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Jessica Oct 3
Does love rain down like blossoms in the fall
I wondered...
A thousand colors of pink and yellow
A parade of time and a conjunction of feeling
Tender like the hands of a prayer whispered
In joy
While kneeling
Or does love possess
Covetously
I pondered...
With a shallow smile that rots in beat
To the petals on the pavement
Mimicking the neutrality
Of a dealer waiting for the cards to fall
While they are dealing?
"I am only answers, not questions",
said Love
"With too few regrets to mention".
Do you ever imagine
      you've lived this day
long ago

only under the beveled glass of a dream,
and now,

you're just going through

      the motions using muscle memory?
Are we carrying out the tissue of our dreams conjured up centuries before?
Mrs Timetable Jun 14
The only piece
You let anyone see
Is the broken one....

And
It is beautiful
As is
Sometimez  "as is" is good enough. Some things can't be fixed
Nolan Willett Apr 10
If we can never sail the ocean
We’ll still dream of the sea;
all have their own notion,
Of what it means to be free.
Amanda Mar 6
True friends do not care
About appearance or clothes
Accept you "as is"
They are not concerned with your condition they just want to be with you for you
Ode to the hand that's held.

Leaf blower suicide.
German going in & out.
The precious things.
Lay on back.
Looking up.
Doing only what is known.
Wondering what isn't.
Going side to side.
Talking.
Talking.
Talk the ride home.
We only went to Wyoming.



Garrett Johnson.
& what isn't.
as our letters age

my twenty six best friends gather round a winter fire,
a Valentine’s Day retreat from the bones internal chilly yellowing,
we’ve been together from the Day One beginning, a life of
commencing conception, deception, immaculate and messy mixing

practicing fumbling, making and breaking the conventional,
we arrange and rearrange our unique ordering, overlapping
with your version, cousin, so we communicate, but uniquely ours,
individualist letters, witnesses, markers, word~children, born, lost

soon seventy will come, and a party, a literary review to be held,
mourning the many, works uncompleted, toasting the few that satisfied,
acknowledging the collaboration of all the twenty six with
special guests,
an aging five senses
that were the kindling that sparked them into action

oh my dear ones, my best friends, your knew me too well,
my best, worst,
my progeny, blood of my blood, voice of my guts,
consoling friends, who
brooked my self-deceptions, yet denounced them when
over-the-topping,
comforters of our mutual ashes buried in one casket,
our final poem, clutched, at last...
my alphabet of life...




Sat. Feb 22, 2020
10:26am
you will be invited.
Faizel Farzee Feb 11
A smile that lights the darkest corner of this unforgiving world.

You are my fire, cinders in my soul constantly burning
Your touch melted my icy heart, all it ever knew was unrelenting cold.

My soul you armed with confidence, gave it strength, worth It's weapon, it's so bold.

Life handed me a bad hand, without you in it, I would have to fold.

Together we travel this winding road directionless, even if it is unknown.

Every moment love shared, a river of love, we prayed to find each other
Between us it religiously flows.

We both wholeheartedly without any doubt  feel the same, our love knows.

You my heavenly Angel, your words divine,
Your heart your Angelic halo.
This is the month of love, let your feelings known
shout it from the rooftop, let your better half know,
together love shared, watered
together you will grow.
AND WHAT OF DEATH?

And what of death? It is, of course,
inevitable, inexorable. It is the period
at the end of each one’s life sentence.
But the meaning of death can only begin
to be understood by what comes before
it:  one’s life. In the largest, possible
sense, death is meaningless, a neces-
sary afterthought, if that, to a life lived.
An euology, an epitaph wrap up death
neatly in a few words, a few lines, but
in so doing, unwittingly becomes an ani-
madversion to the one who has died. To
commemorate the deceased, we need
to sing the song of that life lived, a chorus,
if you will, of remembrances--birth, child-
hood, growing up, adulthood, perhaps
marriage and family, a career, joyous
times, times painful and sorrowful and thus
challenging, perhaps grandchildren,
acts of kindness and courage, acts of
atonement. Only a life lived and remem-
bered can give death any meaning.
Come, celebrate a life lived! Shovels
of dirt can wait.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks
A graduate of Andover and Columbia College, Columbia University, Tod Howard Hawks has been a poet and human-rights advocate his entire adult life. He recently finished his novel, A CHILD FOR AMARANTH.
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