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mothwasher Jul 2020
In a field of concrete bunkers,

The left from the middle is guarded by a charred garden gnome

With a necklace of battery powered light up flamingos

And Cheerios

The hat of the gnome sits by an open hatch

The rim of which wears

Teal chains and hula fringe and

Cyborg rhino keychains

The ladder is cut from a sheet of metal

That had a ******* poster on it

And a mural of a man screaming

White and black lines

With a meeting seaweed mustache

And empty picnic baskets

Line the hallway lighted with fireflies and Christmas spirits

I drop a smoke down the hatch and wait for it to bloom
Karijinbba Apr 2020
Dear Poet artist how do you do?
one of you wrote wearing a mask
like always before cov-02-19
I wanted to wear V for Vendetta type Mask we all should.
Karijnbba response on poem
"Ratoncito Blanco"

"I've been reading bunch of your
work, and I've become a better person reading them.
You have got more than wisdom, you have truth and a higher understanding of the existential paradigme, that's to say,
a better then most, a true artist."
What a beautiful thing to say!
I love you too!
"I love you the most in this whole wide world"
I read your art too resurfacing from

my healed memory chip.
How amazing a true artist yourself are.

And as I understand it too;
a true artist always minds his or her own business and does not get carried away by other people.
He or she is self-assured and grateful for the very little things that come to bless such life of survival lacking on even
the basic necessities but still is able to genuinely freely offer  
a slanted smile to die for
enveded in our soul so deep
it's there like a sunshine
the moon and all stars above!
Understanding how
true artists love what they do, but they do not obsess over it.
True artists are confident about their art, generous at heart, and free of ego.

Thank you dear Poet it's obvious a true artist like yourself  understands another true artist like myself hum?
I guess in the art virtues we are
twin souls too ha!.
How interesting indeed it's ttue
Art isn't something that's made by artists.
Artists are people who make Art.
Seizing new ground, making connections between people
or ideas, working without a map these are works of art,
and if you do them, you are an artist, regardless of whether you wear a smock, use a computer, a cellphone to type story poems like I do,
or work with others all day long.”
Your compliment has truth wisdom very wise a delicately graceful way to communicate
your innercore feelings
about how you benefitted reading my art mu true story porms.
you too are fascinating in my hearts eye
and I am forever greatetul too
and changed in Awe of how your mind can trace my soul pleeding to hear from you beautiful soul.

You always find me you are fantastic!
I always call out your names along side the Lord's name
you still take my breath away till tears flow and laughter seals the realization deal indicating painful defeat.

You were the best husband best lover best father patpapa grandfather best friend best poet best artist that many meet but few know intimately.
I suppose the wisdom you see in me is your very own artist and all.
By Karijinbba 04-03-20
Copy Rights;story poem.
Revised 04-09-20
millions have the exact same date of birth but aren't twin souls
some get lucky read someone else s love letters corner the king in his own castle get him drunk lie pretending they are his beloved Ginnyver calling out checkmate.
we'll never be privy to what
happens inside the secret bunker
but if we were we'd be well
interested about its hunker

there's a lot of stuff going on
that doesn't get any open air time
those who are involved in it
keep a tight lid on the covert crime

an investigative body needs
to be set up like rather fast
so that we can gain insight into
the workings of it at last

once the findings are out there
in the public sphere
we'll have knowledge of what
has been occurring beneath the weir
Bee Feb 2018
Down the stairs, my hands a shield
for incoming priority mail,
and trained for the way your body would
hug me closer with every exhale.

Your mother won’t stop calling.
Kind of like the week we spent hopeful
before they sent you away.
Kind of like me just trying to hear your voice,
always searching for something that’s calming.

The windows have
been open since yesterday,
and I heard the bird sing to its sky,
“I love you”
before it started to rain,
darkness swallowed up the sun’s sky
and wilted all our daisy-chains.

Rescued frames surround me,
reserved to tell your stories.
The breeze never fails me,
it carries your scent in flurries.
If I try hard enough, I could feel it

through my hair, and on my lips.
Every night the breeze
brings with it a solar eclipse
that soaks through my skin,
and intertwines with my blood cells,
going straight to the bones that
keep my body from further farewells.

Tomorrow I will build a home with
the words of your silent prayer.
My cracked walls will be painted with
your skin and the scent of your hair.
My new bed will be made with
old t-shirts you always used to wear.

If I could fit your eulogy on this page
I’d make sure to mention the breeze that whirls
through the center of my chest,
and my lungs that faithfully breath the air
that may have once circled your ribcage.
Tommy Jackson Sep 2015
I know I'm getting older
Walking around
Talking to myself
Now saying
Those were the days.
The desert was flat you could never tell
that below where you stood
was a military bunker and missile silo
from a time years passed
built here on this lonely barron latitude
that had a bad attitude!

An everlasting reminder of mans ingenuity
negative approach to peace
of times that have gone but do still exist
creation of terror and destruction
yet for many this factor has disappeared
to die is no longer feared!

Thinking foolishly that all conflicts will end
is only in dreamers minds
always there simmering the spark of war
lay in wait in human culture
where somebody is ready to light the flame
so conflicts in history doth remain!

The Silo is but one symbol of the ****** past
forever on humans the shadow cast!

The Foureyed Poet.

— The End —