Sia Jane

Aug 2015

Joshua Haines

On Fire

Her ribs crackled, in the skeleton night.
And I remember my mouth on hers,
where atomic fish hooks attached our lips.
Where there was nothing like kissing
like our God wasn't dead.

She was accused of killing a taxi driver
in the Brazilian underbelly.
Smoking a cigarette, she dropped it on the ground,
spat on it, and crushed it with her bare foot,
saying she fell in love with the way
his sleep-drenched body lay.

And I told her to stay home.
And I told her that they'd find her.
But she didn't stay home.
And they did find her.

Chasing her through the Babylon brush,
insults were thrown and so were balloons of gasoline.
Each pink, yellow, and green vessel floated in the air, as an internal opera heightened.
And sour splashes spread across her body,
as she fled from the vigilante mob.

The children danced along the panoramic horizon she ran beside,
laughing, pointing, singing.
The slumbering sorrow of the situation became evident,
and she started to feel the calm of fleeting life.

Her dreams aborted and her ideals became fallacies,
and with the sound of fuzzy motors in the background, her heart leapt and her feet slipped.

Rope ate into her, wrapping her like the orphaned recklessness of each set of eyes that painted her.
She squirmed amongst the cheers.
She cried with every thrown beer and balloon.
The empty-eyed males gang ***** her.
The women covered the children's eyes,
and the children tried to move their mothers' hands.

And I pushed my way through the crowd.
And I saw her smothered in blood, beer, and gasoline.
I wanted to halt the hurricane that destroyed morality.
But I am a coward.
Frozen by my fear, I, too, am a murderer.
And a murderer I'll always be,
for the burning of all that was good.

Sudden flames soared towards the sky.
Laughter escaped as molotov cocktails exploded onto her body.
Her head turned towards the crowd,
as flames scampered across her face.
I saw in her, what I never saw before,
which was the human race.

Aug 2015

Joe Cole

Hope

A strip of barren land
Stark, forbidding
But I sat there and watched a flower grow
Bringing a bright splash of colour
To this dead land
Bringing a bright splash of hope
To a world sinking into the darkness

#hope

Aug 2015

Sally A Bayan

Things That Were Not Meant To Be

We worked hard for these plans for so long
these dreams, we feel, could never go wrong
we have given them our all...they are nearly done,
but, "nearly" doesn't mean it's been won
deep inside, we keep alive their essence
and we choose to stretch our patience...

We wait...

Notes have yet to be written on the bars
the tunes seem to be playing among the stars
lyrics are springing back and forth
"pen-rubber-pen," is a cycle that can't be fought
they are songs taking too long to be sung
in the air, they fly, like arrows being slung
in spaces too far flung...

We sit on the edge, while waiting...

They are verses that falter
have yet to make it on white paper
altered thoughts, words displaced
lines, here and there...disorganized
hanging...
with unknown endings
work is pending
we desperately seek for the missing element
to come up with meaty, meaningful contents...

We console ourselves, and say, "maybe later..."

They are faces that hide
there, at the back of our minds
smiling at us in our darkest hours
they make us cry, laugh, turn our moods so dour
keeping us company twenty-four/seven,
we fervently wish, the odds would become even
yes...we long for their physical presence
but....it can't...it just doesn't...happen!
they keep stalling
courage could be waning...

It is hard to comprehend why...we're still willing to wait.

When most days of life have passed
and while waiting, we breathe our last,
our songs, our meandering loves, our dreams,
our long written poems with scattered themes,
like shredded paper, shall go with the final heave of our chests
fly away, flee to the open spaces...to find rest,
and, after wandering all over...they would then settle down
to finally become the color of the ground.

One day, things would fit into their proper places,
people will wear smiles on their faces
nothing would seem to be wrong
the air would be filled with songs
from new lives, new loves...risen from the fall
from life's cycle....these unknowing souls
their palms, with lines and colors, much brighter
they could be luckier
they have better chances...they show more courage
the wind brings good fortune, they now have the edge...

How are they to know, their most desired aspirations
used to be other people's inspirations
in the past generations?
their dreams realized had once been,
Things that were not meant to be.

Sally

Copyright JUNE 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

***...fell again into the rhyming trap...oh, well...***

#dreams #verses #songs #faces #thingsthatwerenotmeanttobe

Aug 2015

Nat Lipstadt

suffused

~~~

it as if I am blinded
by the perfection
of the moment

all sensors singly loaded,
yet interacting,
in a buckshot of common cause

my eyes suffused
by sun scattering rays uncovering a day's birth placenta gleaming
amidst the glaring shadows of the refuse of nature's yesterday's
discarded leavings

my eyes reversed,
unsuffused
as it they were a gift,
waiting all this time,
forgoing-opening until
just this moment

my ears suffused
by soft sounds and
swirling ripples of calm waters,
the wind teasing, saying,
move like me, but just so, barely,
the real sounds of the quietude heard
as if for the first time

my tongue tastes you,
wrested from my mind's eye, you are given,
in the everything, skin creme of lapping waves, in the everywhere,
uncovered from within the sun's own departing shadow

my smell
is the smell of life,
nostrils flaring expanding with no limit
to take it all in,
completing, unifying,
a puzzle that never was,
that is now forever solved

my hands fuse
the tingling of life given from wet dewy grass,
shiny and reflecting,
the roughness of the bark,
a natural protective coating,
combining soft caresses and confirming
the necessity of both

perfectly still
I sit amidst
the perfect stillness,
all movement unnecessary,
all my senses reach out and return as one,
bringing me presents of knowledge,
more than suffused, I too,
am trite but true,
dearest god, can it be true,
rebirthed, renewed

this ordinary day
is now extraordinary
solitary figure staring gaze steady,
a perfection ******,
impatient for the
suffusion fix
of this day, and the morrow

~~~

**August 6, 2015
Shelter Island

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1296049/the-last-thing-on-earth/

~~~

a passerby, common exclamation,
to which no workmanlike thought
ever sufficient given...

the idea of it though burns,
throat choking noises fill the brain,
all course unexpected through hot bloodless veins,
more a questioning proclamation,
a shoutout to my unknowing,
not a declaration of certain positivity,
a positive certitude of only
which questions
bear asking...

what is the last on earth that:

*I wish to kiss,
forgive and forget,
curse, demanding it soon-to-be-follow-on demise,
what image desired to happy scar my retina's retention,
the taste that will always bud
but n'ere bloom for a thousand millenniums uncountable
which poem mine will I clutch as I am laid-me-down,
the one that will read over and over again
always in grace and with tears of only sad joy,
always satisfying...

what flower will last burnish my declining senses,
which friend, will I two-handed grasp,
saying for you,
should have been so much more...

which sea, waters, needs be my final resting place,
will I will it salty or sweet, me to keep,
what face to savor~gaze for all eternity,
whose forehead to graze goodbye,
what future to pray for my descendants,
and all those that gather to bury me...

whose breast to hopeless last clutch,
as if they could deny, stay my sentence...
or I,
theirs...

whose heart to keep close as my last companion,
from whom to beg, remember be as I remember you,
faithful and true,
whose light will I require,
whose light will I provide,
when it is the last thing I contemplate...

whose touch, whose skin will I best remember,
will be the last one, or the first,
what question will I need answering,
what solutions will I at last,
be able to provide...*

so much more to muse upon,
as I gaze upon this poem's sad refrain,
and in desperation contemplate,
what will be my last thought embraced
when I leave this commissary,
that purveys so many answers...

indeed, answers aplenty, like shiny new pennies,
all begging to be found sufficient,
many claiming audacious necessity,
but I know better than that,
the answers will provide themselves
when marked finally
"due immediately..."
~~~

July 28 ~ August 8, 2015
Shelter Island

Aug 2015

D W

Princesse de Troie

Those tender soft lips,
Ah, those heavenly hips.
One'd never tend to miss,
After along time of resist,
He said:

"Girl, I would grab you from the hips,
Those big, cherry lips, I'd widly kiss."

She nodded her head,
And grabbed him by the shirt,
In a ******* scrumptious dissmiss,
She'd whisper and temptingly hiss,

"Boy, Take it easy!"*

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