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  Apr 2014 Steven Fortune
Javier Garza
I fell from my throne of fire
Lost my crown
My subjects of hell reject me
My kingdom crumbles to dust

My palace is gone
With it the deep sorrows of darkness
This ****** land, no longer mine to command

I lost my power
Weak and renounced
No souls beneath me who fear me
No strength in my hands, these are no longer my lands

I fell from my throne of fire
I lost it all
Let me just burn
Let me just die

This Palace of Sorrow no longer claimed by me
These lives to rule, are now free to be
Let me just burn
I lost my throne
I lost it all
Let me just burn
To escape my biggest fall
  Apr 2014 Steven Fortune
Skadi Snow
When the night falls
The crystal clear diamond of the sky
Rises far over the horizon
Of the deep blue deserted sea.

The North Star who shows us the way.
As the brightest of all the stars
He glows silent on the gigantic firmament.

The eternal light of the North Star
Touches our old gray souls
Gives us the power of the
Ancient long-forgotten gods.

Far away there is still so much.
Be our vigil and take us home.
  Apr 2014 Steven Fortune
John Updike
The shadows have their seasons, too.
The feathery web the budding maples
cast down upon the sullen lawn

bears but a faint relation to
high summer's umbrageous weight
and tunnellike continuum-

black leached from green, deep pools
wherein a globe of gnats revolves
as airy as an astrolabe.

The thinning shade of autumn is
an inherited Oriental,
red worn to pink, nap worn to thread.

Shadows on snow look blue. The skier,
exultant at the summit, sees his poles
elongate toward the valley: thus

each blade of grass projects another
opposite the sun, and in marshes
the mesh is infinite,

as the winged eclipse an eagle in flight
drags across the desert floor
is infinitesimal.

And shadows on water!-
the beech bough bent to the speckled lake
where silt motes flicker gold,

or the steel dock underslung
with a submarine that trembles,
its ladder stiffened by air.

And loveliest, because least looked-for,
gray on gray, the stripes
the pearl-white winter sun

hung low beneath the leafless wood
draws out from trunk to trunk across the road
like a stairway that does not rise.
You can find me dancing on the wind,
walking on graves,
creeping in the shadows.
You might find me tossing rocks at his window
with a pen in my hand
or between my teeth.
Sometimes you'll find me trying on dresses,
drawing finger mustaches,
laughing about nothing.
But you'll always find me in his heart.
  Apr 2014 Steven Fortune
anonymous999
i used to convince myself that you were a drizzle, not a hurricane. that you were not a force of nature but a gentle breeze that made my life better. i used that to tell myself that you weren't right for me. and i was wrong. you are not a drizzle, or a gentle breeze. you are a swift kick in the gut, one hell of a powerful blow to my stomach. you were always there and i knew you would be. you were always the one that cared more. always there, until one day, you weren't. you did not ruin my house and soak all of my belongings; but you ruined my insides and left me doubled over throwing up by side of the road right when i needed you most. you left because you were losing me. but i wasn't really gone until you left.
  Apr 2014 Steven Fortune
Jack
~

Sad Existence


It is a sad existence, that of a poet
with flowery phrases and disguised meanings
Tossing out happy faces like quarters
splashing in a wishing well with no bottom

Painting heartstrings in an amber shade of gold
lingering silver linings losing their crease
in frayed bottomed hip huggers
that are long out of style

Swishing fragrant melodies on starch white paper
collecting lines in neat rows and margin’d desires
lips fluttering and eyelashes batting
well below the league's average

Whispering notions of sheer delight,
tantalizing rapid pulses pushing blood
through narrow corridors finding
locked garden entrances in chained Jasmine

Dreaming dreams that only a dreamer could dream
all the while knowing that when they awaken
pen in hand, ink at the ready
these dreams shall never come true

It is a sad existence, that of a poet…who believes their own dreams
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