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 Aug 2013 Ruby Watson
Mike Hauser
I've read the latest wonders
That poured forth from your soul
Your poets beating heart
Has paid the artist toll

I'm always touched by your passion
The very words you pen each day
There is power and compassion
In all you have to say

The heart of a poet
Beats a certain rhythm deep down inside
Bringing meaning to the moment
That others try to hide

With writings that inhale beauty
At the same time exhaling tragedy
You can lift up with one pen stroke
While another knocks down to the knees

There's a rhythmic temperature
That runs both hot and cold
In the heart of a poet
Taking in all of life's high's and lows
Thirsty beyond words
his eyes drank
from the  blue depths
of her eyes,
hungry lips munched her smile
again and again.
you have your boisterous silence.
but the wheel;  is mute kindling
of our fire.
an ice dart in the sun's thigh.
the bones in your heart
for tiny giants to grind
for our bread.

and some kind of love that makes it hurt
when i'm gone i have five shadows
and they knit quilts with barbed wire and dead leaves.
they chew on the fat lie
and simply forget the gravity of exile.

but i'm here now, and i love this.
There are no right words
to express my feelings
So I write-
to begin my healing

For when I lilt,
"You make me laugh"-
Twould better be, "Life
with you? The better half"

And when I blurt,
"You're beautiful"-
I really mean, "Your every
glance enchants my soul"

Then to insist, "I love you"-
is simply to say,
"I could want no more
but for you to stay"

Lo, within the declaration,
"I don't care"-
I should have put,
"Please, please, please... let's repair"

And oh my wailing,
"Will you leave me alone?"-
Could have been, "please
chip away this heart of stone"

That time I hissed,
"I hate this"
was truly, "it's been
too long since we last kissed"

Maybe a curse;
Maybe a sign
I shouldn't speak-
bottom line.

To express the feelings
of this heart of mine;
I choose the wrong words
all the time.
Wrote stream of conscious early in the morn, feel free to comment/critique and look at my other stuff!
 Aug 2013 Ruby Watson
Chris Voss
Bless this dusty bookcase
Where they prey
And lie in waiting;
Bound in pages brown
and fading. Fed off tremors
Echoed from the desperate hand
That made them.

Bless the poem that's forsaken
By the tongue that begs to taste
Words written for false promises--
Dipped in cedar, dripping rhythm--
Unfurled to breathe florescent lighting
Of a library that's spent decades
Searching for a new way to say forgotten.

Heirloomed ink is grave-worm risen.
Bless this second coming
But expect to find no Mesiah here.
When I heard the words that I had never hoped to hear,
"I'm on a path that you did not imagine,"
I trembled in the darkness growing near;
A green and deathly sickness grew within.

I can sense the Sirens' call to prayers unholy:
"Come dance the daring dances;
Sing the songs the sinners sing,
Defy the order of the stars to fling your flings,
And shake your ***** fists in pent-up rages,
Deny the structures of eternal ages;
Pervert the holy orders present at the birthing of the universe."

Does saying what is real is not or what is not is real
Change anything beyond the choice of action?
(Some would argue that the proof is in the consequence.)
Can mass opinion or the way a person feels
Change laws immutable: gravity's pull or magnetic attraction?
(Even theologians teeter now upon a wobbly fence).

If mass opinion moral laws can change
(Some critical percent of all believers
Taken in a poll believe the cannibals were right;
Please pass John's head there on that platter),
Then nothing stable really can exist.

When data-driven compasses redefine the laws,
When best practice comes from mass opinions,
We lose abilities to know ourselves as climbing up
Or scuttling down the ladders of Existence,
Confuse the benefits or dooms of consequential Ends.
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