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Farting felicity -
How long gone, now a
distant star in space-
as a gurgling brook of
heavenly murmurs, disquiet
thrumming combo, turned
crescent flesh, brutal and subdued until,
one socializes, recombines,
and altruism visits, presides, provides.

Carpi, digitorum, and flexors,
metacarpals, index, and fingertips
dangle a top for a gambler's game,
and, with it, the fate of outcome, and
woe for the long-begotten soul,
the soul drab in its rag, robe, and *****,
whose wealth subtracts as it doth add,
and a wise fool realizes -
Time and grace,
Love and death,
departure and arrival,
is but ******.
green palms
exploding open
effortless
and concentric

spirograms
or feeling tissue
lifting an eye
to heat
It’s tough to be kind
when one is alone,
for life seems best
when shared with the other;

To cherish the story
of one not your own
is a pure devotion
to the living heart.
I see people
who wax and wane,
who are once kind, but then come to doubt themselves.
Perhaps there is no such thing as Love.
But, if there is, it comes and leaves souls untouched. Gentle thing?

I imagine people go entire lives without warmth, who were shunted so, so as to subsist on merry blows.

Would a loving God clapse her hands down in Law? Be there some poor chap who fits the bill, t’would be one who is the master of none.

Retribution is a troubling thing.
I

Salient soliloquies startle unemployed brokers breaking windsurf and almond joys against a heavenly myrtle, or
Shallow ponds of serendipity swallowing enormously at bandits who bait their breath as minutes retreat, or
this poetry is about reminders, or
Children hiding under ghosts evoking dead pools of drinking moss,
who dream of knowing silence

Who,
spreading dyes of crushed grass give scarecrows a purpose to perch,
In a land called Home,
In an outlet called intelligible,
during a shared history, which,
Under dissection,
startles earthworms from their native volumes now standing naked in the daylight,
The daylight, which is contained,
a specular cocoon or an inverted dome: the sky.

II

a pinwheel,
when spinning, is unsuspected of employing Nature’s most dangerous tools,
One of flatness, one of exuberance, jubilation,
of the dirt that falls upon ones clothes as one passes through the pines and pins of solitude,
solitude, which,
in a wave from the unknown, dispose of forgone longings through the greeting of a friend who remains a stranger until they’re gone.
Commonness of the flowers  -
virtuous insignificance,
invoking visions of royalty
for ants, and snails, and such,

How trivially contests mankind,
what costumes their children wear,
while, silently, a bulbous sun
sidles across the sky.

These days
I don’t feel like writing
What I feel about
The feeling itself escapes my thoughts
But life has its say, makes you sway
In every way
Sometimes
It’s more than the sun and twinkling stars
And pearly moon’s glow  
Beyond the words the words have other places to go
 Sep 2021 Seven Nielsen
Brett
Dancing with my ghosts, on a midnight summer’s eve
A cacophony of determined footsteps
Mirrors the melody played
On the last night I spoke my piece

A candlelight vigil for time wasted
Buried is the boy, who once lived inside my waking dreams
Now bereaved, the man forgets all the boy has seen
Trapped inside of photo albums, in an attempt to resuscitate fading memories
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