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Rich Hues Nov 2018
In quick-step and in air-cushioned silence,
With the drumbeat threat of mob violence,
All those laces were quite absurd,
But to us 'Jo-***' was just a verb.

Now the Alts stand in plain sight,

            "It's OK

Hidden by our new dress code,
An Oxford collar and a Derby brogue.
Hannah Christina  Jun 2018
Hannah Christina Jun 2018
Because a thing may seem cliche won't mean it isn't right.
Warm sunbeams, drumbeat thunder, and the clash of dark and light.
Or just because it's overused, don't say it can't be true.
Old words and phrases well describe my burning love for you.
Tommy Randell Apr 2017
All this talk of crying, all this grief and sorrow,
The worship of dying, the Light of tomorrow,

All this promising of peace everlasting,
All this eulogising of prayer and fasting,

All this stuff about Sin, original or otherwise,
All this reincarnating of dead people's lives,

It's the mother of all *******, it's hypocrisy and hate,
It's a religion of commerce taxed by the state.

It's chocolate and glitter, it's a dressage of delusion,
An endless repetition of power doing the using.

They are selling you incense so you can make smoke.
They say only they walk down the true road.

It's a pantomime of rhetoric perfected over time
So we look the other way Deaf Dumb and Blind.

Who wrote these rules, carved them into stone?
What have they done to us we let them rattle our bones?

It's all hidden in riddles of Tax Laws and Treaties -
100% of the future owned by 1% of the species.

It's in every paper, it's on every screen,
The drumbeat is progress and money is the dream.

The hard times are here we must all tighten our belts,
We must put up with sacrifice, every little will help.

But listen to the beating of those soft silver tongues -
They're not fasting they're feeding, until tomorrow never comes!
Mikaila  Nov 2018
This Big Hush
Mikaila Nov 2018
There is no cure for my self.
I will sit up nights
And read poetry aloud
And cry harsh tears as my words fall away into the darkness.
It is my nature.
A voice of sorrow lives in me
And it speaks, always.
It murmurs beneath everything like a brook.
It sweetens my days
And swallows my nights.
It is not without its merits
But it is
I am a sad person
Always have been.
I ache, and always will.
Love soothes and frightens me
But beneath it grief runs steady
The only thing
That is always there
Heedless of any other turmoil.
It presses into me-
A small trickle, less than rainwater-
But it has carved me deep over years
Deep, deep,
It has cut caves into me.
It is the heart of me, the softness of the stone
It is my weakness and the source of my life
And I have hated it for as long as I have known it was there
But it
Doesn’t care:
It only knows how to continue
Not how to feel.
It doesn’t stop for love
Or for anger
Or for joy.
It gouges a path through all of them,
A deep, steady drumbeat
A persistent crawl
And I am witness to its slow erosion of me.
I watch with apprehension
An unwilling subject
A reluctant vessel-
For I know that as gentle as it seems
It has stripped away all this so far
And will go on
Until nothing remains.
Title is a reference to the poem Elm by Sylvia Plath.
A smudge and gift of tobacco tie  
Given to me on the urban forest’s edge
Alive with spirits dancing with soles’
Muted drumbeat as the rhythm in their song

Lost sisters
Without their shoes

Lost sisters
Leave their markings

Velvet footprints
Next to Big Bear’s

Scarlet on  
Big Bear’s Path

Remembered Sisters
Dance with us again

Best friend
Included in Limited Edition Chapbook "They Sing to Us" (Ed. Brandt, Di, 2016, Radish Press). Unfortunately my surname was misspelled as "McKrith".

"They Sing to Us"  was inspired by the Walking With Our Sisters Exhibit that was hosted at Brandon University in March of 2016. The exhibition featured 108 moccasin vamps created to honor the lives of children whose lives were lost in the residential school system. The original Walking With Our Sisters exhibition features 1,808 vamps commemorating the 1200 + Indigenous women and girls who have gone missing in Canada since 1980.
Emma Sep 2018
Don’t pick apart what I feel for you.
No, there has never been anyone before you.
But, I am not an emotional *******.
I know myself, and my mind.
Am capable of recognising what it is I feel.
Love you. Kind of. Maybe. By half.
I am on the way to love, at least.
You vacillate in the doldrums, a land of grey uncertainty, rather than travelling in either direction.
I’ll wait. Not forever.
It’s like having a part of my body outside of itself.
Vulnerable and full of the absence of something divided.
Something that was previously mine given to you.
I knew love would be hard when it came.
Not this sad, or this sort of hard.
I expected modest love, and humdrum hard.
This is like being the wife of a sailor gone out to sea.  
Interminable longing and painful waiting.
My heart pulls in my chest, the steady drumbeat too loud, loud enough to feel in my fingers, feel in my legs.
It tightens in discomfort, and sends me spiralling.
I wish I could hold you.
I wish I could heal you.
But neither is possible without you.
And I’m still waiting.
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