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Angela Rose Jul 24
I am going to continue to water you even when your thorns stab me
I am going to continue to assist your growth even though your thorns don't want me to touch you
You're going to be the most beautiful thing my garden has ever seen
Sing us a carol
Just this once
Bring us an unfailing hope
From the top of your voice
What we gain from your pain
Is beyond sacrifice
It is love supreme
Marked by our never having
To die at all

Alma Jun 26
Blows of grime frigidly strike me
from another dust bowl
Your small storms build up under my nails into a calcified crescent.
These claws are now the most dense part of me. My frail bones resemble paper mache in comparison.
I gnaw the claws off
to preserve what once was.

A resemblance to little stumps,
from cut trees,
or clipped branches?
Which would hurt, less?
Leaving a drought all together with one swift cut or pruning off the sickness.

I don’t want to scratch skin
the way your high speed sand does!
Rippling over my aching arms!

I want..
I should
Create an oasis,
one out of those sick branches to shield my once
Sandy eyes

Dig for comfort in the calm I built


to build armor of twine and run
Into the storm with no tears in my eyes

leave a note in the dirt with my soft stubs and walk out of your dessert.
“Blood is thicker than water”
A prequel
If I am treason,
it’s you I kiss.

If I am desertion,
it’s you I blame.

If I am persuasion,
it’s you I rob.

And when we kiss dutifully,
smile in simile,
just whose road of promise
will it be?

If I am steep,
it’s your future I will not climb.

If I am winter sky,
it’s your way out beclouding.

If I am compromise,
it’s your eyes that hold no conviction.

And when we drift apart in apathy,
evade with euphemisms,
just whose road of decline
will it be?

If I am consternation,
it’s your dream driven away.

If I am turbulent sea,
it’s your ship high upon waves of doubt.

If I am fruition,
it’s your tomorrow that is sunk.

And when we drink to this tragedy,
get drunk on alliterations,
just whose road of surrender
will it be?

Written March 27, 1996
standing in the middle of some vast, empty space—the kind of ocean or plain where you can see the edge of a dream in all directions

and it opens to you, and you let it in—womblike—everything around you is meaningful, whether it’s beautiful or horrible or sublime

it must be written above and left to fall as the wettest raindrop, tempting fate, and fate retaliated—again there was light, and again there was darkness, a new day
Jim Apr 4
I’m happy to have a handful of roses
Soft yellows, deep reds, pure white..

Yet the first petal wilts and the thorns have been stripped
As the end of the line comes up quick
And the two headed coin wasn’t ever flipped
Time to pick some new flowers to sniff
It was all the rage
in the food industry
or so they implied

It was easier to
go down the bakery aisle
or so they justified

It was how so many men
preferred to see dessert
or so they specified

But to her way of thinking
it just never looked right
no matter how she tried
Acina Joy Mar 4
We're just paintings
on a plaster wall,
where chips fall
to the linoleum floor,

where we sweep aside
the love and the loss,
our prayers that we cuss
when we have nothing more.

Our exhibit is open
to the ****** and the wicked
and all the good and the naked;
those who blindly trust.

Our love chips off
but we are fine with that
for we never look back
pretending to say, "we must."

In years, maybe
when we're fading and old;
ripped off the frame,fold,
when we're hastily stashed away —

If we were humans,
who could move, love, kneel
kiss and frame, and steal,
please ask me: "would you stay?"

And, yes.
Yes, I would, anyway.
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