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Jo Barber  Apr 2018
Love Letter
Jo Barber Apr 2018
Like I loved coffee,
that's how I loved you.
Like the first cigarette of the day.
Or like a Beatles song
blasted on the radio
during a road trip
to nowhere in particular.
Like each slice of coffee cake,
cinnamon and pecans
delicately, deliciously curled
into every little streusel.
Like spring,
when the snow melts into water
and runs, rushes
past yellow-colored, polka-dotted rain boots
on a sun-soaked afternoon.
I loved you like I love you;
simply, completely,
without frills and without doubt.
I love you.
Feedback?
Mary Gay Kearns Aug 2018
The rustling of girls in nylon underskirts
And shoe buckle in bejewelled highlights
With presents so wrapped and tied bows
For bolero in angora to complete the show.

Love Mary x
Timothy Apr 2017
Sweet zephyrs stir and tremble through fir trees
     Yon woodland, fields, and ever rolling hills
     A lone Pine Warbler sings and pipes his trills
Along with Meadowlarks across the leas.
Refreshing, soothing, gentle-warming breeze,
     Spring gardens, flowers, and cool gurgling rills
     Are spied with nature’s furbelows and frills
Some beauty ev’rywhere our eye to please.

Still do recall those shorter days and cold
   Those days where snow and ice coated the lawn
      And all those lovely birds were miles away;
Melting so slowly, Winter lost her hold,
   And longer hours of light does grace each dawn
      For Spring is here again with flow’rs of May.
( Petrarchan Sonnet )
18-19 March 2017 9:30am EDT
patty m  Jan 2018
Wonderland
patty m Jan 2018
Through the Looking glass
Alice stands in all her splendor.
Her hair a curtain of silver rain,
her soft skin aglow in subliminal light.

A compelling fever rises
as Thomas tries different ways to pull
her up in memory
while writing himself into the tale.  
Poor Thomas delirious in his dilemma, he knows
this will be no easy seduction.  
How fiercely urgent his desire rises
as he longs to end our heroine's self-imposed abstinence.  

Hot April morning ambush,
and our intruder has beguiled our sweet Alice
with heated kisses sweeter than ripened fruit.  
A wildness stirs in the bloodstream.  
Now he slowly and lovingly explores her pristine body
as she shivers beneath his delicate strokes
until high trills rise to fevered pitch.

Pleated line of sky
muted corners softly come into focus.

Loathe to let her go,
passion stirs in his depths
slowly now he tastes her secrets,  shares her pleasure.

Tight buds of anticipation tenderly plucked,
his fingers find the stem, a measure of moisture;
Nimble fingered harmonies play pleasure symphonies
accompanied by soft echoes of youthful delight  
Warm and breathless, crystal rainbows paint the inside of her eyelids as she grows sleepy in afterglow.

Soon he's torn away, his pale poet's face conveying pain
received from this  now cool disconcerting beauty;
Though he touched folds and frills of every petal,
his chapter is immediately erased and the
original story reappears.  

She may have slipped down the rabbit hole,
but forever ladylike and pure is our sweet Alice.
Valsa George May 2016
With the peak of spring in the month of May
In the early hours of a pleasantly sunlit day
Two kids sat cuddled on a swing
Feeling as though they were taking on wing

Swinging in the air, they began to sing
Their sweet lay breaking the silence with its ring
They kicked their legs in rising delight
And felt like thistledowns ever so light

Up and down on the swing was fun
They closed their eyes on being face to face with the sun
Felt the swish and sway of the buoyant air
And knew the light tug of breeze on their curly hair

As the air got caught in the frills of their frock
Their eyes gleamed bright in delightful spark
Imagining themselves to be astronauts in space,
An ebullient excitement lit up their face

From a raised angle, they saw the Earth in green folds lie
Watched the surrounding hills standing awfully high
Saw a small stream flowing as a slow moving train
With trees lined up on its banks in unbroken chain

Longingly I watched these children free of all worry and pain
Also their aerial feats, not tainted by any melancholy stain
How I miss these childhood days of innocent fun
As my hours, towards the sunset, quickly run
I envy little children and their care free days......! They leave me immensely nostalgic as I had a joyous childhood in a large happy family !
Terry O'Leary Jun 2015
Someday I'd like to wander free
like butterfly, like bumblebee,
perhaps to plant a willow tree
beside the silent solemn sea,

before these things exist no more,
from mountain top to shifting shore,
when, soon, bald eagles cease to soar
and build their aeries nevermore,

and fish forsake polluted streams
(where sulfur swims and typhoid teems
since no one really cares it seems)
to die inside our toxic dreams
while ice caps melt and winter steams,

and all the air surrounding reeks
as children choke, for no one speaks
of fracking wells or oily leaks
(Big Brother's silenced all critiques!),

and rancid rains acidify
so woods no longer multiply
(for God so wills, we can't deny,
which is, of course, our alibi).

And as the deepest ocean fills
with plastic bags, and garbage spills
upon the plains, across the hills
and turns to poison dust that kills
wild dingo dogs and daffodils
which sink in swamps’ forsaken swills,

the mocking bird makes light and trills
(midst waning wails of whippoorwills)
"Behold the surreal scene that chills
and greet the dread that death distills!
You've had your day with all the frills
that brought the flood and final ills
that can't be cured with bitter pills
nor yet undone with further thrills
of profit gained that grinds and fills
dead desert sands with dollar bills."

              EPILOGUE

Though swaddled still in infancy,
we feel we’ve reached our primacy
(aloof, though preaching piously,
disdaining deeds of decency)
and have no need of augury.

But in the pit of prophecy
the crucial questions seem to be:

“Is doom Earth’s fate, our destiny
to twist in tides of agony
destroying nature’s progeny
with no return a certainty
assured by death’s finality?”

and

        ”Should we plant a willow tree
to someday weep for you and me?”
Mary Gay Kearns May 2018
In May the tree has liliaceous buds
And places at the tips a flower
With fluted candelabra frills
To light the wake time evening hours
A touch so close to kiss the sky
And violet bright against the blue.

Love Mary **
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