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 May 2024 st64
sandra wyllie
with just myself. Lying in a red hammock
curled up under a cornflower sky, with a book
to read as a cardinal flies by.  Or walking
in the woods among the ferns and the trees

I find tranquility. The chattering song of
the jay, the stillness of a breaking day. Women are
critical and glib, drooling like babies wearing
a bib. Green- eyed and petty. Raining on me

like colored confetti. Friendship is overrated,
leaving me lonely and weighted. The babbling
of a brook I'll take than that of a woman. Time is
a gift not to squander. Thoughts are words

to sit and to ponder. Women spread them like
strawberry jam, rolling out of their mouths
like a broken dam. Like the sun and the moon
I'm a solitary man.
Small on the skyline,
This beautiful ship I’ve launched-
Testing the waters and her seaworthiness.
I stand on shore and strain to see
The sun glint off her sails as they unfurl,
It won’t be long before the horizon
Reaches out and takes her from my sight.

And yet she circles back again,
To the safety of this harbor
Where the ocean gathers calm and still.
But I know the tide is freshening
And the wind is for adventure.
I long to let her glide away but
It hurts too much to open up my fingers,
So I heave and pull on the mooring rope
Striving to keep her next to the pier-
Proud of the way she rides the swells-
Thrilled with the cut of her mainmast-
Excited with visions of where she can go-
Still I’m reluctant to bid her bon voyage.

For I have no ticket - this isn’t my trip,
I’ll have to be happy with postcards
From places mundane and wildly exotic-
Hoping she’s not out at sea too long and
That killer squalls don’t find her.

I’ve built her well - she’s sound and good.
There’s great common sense on the rudder.
The maps are laid out in orderly rows
And her spirit holds steady the sextant.

The tugs on the rope are outdoing my fingers
And I’ve had to begin to let go.
I must save some strength to lift hands in farewell
And keep vision clear through the teardrops.
        ljm
Thinking about Mother's Day
 May 2024 st64
Thomas W Case
There are miracles when I open my eyes.
The smile on the cat, the taste of strong coffee.
A Beethoven symphony while I taste dark chocolate.
I exist in the present, next week is nebulous.
The touch of my baby's cheek against mine
defeats the demons and destroys chaos.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lgXtR-Z6G9s
Check out my you tube channel where I read my poetry.
 May 2024 st64
Bardo
I suppose I'll be in a Nursing Home one day
  drooling all over myself
And still plotting revenge on this world for
  having wronged me so,
Or maybe I might just be dozing, probably
  having another nightmare
I might find myself on a train somewhere and the conductor he suddenly
  announces
"Next stop Dementia City
After that it's Alzheimersville"
I'll awake with a start
And then...then I'll see her... this beautiful
  vision just walking in
Elderly like myself but still so ladylike
Still so lithe and graceful
I'll tell my Nurse to quickly get my false teeth
And my good wig
And my walking frame
And to give me a couple of those heart tablets
I'd think to myself "I knew she'd come... one
  day"
It'd be one last chance for Love... one last dash for Love.

So moving slowly but determinedly across
  the floor toward her
I'd probably get a pain midway
And then keel over
She'd not see me, she'd have her back turned
  to me
The Nurses they'd be showing her to her
  room
She'd be walking away
I'd try to call out but the words they'd get all
  garbled and stuck in my throat
I'd try to reach out to her... reach out like
  she's some mirage in the desert
My last gasp... my last gasp for Love
But...too late...
Too late, the Hero.
A bittersweet bit of fun.
 May 2024 st64
ConnectHook
      The ACCUSATION

Your verse has offended the Muses. The blame
Must be laid on your poetry: limping and lame
As it drags itself over the last crippled line;
A dead-end for your readers (but you missed the sign).
Your scrawling has challenged the unwritten code
And it’s far more than meaning your readers are owed…
We need RHYTHM with ORDER and measured RESTRAINT;
More range in your palette might help you to paint
Us a picture where color and nature, enhanced
With the music of syllables leave us entranced.
But instead, all your verbiage has put us to sleep,
For your lines are as shallow as Boredom is deep.


       The ARGUMENT

Rhythm is ORDER and order is key.
It is only through measure that music is free
An offense to the Muses, depressing to hear,
Is a verse without rhythm, insulting the ear.
Lyric STRUCTURE brings LIBERTY. Freedom gives life.
Free verse?  Oxymoron—and morons are rife.
Confessional slop . . . yes it’s free, like a prison;
But MEANING grows clear in the service of reason.


       The JUDGEMENT

Your poetry’s up for the yearly review:
Mostly sighing and dithering. Sorry, it’s true.
Your muses are clueless, so send them all packing.
Your modernist drivel is found to be lacking
In context, coherency, substance and wit.
Upon careful re-reading, the Verdict: it’s ****.
As regarding the rambling verse you call “free”,
A real Muse, unimpressed by your English degree
Would imprison your lines and then throw out the key.
 May 2024 st64
ConnectHook
Since the US war-machine needs my taxes
to bomb poor people who live far away,
Since few people in my overweight low-info uncivilization
know or care about that,
Since plebeian culture has permeated
and is now acceptable throughout society,
Since I have no influence or control over these factors
to change the outcomes,
Since God is sovereignly ruling and reigning
over all aspects of everything,
Since our leaders do not care
about the stability or well-being of the masses,
Since polarization intensifies every day
as we become a decadent empire,
Since poetry is the epitome of uselessness
and art is reduced to commodity,
Since pharmaceutical corporations
want to keep people drugged and passive—

Therefore, I will cease to worry about outcomes
that are beyond my ability to change,
and I will pay my taxes, for the time being . . .
PROMPT #14 : write a poem of at least ten lines
in which each line begins with the same word.
This technique of beginning multiple lines with the same word or phrase is called anaphora […]
 May 2024 st64
Bekah Halle
Word wranglers wound up together,
in an Exchange at a Hotel.
One said this, others said that...
And many a flute of fizz gulped and guzzled while sat
in between giggles and gazes, as
The past was pulled, kicking and screaming, into the present.
Was it a gift?
Were past pains put to peace?
Or did it awaken promises long forgotten,
Once under the authority of the surgeons' scalpel?

Shakespeare wrote, “The pen is mightier than the sword.”
Solomon, in Proverbs, posed that the power
of life and death is in the tongue;
Words create worlds, said I to thousands of teenagers over the years,
Whether written or spoken words liberate or load us up.
This power is with us every minute of every day in every hour.
Will I write new words with my wieldy weapon whence today?
Will wild blossoms bloom in your heart or
Weeds wither the hope in your womb?

Death always steals the show,
But it is joy that jump-starts it.
Entering within, re-wiring love,
Breathing new life, with new words;
Remembering promises
Of a powerful and plentiful future;
Declaring death dead and life to be lived!
The Exchange Hotel in Sydney is a place I used to frequent as a budding PR Exec. With this poem, I declare love to be released, and again risking heart-fully.
 May 2024 st64
Bekah Halle
We just gathered,
out in the sun
coffee, play equipment, and water fun,
mothers, daughters, father and sons,
monkey bars were spied,
my inner child went wild
as I threw my legs up, up and over,
swinging and hanging smiles more than mild.
Why don't we do that,
more often than not?!
 Apr 2024 st64
spysgrandson
on stone throne above me, in silent dominion
over his kingdom of cacti

this royal reptile knows I am here, prostrate--a simian cast
to the hard earth by a snake stung steed

this lizard saw the serpent strike, and my ten foot fall,
long as the length of sinful history

spine broken, all life's labors lost; no limb can move me
from this ground

the only sounds: my shallow begging of air and the mean symphony
of desert winds--their howling to be my dirge

the saurian monarch will be the lone child of God
to see my eyes close a final time  

perhaps this king will preside over my wake,
lapping at the feast of flies
On my bucket list is to ride a horse alone across open prairie or desert. According to all my equestrian friends, given that I am inexperienced, doing so would be ill advised. Perhaps the tale of the lizard king would be my fate if I did...
who knows what lies underneath
here the land goes up and down
water drains
into rivers
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