died 5 months ago...
 Jun 2017 Richard Grahn
Sandoval
I was not born a

poet.

I was broken into

one.


*Sandoval
 Jun 2017 Richard Grahn
Cné
Evening has subsided with a whisper in the west.
It chased the sunset's final rays as she prepared for rest.

Night has dropped her curtain but the moon has come to play.
The overture begins, as lonely crickets have their way.

The breeze begins to soften and the grass is standing still.
The leaves no longer beckon in the trees upon the hill.

I huddle in the darkness and await the rising wind.
A prayer is formed upon my lips, in homage to a friend.

And there ... I feel the sweet caress, a hand upon my cheek
A breeze that comes from someone ... from the passing soul, I seek.

And as I watch the lingering stars and hear the rustling leaves
I know that she has left this world and heavenward, she weaves.

I bid farewell to one, who loved this life, and all it gave
I dedicate this poem to her and toward the moon, I wave.
...and her memory, I save
i went back and forth on the last line.
RIP Carrie
forever in my heart, sweet one
you shall remain young
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