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  Mar 2017 Shawna Michele
A W Bullen
Cold stoles the coast in geisha voiles
of pawned Atlantic mourning, where

The plangent skirl of larids
carry through the vast exquisite
plains of February emptiness.

Aloft on coronal ruin, she flew
in free form falling, between the spheres
she grew in brightness, and by her ******,
the moping shale, appeared , as if transformed.

She blessed the face of stained glass saints
hung loud on hallowed walls, From a
palisade of glinting brinks, she
hauled deserted chapels into
parishes of lambent wake
their majesties , reborn.
  Mar 2017 Shawna Michele
beth stclair
everything of
me was lilac,

every bolt of
air,
every summer
moon,
every drop of
cooling rain,

in spring i
melted like
a hedgerow,
in gold and
sky-bronze,

in summer i
gathered the sky
to my branches
green with shadows
of longing,

in autumn i trembled
downwards like a
girl unwinding her
hair,

and in winter i froze
on the doorstep
all black branch
and cold
rigging on
a barren ship,

everything of me
was lilac and
i had the most
beautiful
purple throat,

i was a soft
melody of love
on a strange
moody day.
Shawna Michele Jan 2017
“How alone I am, but in music
my desolation is my rejoicing.”* -Louise Gluck

The gray headstones rise from the earth
pockmarked and fading
I trace my fingers along the edge
dipping into the deep wells that echo her name

a delicate engraving

What would she think now, my grandmother
am I living
am I making similar mistakes
or are they my own

I have walked outside today along the coast
under the music of the sun

I close my eyes and listen

in my mind I can see the soft fading sway
of her silhouette moving forward

There are roses, dark roses
tucked into the hem at her waist
They fall slowly over the seagrass
cascading like stars
like evening rain
covering the landscape with their faint sounds

like mist descending over the sea
rolling in like a lost memory
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