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S R Mats Sep 20
Here I am standing within this moment.
I feel the echoes of time's tide
Lapping at my feet, washing over me
Reaching the top of my head.
My brain suddenly comprehending
What time actually means to each of us.
S R Mats Sep 20
Mother comes to where she is most needed
Her gibbering womb speaks healing words
She tells of times when she was barren
She recalls the times when she gave birth
She speaks of pain in the blood of children
Written in red on black hearts of evil men
She gathers children birthed by others to her
Covers them with the volume of her skirt
Though she had not born them she nurtures
Calls them hers and continue to give them life
She cries "Sisters, I will grow them in your behalf"
Her womb speaks of each one as equaled in love
She is eternally Mother and the world is her child
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S R Mats Sep 20
Mother comes to where she is most needed
Her gibbering womb speaks healing words
She tells of times when she was barren
She recalls the times when she gave birth
She speaks of pain in the blood of children
Written in red on black hearts of evil men
She gathers children birthed by others to her
Covers them with the volume of her skirt
Though she had not born them she nurtures
Calls them hers and continue to give them life
Her womb speaks of each one as equaled in love
She is eternally Mother and the world is her child
S R Mats Sep 19
She blew her brains out
Out by the dumpster
The note she left said
She had no one who cared
And she went out that way
Because she didn't want to
Leave a mess for the cleaning lady
I found a bucket, a good bucket
(I think it may have been hers)
Castoff and tossed afterwards
I needed a bucket like she
Needed to have a friend to care
So, now when I use it, I keep her
In my mind and alive,
Although I never knew her
S R Mats Sep 19
There's a little frog
In the garden beds
Beneath my balcony.
Each morning, he greets
With his peep, peep, peep.
A spoonbill crane,
In its rose-colored cloak,
Swoops down to steal
A tasty meal.
But my little frog
Will sing its morning song,
On and on, still.
S R Mats Sep 18
With tiny feet
Stuck on dead meat
You proboscis-probe
******* juice;
And yet, you are
Beautiful.
S R Mats Sep 18
Words mean what they mean, I ask?
But, ah, they can be nuanced or veiled.
They can be soft as cotton, feather-light,
Or hit like the proverbial ton of bricks
Dead on the nail head hammering
Their impact home.  That's the power
Of the weight of words.  Weigh them carefully.
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