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Jacob Traver Mar 2016
I rose --
Sick on an Easter morning
To my 9:40 alarm
To another mourning
Of another alarming
Attack on lives
And I live on
Feeling secure.

I rose --
Sick on a Maryland morning
A week after Italy
Three days after Ireland
Being closer to Pakistan
Being too close to Belgium
And all I felt was a pat down
And more secure.

He rose --
For the mourning
And on this morning
I can't help feeling
But He will make secure.
Prayer for Pakistan, Belgium, and the nations around the world. He lives and God bless.
LD Goodwin Mar 2016
Distorted words from holy books,
hypnotized by the *******.
Whirl the swords 'round our heads,
while making their incursion.

A snowball out of control
a firestorm a reining
beliefs too strong to see the winds
of peace within them straining.

We wake to fear, and fear, and fear,
and soon will come the numbing
left by the sound of egos blasts,
cadences of ancient drumming.

Bullies in the school yard,
disgruntled husbands batter wives
Too many with too much and still unhappy
ruining other peoples lives

Who then among us
will take up the banner now
and love themselves, change the world
unfurl their angry brow

I will move the universe.
I will love my life.
I will throw away the gun.
I will sheath my knife.
*Peace upon Brussels*
Tim Knight Mar 2016
I dreamt of travel disruption last night
and haven’t woken up since; know that though,
a whole ****** of crows hidden along
the hemline of a coat was not the
reason I was late, nor were black stamps spat
out through mirrored windows, panes unmoored from
frames in the wake of two late goodbyes: one
said at a check-in desk disguised as point
A; the second, central, wrapped around an
orbit of children where they now lay.

This news- again, it is news- is an air-
bag of ears, of interviews, listening
so we don't have to, colouring pallor
in post so the ghosts of aftermath do
not go unnoticed when we believe it
may not of have happened.

I'm going to buy out the sky right of
tragedy and skywrite,
                                     vandals of companionship are not tolerated below this message, or above.
ShirleyB Jan 2016
I wonder, sometimes, why it is a fact,
A gifted, handsome man should be alone.
My iambic pentameter’s intact,
And yet I tend to lyric on my own.

Alliteration alienates romance.
The ladies scorn my struggle with cliché
They scoff, then aggravated, wring their hands.
Yet still I need to couplet every day.

I’m thinking as I sit beside my date,
“I’ll syllable you soon if I am able.”
At times my meter renders me irate.
It’s difficult to rhythm at the table.

“Another cup?” I search her face for clues.
She looks a little bored. It can’t be me.
I pass the menu for her to peruse.
“Why don’t you try a blended Chinese tea?”

I’m formulating ditties as she speaks.
“I think I’d like to go. I’m rather hot.”
“Do stay. I’ve ordered brussels sprouts and leeks.”
Her grimace indicates she’d rather not.

I wonder if I’ve aimed a little low.
Her diction leaves a lot to be desired.
I’d like to teach her how to ebb and flow,
But ‘clueless’ leaves me, frankly, uninspired.

She fidgets nervously and looks away.
I wonder if the woman is a freak.
“I hope you’re not illiterate,” I say.
I may have been a little indescrete.

My fears were justified, she’s never heard
Enjambment quite like mine in all her days.
She slaps my face and tells me I’m absurd,
Then dumps me in a non-poetic daze.

I could have blessed her with a monologue;
Enthralled her with the kernel of my quill;
enchanted her with dazzling dialogue,
If only she’d have stayed to pay the bill.

Now woe is me. I’m lost and incomplete.
Lamenting my position; full of doubts.
Deliberating how a man can eat
A double share of leeks and brussels sprouts.
The rosy-green flight
Of hills and ramps
Blurred in twilight
By a soft lamp

Golden valleys darken
Red in the breeze
Small birds harken
In headless trees

The sadness fades
In my mind’s medium
These autumn shades  
Shatter the sky’s tedium
Translation of Bruxelles – Simples Fresques I by the French poet Paul Verlaine.
Rescued beasts brought into my home
not my children.
Small bearded creatures,
who so loudly exclaim at three A.M.

not security conscience,
nor do they even really care.
They are just a couple of night-jerks.

Furry little night-jerks.

— The End —