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stokes Jun 12
dear painted mask slipping off my face,
wet mildewed socks clinging to weary feet,
molasses on my hands shrouded in gloves of lace –
you in the cracked mirror, you rotten, rancid, discarded piece of meat.

o, knotted wicked web of thread,
the faucet of my eye leaks.
emily’s funeral in her head –
it took three weeks

to admit the rot the plumber missed.
to cry when the evening light is dying –
to say that i’m sad – to say i’m ******.
to watch and feel my circuits frying.

blinded and fooled and beaten, i ran and crashed into not-love –
maybe i’m an idiot, because i still can’t tell a pigeon from a dove.
JV Beaupre Mar 7
i am that Fly--
the one that Crawled across the sheet--
her last sound and Sight
and i want You to know--
its not my fault, she Would have died-- Anyway

We flies get a bad rap--
we carry Germs- never met one myself--
Across food i tippy-toe-- i only take One bite-
from that little Bite--
she would not -- could not die

But let me set the record Straight--when
she finally went still-- was i Glad--
one less Swatting and shooing-- but
its not my Fault, she would have died-- anyway.
The fly's response to the narrator in Emily Dickinson's poem, "I heard a Fly buzz - when I died"
Sharon Talbot Jul 2018
"A blue and gold mistake",
Wrote Emily from inside her room,
A self-inflicted tomb,
About a path she could not take,
Into the month of June.

Let others stroll beneath its cerulean sky
And thank the sward, on which they lie,
A lunging into voluptuous play,
Yet blinded to the rushing by
Of sultry month and jovial day.

Did the poet’s being kept apart
From worldly joys well-made,
Or from crystal pools and glaucous glades,
From brilliant sun that fashions shade,
Embitter her admiring heart
To look askance at anything that fades?

Did she not care that
One month, though doomed to end,
Was also made to reappear
After the long march of winter’s year
As the sun came round again,
To loose us from our unlocked pens?
This was inspired by Emily Dickinson's assessment of June as a mistake in her poem "These are the days when the birds come back". I imagined I was writing to her, perhaps reading it outside her window, trying to cheer her up a bit by reminding her that changing seasons are not all bad--that the month of June is not only joyous, but reappears.
Breon Apr 2018
The azure sprawl of Alabama's sky,
Its cataract clouds wiped away, unstained, stares down like God's own eye.
There are no stars to guide us through the blue,

No landmarks for a stranger neck-deep
In the strangeness of a strange land
Where everyone looks back with
Affable suspicion, pleasant concern,

But home is where the heart is, so maybe
Part of home is here, this blessed mess,
Where under God's eye we toil away
Forging memories from spent time.

"The brain - is wider than the sky -"
But not here.
Easter weekend was spent basking in the curious radiation of Alabama. Considering some of the odd looks my wife and I got, I assume we weren't going to fit in anything soon.
sunprincess Feb 2018
Wonder if I'll ever be a poet
like Emily Dickinson,
Sylvia Plath, Christina Rossetti

The great Edgar Allan Poe,
William  Shakespeare
or even Robert Frost

I'm beginning to think not
Cause none of their muses
ever come to visit me

I'm sorry I have no idea
Where those two roads led
diverging into a yellow wood
Eachmilidh Jan 2018
Hope is a bubble (no feathers)
It comes from deep within

It sits, it rises, it waits, it grows
It stretches very thin.

It ignites and it kindles,
It blushes like embers
Constantly notices
Always remembers

Hope is a bubble (no feathers)
It doesn't sing the song

With or without the words or the tune
Hope is never wrong.

It waits and it wonders,
It tosses and turns
Never goes out
Eternally burns.

Hope is a bubble (no feathers)
And even if misplaced

It always awakes and runs back to your side
Whatever the battle faced.

Hope is a bubble (no feathers)

Hope is always there.

Somebody looks out for you.

Yes, out there,

A Wind rolls through the forest—
Branches shake— on a bare tree
A Leaf rustles— restless— quivering—
Holding on a moment longer—

A Wind rolled through the forest—
Now All is still— hushed— like Dawn
The Cold relinquishes— Darkness parts—
And reveals the Leaf is gone.
We wrote Emily Dickinson style poems in class. Voila.
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