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 Nov 2014 Ryan Bueler
Meg B
I like to walk the bridge at sunset.
I like the feeling of the
Light autumn breeze on my face
As my calves burn,
Pacing myself for the
Two-mile-long journey.
I like the colors the skyline makes,
The soft periwinkle that fades
To turquoise, that
Transitions to a pastel yellow
And drips down into a warm
Scarlett.
I like the art
The city buildings paint against
The sunset.
I like the peacefulness,
Steadiness,
Tranquility in the river,
Its current rippling
Gently in rhythm
With the steady beating of
My half-broken heart.
I like the way my heart has begun
To mend itself,
Once shattered to a million
Itty bitty
Pieces,
It strings itself back together
With every walk,
Every step
Across the bridge,
Across state lines.
Sometimes I'm surrounded
By crowds,
Other times
It's rather calm;
But the faces, regardless of bounty,
Are lost on me
As I lose myself
Deep in thought,
In reflection,
In an attempt to
Forget you
And remember me
As only myself,
Before you and
After.
Day by day,
Step by step,
Sunset after sunset,
Ripple after ripple,
Autumn breeze by autumn breeze,
My senses are heightened,
One by one,
My pain is relinquished,
Little by little,
And my broken heart is mended,
Bit by bit.
It kept her inside the workshop,
the only noise, a sewing machine
quietly purring like an old moody cat.
Spools of threads closed into fists,
Fingers curling back into their tiny shells.

She places a piece of cloth on the table,
The open seams sticking out
like the yellow stains of a neck fold.
An old worn out shirt with little holes
filled with imaginary garden trolls.
The smell of moth ***** seeping out.
Curling her lips like a slug with a pinch of salt,
A hesitant hand moves deliberately
as if feeling the roughness of a warty toad.
To keep one is to improvise, to mend spaces
tightly with thread and needle on skin.

She will say to herself: “I will keep him close”
Her little lover’s shirt on her small bruised frame.
chipped, she will drink liquor bitter.
She will drink it long and drink it deep.

November 2014
For L.M.
Pieced out from an old 2009 draft
Confessional but not Personal
I have enough treasures from the past
to last me longer than I need, or want.
You know as well as I . . . malevolent memory
won't let go of half of them:
a modest church, with its gold cupola
slightly askew; a harsh chorus
of crows; the whistle of a train;
a birch tree haggard in a field
as if it had just been sprung from jail;
a secret midnight conclave
of monumental Bible-oaks;
and a tiny rowboat that comes drifting out
of somebody's dreams, slowly foundering.
Winter has already loitered here,
lightly powdering these fields,
casting an impenetrable haze
that fills the world as far as the horizon.
I used to think that after we are gone
there's nothing, simply nothing at all.
Then who's that wandering by the porch
again and calling us by name?
Whose face is pressed against the frosted pane?
What hand out there is waving like a branch?
By way of reply, in that cobwebbed corner
a sunstruck tatter dances in the mirror.

Leningrad, 1960
 Nov 2014 Ryan Bueler
bones
Missing words
softly surge
through her silence
again
like long
soothing fingers
of whispering
rain
that soak
their way in
through her bare
thirsty skin
until
not a dry moment
remains
.
 Nov 2014 Ryan Bueler
one llucy
I heard this all from the grapevine,
curiosity killed the cat…
so… seems unlikely that my dog killed your chickens
just give the poor dog a bone
it's pretty much genetics
all that nature versus nurture
even he makes mistakes…
let's let boys be boys
bygones be bygones
you should always love your neighbor
I know you eat chicken too
we can't be having the *** calling all the kettles black
you know what they say?
If you can't beat 'em,
                                          join 'em.
My dog killed all my neighbors chickens…. not a good way to make new friends.
 Nov 2014 Ryan Bueler
A
To  have life
you need to want it
as you want air
beneath the surface.
A voice whispers words into my veins
A voice instructs me, strut this way
And that way too, don’t stop...I’ll never shoo.
By the time I’ve made it to the train
My heart begins to
                                                            T­****
                                                            ­          
                                                      ­                   Thump

                                                          ­                           Thump

                                                          ­                                                      Without a moment to choke
                                                           ­                                                          I hop on the station
                                                         ­                                                  Headed west, with barely a breath
                                                          ­                                A thought in this head that steals any concentration

Sleep eludes me, you penetrate me
Enrich me with the echoes of your mind
Bare with me, let us intertwine
                                                            A path paved over by the ways of the world
                                                            Still hot and sticky, I mold it with my toes
                                                             Imprinted with my wishes and my hopes
No traces of intervention
No substance of prevention



Sitting atop the stool
Painted by the artist
Within his palm
Lies his instrument
Prepared to implement
Painting shadows of time and space
Strokes back and forth
Lines united by grace
                                                       ­                                         A picture varnished
                                                   ­                                           A piece of time caught
                                                      ­                                         As quick as created, it
                                                              ­

                                                               ­                                                   dis..
        ­                                                                 ­                                               si..
             ­                                                                 ­                                                 pa.
                                                             ­                                                                 ­           .tes


                                                      ­Fading with all its glory
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