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My friends abroad think I'm peculiarly English
My English friends think I'm peculiarly northern
My northern friends just think I'm peculiar
But at least I've got friends

                                                     By Phil Roberts
Periods of elder insanity have provided a now -and -then entrance for the creative spirit
To explore unknown avenues painted with colors , hues we cannot begin to understand ..
To go beyond the birth to death yik - yak , reaching for something  
higher on the cosmic shelf , poetry on avenues currently imperceivable to the layman , human mind ..
I welcome my burgeoning loss of contact someday with this overwritten , love -hate world , praying to be released from the 'Earthly soup' and vented higher !
Copyright March 26 , 2016 by randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
 Mar 2016 Richard Riddle
Irene
love
 Mar 2016 Richard Riddle
Irene
a few days ago, i sat on a bus going home and i noticed an elderly woman with pixie cut white hair and glasses looking out the window and blowing kisses to someone. i looked out and i saw an elderly man with white hair blowing kisses back to her. it was her husband.
i couldn't help but smile. moments later the elderly woman got out of her seat to go outside and give her husband a kiss.
isn't it beautiful that we get to grow old with another person? to be able to live life together, side by side, sticking through the good and bad times, knowing each other's flaws and mistakes yet choosing to love one another. that love isn't just a feeling, but a choice.
Every death
I have felt, or known,
In silence, i mourn,
Within my breath...

No words come upfront
Just thoughts, preponderant...

I'd feel the freezing cold of an empty space
Feel the absence...clearly imagine a lost face
No smiles, spanning from cheek to cheek
Eyes, seek answers...
suddenly, I'm there by the shallow water of the creek
While some nearby creatures quietly chirp...and squeak
While I......... I could not even speak...

Living,
Is realizing...and accepting
At the right time, they turn brown, the weeds...and reeds,
But, under the water...waiting, growing...are their seeds
Brown ferns...are almost detached from a mossy concrete wall
With a strong current, and wind, they'd be carried...ready to fall

The driftwood lying by the shore...is always wet, but petrified
Brown fallen leaves, on the green grass...no more hold...crisp and dried,
The dead bark of a tree...in pieces...are crumbling...
Merging with the wet earth...in a process of fertilizing
Deep down under ....a fresh spark of life is starting.
All these, remind,
Life and death stand side by side,
That in the midst of death-
Something new is birthed...
When faced with death,
there is always someone's living breath
And, as long as the heart wills to beat
Then, life.....will still exist.

Hundreds, or a thousand times,  
We all have died
In the high and low of life's tides,
Physically,
Emotionally.

We remember
Those who have left
Those who have survived..are still around
We think of those who are next to leave,
Waiting for their chests' final heave

---And then, we think of ourselves---

Worry not of our own time
Make each of our remaining days
Be golden, beaming, and bright
With good deeds, and straight pathways

The earth is a moving circle
It makes a round.......as it spins
We try to live outwards....and then, within
Any way we live it...life is an endless cycle.


Sally



Copyright March 23, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
***A  HAPPY  EASTER TO EVERYONE!!! ***
I wrote a story about April , she thanked me with a
yellow butterfly trimmed in black .. A Catawba worm
busy spinning webs , determined seedlings adrift just above the tall green grass .. I should write a poem for June at the beginning of May , of fanciful
flowers and fluffy chicks , homemade vanilla ice cream with cinnamon sticks . Blue candy sky with a marshmallow cloud , a laughing frog ,
a summer day of boating on a faraway pond ..
Copyright March 25 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
The one that He loves
The one that He cares
The hopelessly lost
Not finding hope anywhere

The one who's unsatisfied
With life's turn of events
Who's been trying to hide
From that life ever since

The Cross Of Christ Is For...

The fatherless child
On the empty door step
The last lonely mile
Of the dead mans last breath

The kings and the queens
In their palace of pearl
The truth is so clear
It's for all of the world

The Cross Of Christ Is For...

Those dying of thirst
In the desert of life
Those on the high raging sea
With no land in sight

In the joy of the day
In the sadness of night
The Cross of Christ is for
All that is needed in life
Happy Good Friday my friends!!!
my son is a better version of me

i easily break
he rides storms smilingly

i crumble in a crisis
he handles stoically

my emotions play loud on face
he hides it handsomely

i'm doubtful of exploring
he ventures courageously

i speculate on life too much
he bothers not seriously
I wish that I
was filled with stars
intricate, intimate arrays
to guide me to the edge
of myself and beyond

my soul
the brightest
in a unique constellation
of my naming

my love
many-hued nebula
expanding
to fill the void

my losses
supernovas
both beautiful
and tragic

But I am not
celestial
earth-bound
I must navigate

by stroke of skin
whiff of memory
trace of sadness
night vision

rudimentary compasses
in a sea of misunderstanding.
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