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 Nov 2015 SJ
Edward Coles
You taught me that mindfulness is staring at the moon
and watching the clouds turn colours like the Caño Cristales;
last year's poetry, last year's demise,
swept to the ocean salt through the river of time.

You taught me the out-breath was the signature of consciousness,
that temples change hands and empires will fall,
but you can forever be in the moment
once you hear waves in the traffic caterwaul.

You taught me that happiness is a working goal
and not the resting-place after a lifetime of grief.
You taught me the in-breath can cut through the static
and give meaning to a life so stretched and so brief.
C
He waits in the park for a date.
A bus full of los Angeles Models and photographers
talk through walkie talkies.
He walks around spying through his peripheral.
pretending he's James Bond trying to scope them out.
He wonders if he seems suspicious, or if he's going undetected.

A Beautiful girl passes briskly by, looking curiously around.
She long dark bangs, fall colored scarf, flirty skirt.
She sits on a nearby bench.
He no longer thinking of his date.

"oh my god."
"wait, no."
"what if she showed up right when you started flirting?"
"be respectful."

A vibration in his palm.
"I'm Here"
he looks around
the only woman to fit the profile is perched on the bench.
"no way."
He walks over to the girl.
"you walked right past me, beautiful."
on his face is a smolder
the gas mask used to hide all sorts of jumbled feelings in the past.
Today. it's hiding a tiny jumping boy. feeling like he just won the gorgeous girl lottery.
This is his Date.

They go to Dobra Tea,
She takes a sip.
"It tastes like peaches" she says.
"Peaches come, in a can." The boy starts.
"they were put their by a man" she adds.
they screamingly harmonize a bit too loudly for a tea shop
"In a factory downtown"
they shush each other.
giggles erupt out of them as they collapse into the tiny pillows.
they get quiet.

the girl explains she puts her "bad pictures" on tinder
so people are surprised to realize she's beautiful in person.
stricken by her brilliance.
He applauds the flawless strategy.
as it clearly worked on him.

They go on a few more dates.

First She takes him to a graveyard.
They talk about their Jiminy Cricket's
Shared demons, so familiar some
creep from behind gravestones.
push leaves from their path as they stroll along.

Then He bring her to lighthouse.
A thick cold fog.
they switch between belting 90's pop hits
and laying peacefully up at the sky holding hands.
Music.
sound of bleeding hearts rubbing against each other.
bow and violin.
how soon they flint and steel.
spark too hot, too real, too soon.

later, in bed.
His heart leaks something.
He wonders if he looks suspicious, or if he's going undetected.
when she pushes "did you just say you love me?
Tired, and teary eyed, He says:
"Peaches."
It was their safe word.

As she starts in, Clearly not satisfied,
"C'mon, I know I hear-" she interrupts herself.
"oh... you said peaches."

See, he could have said yes,
It would have been more honest.
but this was only their third morning waking up together.
even though his heart wanted to say it again.
his Jiminy Cricket doesn't care if he loves her.
it knows he can't take care of her.
Jiminy knows that when he goes home tomorrow, she's a poem.

So He says peaches.
 Nov 2015 SJ
Darkly
croak

croak

kraa

Mister Raven enjoys his perch
His seat upon the headstone
Of a man recently deceased
A man who died alone
Lonely to say the least

Mister Raven isn't sad however
Because Mister Raven knows
That the man isn't lonely anymore
He has found happiness below

He was lost upon arrival
In the world below
It was foggy and it was dark
They met on the Bridge of Shadow
Over the River of Schilmark
Stick around for Part 2 if you like!
 Nov 2015 SJ
Thomas Hardy
Memories,
memories of the boxes of masculinity I crammed myself into,
for you,
they are memories,
memories which occupy not only my closet,
but also the lining of my heart,
if you had the faintest idea you’d understand,
those memories burn like embers,
she still doesn’t understand,
memory boxes which hold photos of me,
but are not me,
photos of a girl before testosterone occupied and took control of her body,
a girl before male hormones swam deep into her genetic code,
stripping away what was, a girl,
she still doesn’t understand,
those memories like knives,
cut deep into my skin.  
I can now say blood is a lot thicker than water,
but
that does not mean the scars on my body tell the happy tale of a family unit, they do not recite togetherness
they do not dance to the rhythm of unity
Instead
Instead these scars loosely translate to ‘please mom, help’,
she still doesn’t understand
I cut my chest open for you and bare myself to you
like an open cavity in hope that you’ll understand
that body was a home but I was merely a guest
don’t you get it?
 Nov 2015 SJ
Brent Kincaid
The time has now arrived
To put your name in.
Even though some people hate
The day you came in.
You might be qualified or
Just an imitation
I really doesn’t end up so
Important to the nation.

That is the dance
If it seems crude
It’s not of love
But someone always get *******.

What matters is the way you smile
With cameras flashing.
Not whether candidates against you
Have their teeth a’gnashing.
You’ll all engage in nasty gaming
Full of lots of unattractive bashing.
And the result will surely be as always
The truth will suffer quite a trashing.

That is the dance
If it seems rude
You pray it’s not
You that ends up getting *******.

You hope nobody sees the data,
That linger in your background.
Or the future embarrassing stories
The press can ever track down.
You do your best to hide the worst
Of your former glitches.
The gorgeous dolls you saw sometimes
Without their britches.

That is the dance
If you don’t lose,
Everyone else
Will sing the blues. Not you.

Maybe no one will bring to question where
You got the campaign funds to run.
It often comes up as an important issue
And quite often this part is no fun.
Then you end up dancing so much faster
Than back when this tango was begun.
You hope your charm, your wit and money
And your powerful connections
Because you know none of that will matter
One day after the election.
 Nov 2015 SJ
Jeffrey Pua
Castaway
 Nov 2015 SJ
Jeffrey Pua
I shared my love, blindly,
     Only to be covered from her eyes,
Her hand motioned as though
To salute improperly, a shade,
     A visor of indifference.

Lonely as a firebird, I must rise from death
     And bring my ashes to her
Because I know no other way
     To reach her flame.

And with each night, fading,
Greyed out of her dark dreams,
I find it hard to go much further.
     Even the brightest flame
          Will falter.

So we turned into these isles,
     That will never share their tides.
But it would be, only, on this sorry shores
     That she will read this:

"Will she ever love me?
     Will she ever love me back?"*

© 2015 J.S.P.
Edited.
 Nov 2015 SJ
SøułSurvivør
for the hungry
in body, mind and soul
is everybody's business
should be a common goal

"we have ours my poet friend
a special day? indeed...
soup kitchens aplenty
to minister the need"


but the drunkard with his bottle
the druggie with her pipe
may not be all that grateful
may even cuss and gripe

why? you may ask yourself.
it's common. it's not news
let me tell you as a one who knows
i walked in them there shoes
holidays are hard
the addicted have the blues

"they deserve rejection
they are all at fault
they'd pull up their bootstraps
if they were worth their salt!"


but the folks i speak of
have burnt up family. friends.
it is a cycle they can't stop
sans God it never ends

so giving them a dinner
may fill a certain need
but spreading out the Love of God
is an enduring seed

don't talk down to them
if they are ready, share
you'll find they may just listen
and are tired of despair

we do have a burden
we have a heavy load
showing love to the unlovable
where the rubber hits the road

but if i didn't do it
a hypocrite i'd be
that person with the bottle
save God's grace

could be ME.


SoulSurvivor
(C) 11/23/2015
I'm going off site for the next
Few days. I'm prepairing a meal
For some homeless people
And a former drug addict
Who's family won't allow him
To their thanksgiving dinner.

Pray that I can reach some of
These people.

I'm not doing this because
I'm "all that". But because I'm NOT.
I'VE BEEN THERE.
 Nov 2015 SJ
B
Double Edged Sword
 Nov 2015 SJ
B
Anger is the spark that ignites the flame
It can fuel ones passion
and turn into art
Or
It can burn quickly through ones emotions
and turn into self destruction
Burning through the soul within
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