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Rohan Press Aug 2018
'her' as whispered praxis:



brush me in
nature is just an expression of her.
(f. ellie)
Rohan Press Aug 2018
should that i—
fall from being nowhere

and time: so restless
to leave your purple
and blue, spattering,

echoing spring
i wrote this as a progression: from a jumble of words to a depiction of an image. Rather like the rain itself, I think.

and ellie: I imagine you as a patch of colour in the rain.
Rohan Press Aug 2018
your touch

she moved closer
to the fireside
    to feel
(here i
Rohan Press Aug 2018
3:30 on the train—
it seems so dark these days:

these days
when grass withers
on my footsteps, when thoughts
of you—you, the flame of my lighthouse,
the sail of my ocean—drift and
hang, warily, in the murky air.

3:30 on the train—
another day, rustling through the
dark, without you.
f. ell
Rohan Press Aug 2018
wildfires or
wildflowers? i wake
when the sun's setting.

burning, burning:
she's out there, somewhere.
I just read Woody's poem ( ) and realised that Vicki, a dear friend and constant supporter of mine, was compelled to delete her HP account as a result of harassment. I am terribly saddened by this occurrence, especially seeing as this site has been a wonderful environment for me to grow as a poet and post my work. I would like to respectfully ask Eliot and the moderators of HP to look into this and prevent any such events from ever happening on this site again. It's also the responsibility of us community members to help keep this a safe, supportive, and loving space. We must exercise our joint responsibility: stop harassment and bullying; stand up for what's right. And Vicki: I miss you.
Rohan Press Aug 2018
i don't
know you anymore; i

i am

pink sky,
     red-tipped flames
i cut the forest in
Rohan Press Aug 2018
how do you
fade? doves
sink into a red sun

aberrant in a sky of
f. ell (always)
Rohan Press Aug 2018
i think you ride
on the wind:

colour the dark
climb the edge of the sun.

i left the window open
     for you.
"don't delete the kisses".
Rohan Press Aug 2018
i can't recreate the
memories of
you, crumbling

into dust, falling
into open spaces: we stumbled

oblivion to
your heart.
Lance McDonald Feb 2017
Has taken two forms
Creating is her passion
The flow of her brush
For my friend Ellie
If you would like to hear this in my voice, check out my YouTube video:
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