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Nylee Dec 2020
Three hundred and sixty
the days blurred away
I have had so many thoughts
I have lost them in time and places
no memories come to mind
only insecurities in the face
all my connections hard to find
It has been a surreal time.

The lush green picturesque view framed in mind
It is the year twenty twenty
No sunshine touched my face
up and lost like every other day
nobody new came in my way
same struggles and my prayers
My hair four inches longer
the only thing grown this year

Twenty fifth year of mine,
slowly approaching
The previous decade had me
losing hope with time
I am just curiously watching
what new problems
would headline this new year
A new decade to remember.
The last poetry of the year.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2016
~

<>


nearby distant,
the soft thrash of warm waves
lapping interlocking,
happily wet tongue kissing,
sun-oven precision-crisping
the Long Island striped bass
and porgies, at a surreal cooling
77 degrees

Pandora synced to his eyes,
shuffling freely,
by saying
we too see!!
playing for him,
Stairway to Heaven (Led Zeppelin)

poor, poor poet,
strains to brain drain one more time,
conducting an ogling googling word search
for those combinatory storied ones that
sailboat glide
all the while
wildly bursting with Pellegrino effervescence

compromising sounds sights,
to present
properly the balance,
to preserve
properly this moment,
peaceful alive for all times,
as poet has tried,
and failed so many times before...

the caw caw caw of the crow mocks the illiterate human,
for the bird calls it, in single sound perfect and
the human a laughingstock,
for not in his possess,
to capture this perfect moment
of human sabbath.

a Roman Saturn day of rest,
on this day that itself,
is perfection,
perfect for celebrating our common creation,
on a day that our
almost-all-agreed-upon calendar
is marked for us to
forte rest,
from an existence of just laborious

the chubby checkered cheeked squirrels
laughingly pauses,
watching, enjoying a poet's struggle,
mind boggle,
the poet's chubby cheeks
stuffed with discarded words,
all insufficient to capture
the absolution of
absolute beauty

bathing in the noisiest of nature's sounds,
all that contravene the silence of living things,
breathing prayerful thoughts that all
summary end,
with a common gesture of
forefinger upon the lips

a human acknowledgment of
utter obeisance to the forces
calling out by example

listen, see!

silently presenting,
this,
this!!


a day that demanded perfection
Karijinbba May 2020
A lifetime suffered a lost love be found wearing no mask
but lovers wore many
each time we crossed roads again.
Now a mandatory sinester splinter
requiring mask as chip to buy food,
is implemented overnight.

I was hunted down trashed for years
and wished I wore masks for safety. prayed long my enemies be isolated from staining my treasures with distrust.

dreamt to be loved regardless of race creed nationality or social status;
we all seem faceless prompting
equality but, are we just one race?
Are we really faceless underneath macabre fear stained masks?

Now everyone good and evil tastes a bit of their own enforced medicine
on locked down mode eat sleep
isolating themselves just like they did me
this offeres no justice no relief
This pandemic universal malady
seeing no class no status
our abodes or manssions are prisons prisons for our mind!
clipping our last freedom wings
we are so tired of wars after wars.
Louis Amstrong song
"What a Wonderful World"
just keeps popping in mind at
6:49 AM George Noory radio show
Have we surrendered our freedoms
for safety to live life free-less?
Do we then deserve any?

Isolated years endured has saved me from untimely death where enemies
ploted profiting from my demise.

I remain aware awake enough to understand there's a cat inside this
Pandora's box lid closed up quickly.
Governments hording many a secret
unreleased but what is the mystery?

The value of liberating truth
is the price placed on a lie
sold to us all for mare peanuts
to keep us asleep sheeply
masked obeying or else
face illness untimely death,
distrusting all even ourselves,
is the new way of life the big change.

Can the world ever trust anything
anyone entity government
friend family stranger?
We aren't cowards nor lack courage
we are exausted enough to give up
surely temporarily though
for the human spirit relentless is
resilient outwordly born free
like you, like me, like us.

ditch the masks accept no chips
Let's grab this weird dictatirial change
by it's ugly covert horns.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Karijinbba
05-11.2020
30 million unemployed Americans out of 360 million throughout North America Usa..
letters to basil May 2020
XXV
dear quinn,

you have
every right
to push  
people away.

but that doesn't mean
you have to.

it doesn't make it better.

i would know,
quinn
get some fresh air. and keep those you love close to you. as close as you can get them. because you cannot know when you will lose them, lovely.

thank you for reading my words <3

04.30.20
Geoffrey Adams Mar 2020
Poison.
Poison is all that's on my mind.
I could go out in edgy flair
By the point of a dagger
Or, I could disappear by poison.
Free myself from this cage with cyanide
A sleepy, seamless death.
No marks
No pain
Just true freedom.
No more drugs pumping through my body to stall while death is lurking
Maybe then
I could finally be released of the pain I hold in my chest
The pain of a thousand wishes and hopes orphaned
Crushed
I'll never be worthwhile.
I know that.
May this last vision
To some so vile
Be carried out for once in my life.
Carlo C Gomez Mar 2020
You bloom so bright for me
in each & every season

be it the intense heat in summer
or the frosted chill of winter

then there are days when
you are the only thing that shines

you're a strength
I greatly need & admire

you're an endurance
so priceless, so vast

I long each day
to nourish you in return

love is a gift
& you're the kindest one
imaginable to me

together we are firmly rooted
& so we shall remain
for all time to come
For Mrs Timetable.
Happy 25th anniversary, my love.

jolie fleur is French for 'pretty flower.'
rig Feb 2020
25
tower of oceans,
bug golden thriller,
blue denim body,
cinnamon lemon,
and old birthday rain.
My poems are not me
My poems are not how I feel
My poems are just a simple constellation of words that my brain created, and my fingers wrote down for the reading pleasure of others
I'm fine
A poem every day.
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