public class Poetry extends ConsoleProgram
{
    public void run()
    {
        System.out.prinln("* A poem about a word ");
        System.out.prinln(" Continue the poem using the letters ");
        System.out.prinln(" Random? No! ");
        System.out.prinln(" Of course it'll sound a bit off ");
        System.out.prinln(" Sadly that's how it is ");
        System.out.prinln(" To inexperienced poets ");
        System.out.prinln(" I for one don't like this sort of poem style ");
        System.out.prinln(" Can't always do what we want can we? *");
    }
}

Care to share,
Dare to bear
The weight of this world
That isn't there?

gender = input("male or female: ?")

def binary:
    if gender == "male" or "female":
        print("born with hex codes
        printed for all to see
        blue or red
        sticking to the binary
        hardwares dictate who you are
        produce more to strengthen security
        ignore black hat delusions
        DON'T reject this false unity
        01110011 01101111 01110011")
    if gender != "male" or "female":
        print("404 ERROR NOT FOUND")

They said
“You are different now!”
I told them – it is the rule of nature,
But I am carrying hardly
One percent difference;
Rest was set by the spiral code,
My base is also ninety nine percent same as of you!
They laughed and replied life is link in the spiral network
Our base was designed on sugar and phosphorus!

Until I lose my voice
and no one listens
the unsaid words of love
will accumulate
inside me,
and will appear on my face
like the flashes
from an electronic sign
whose bulbs have all blown
except for two or three
intermittently appearing
like a code
that no one but you
understands.

Until I lose my mind
with no one's help
the unthought thoughts
will accumulate
and be sacrificed
like my greatgrandfather,
an Isaac who wasn't spared.
And I, an Isaac who was,
was born under the sign of the ram,
to be sacrificed in other ways.

My biggest fear
is that I will someday be 61
looking back on my life
as an imposter in a body
I don’t own
that I won’t
have stretched the skin and
scarred the cracks
or let the sun into my retina
I fear I won’t have drunk from life
as one drinks from a waterfall
part of a beautiful cosmic rushing
that only exists to **** you.

I read the numbers on headstones
and count the warning
that my life exists as a dash.
I have pocked my face with dots
so I’ll exist as morse code after
I’m gone
so that the synapses in my
alwaysthelightson brain
will sink into the soil as static
and evaporate into the sky
where I’ll live as lightning,
striking the tall boreal pines.



I read thunderstorms
to speak to the dead,
offering prayers of roots
and bloodshot eyes.
I can hear what
they’ve been telling me
all along
deep in my nerves
we’re not alone
and
we’ll be ok.

The very first thing a poet should do
Is throw that ego in the bin.
For being Great, or finding fame and fortune
Should hardly be your goal.

Just say whatever you have to say
With passionate heart and Voice.
Forget about Perfection
As all is relative:
And simply be Inspired.

Don’t be a slave to rigid forms:
Variety is the key.
Pulsing rhythms may match the heart
But missing beats have clout.

Be respectful to other poets at all times
And always return their praise, where you can.
Never criticise in a negative way:
Always be positive and supportive.

Keep out of inter-poet politics:
Such a waste of time!
Just write and write and write and write:
I simply cannot help it!

Paul Butters

as the disgruntled, sleep deprived EMT announced her condition.
Arriving on scene, they tended to her,
then loaded her with care.
I sit in my warm, tucked away office as i feel
a slight prickling on my arms.
The chilled air which fills the night wafts into the ER,
as they wheel in her body.
Flashes of red - lashes of red as her son
releases tears onto her bed.
Placid, up-turned face masked with displaced comfort,
despite the plastic rod protruding from her mouth.
Her husband leans in and
so gently he kissed her, so gravely he missed her.
“Call it. 4:40.”
Her arms tucked away beneath her,
as she has fallen asleep for the last time.
Covered by blankets, preserving her last, final warmth.
She will soon turn cold.
The light has left her eyes, in the distance are cries.
Her monitor displays her state,
while her family gathers around, chilling the night with -
static tones and stoic moans.

the insecurity
and awareness
of being called out

being singled out
once
at the start to my day
and the feeling of
self consciousness
throughout the rest of it

that day
it wasn't a bold move
or a statement

i wanted to look nice
but a little lice
or a little skin
and suddenly
I was at fault

since when has my back
become a distraction
how many people have noticed
before that one did

i am not here for judgement
i am here to learn
in comfort
and the four inches
of skin
on my back
that show through this lace
is not enough of a reason
for you
to take away comfort
from my day