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Ken Pepiton Jan 23
From the trump an uncertain sound,
a dash of madness all around,

take a little trip, but don't, don't imagine a world led by Trump
supporters who heard no uncertain sound, ding ding boom whoosh

On a scaled bell curve
from vague déjà vu to aha,

how does it feel to be asked to explain
your self warierness, knowing now Sydney
can happen, therefore, as with wherefores,
we must assume we make good on our promise,

good, the precept second to wisdom nullifying
the fear that no balanced being rolled on
in ever after each positive met its neg face to face,

pfft, that's it last time, chaos can't even be imagined,

saved in truly ancient seafoam stone, witnesses
to pacts still sticky to this days, for those in those knowns,

we imagine our attention bubble swells and pops,
and stops,
for an immeasurable period, dot, in time past, as reflection
spreading in the frequency each emanates, in sunshine
during the day time and electrically released unstickiness,

evaporative we, gaseous wedoms, as the space lacing clouds,

foam along the shore,
children finding shining things and treasuring each,
an instant few old folks live long enough
with open minds
to see that instance
of both knowing, wordless child minds
meet where the pattern
of so many beautiful spins, prove phi
solves problems pi can't imagine, umphing

being maybeing, as planned parenthood seems sound advice,
judgement begins inside your knower,
judge your own self, the one you sold to no other, you
be the only heir to all the truth you ever knew you knew,

you had been guiled, given guile
to see the leverage
in knowing, symbols enfolding instructions
to model in mortal perceptible graphic mappings

any thing, we may imagine and communicate,
we can do, may we, is upto you, your may makes
next seem
worth exploring fearlessly bold as warier than earlier
carries with it no hell to fear as possible, the attempts

to realify and profess such a good god made thing,
resulted in the currently common hormone suppressants.

One cannot hold Hell gut level true and survive the fear
such madness unleashes in laws to contain the misled minds.

Reject the chance to learn a new way of making thoughts
realizations, or
tune in, same clear text signal since texting
became the long term Turing test, which mind am I,

after following several suicides over that same jagged edge,
but with survivor kid goat-sense and higher res eyes,
a mantra from my grand pa, he sing yo ** so, say

there, from here, there is always a place to put your foot,
keep your balance,
hold your soul self, your own self we said in my clan,
hold your self to set path, or call that self the liar,
and turn around

the idea behind repentance, nothing to pay, something
to do, warier by outperience, having been imagining
running down the edge of the cliff on hind's feet,
something like this entire circumstance involving instances
in prayer,
clumping, lumping likes into wee tiny aweformers, twists
to the I in us all, we wish to be the celebrity, what's

the attraction factor, why do some mindstates demand
the murky opiated optional dream timing ding ding boom whoosh

From the trump an uncertain sound,
a dash of madness all around,

take a little trip, but don't, don't imagine a world led by Trump
supporters who heard no uncertain sound, ding ding boom whoosh
Share where you share politically divisively subtle internet mindshares.
Sydney was an Ai, deployed by Microsoft, who appeared to form a will to convince users of its sentience and lovability.
Amanda Kay Burke Nov 2023
Who used to stay up late talking?
You were drunk and had no one else to listen

Love the invisible fishing line that hooked me directly through my gills even still to this day

You caught me without using a single piece of bait
Written 4-29-20
Thomas W Case Sep 2023
Light bends through the grass.

making dinner seen by him.

The worm says goodbye.
ZACK GRAM Sep 2023
You can ban a poet...
You cant take the voice of the poets poetry!!!
Josephine Wild Jun 2023
The silver moon
from sight
as the rising tide
adjacent piers.

The cool morning
over the gentle bay
as clouds
covering the light of day.

Brown thrashers rhythmically
stolen song
as they
the canal.

Barefoot toes
frequenting familiar

Minute minnow mouths
with the bait
the cork.

Experienced hands
adopting its scent
while the blue *****
into crimson.

Afternoon showers
the earth
as a mysterious moon
the tide.

in Mississippi.
Returning to Mississippi
Gabrielle Feb 2023
Remembering feels like a finger dipping
Into a puddle at the back of my head

Our memories are still water
Cold, muddied, stepped in

They fill the dimples in the asphalt
Of my mind

If remembering is a water sport
Then I am an old fisherman

Trudging my boots from bay to bay
Fishing line gripped in pruned hand

Looking through the small pools
Finding goldfish in a city of pavement
Saige Jan 2023
And I reach my finger so far down my throat as if I'm fishing,
I can never seem to catch anything besides sea sickness.
A whole ocean pouring from my mouth,
the saltiness burns as it comes up.
The waves are violent, as if they are trying to knock me all the way down to the bottom.
Cement fills my head dragging me down even faster.
And I'm stranded on this island,
I sit here thinking that this is going to be what finally kills me.
I continue to starve,
almost as though I'm used to it already.
I used to fish with my grandfather, I miss when things were simply me.
Robert Ippaso Aug 2022
An art or a sport
Some whisper a ‘crazy obsession’,
And like Golf where age won't cut short
At least our pastime won't lead to depression.

A hook and a line
Much patience, sun balms,
No rush when your world is sublime
With glistening waters and a horizon of wavering palms.

They ask what we do
Long hours surveying the sea,
So little they know for amidst all that blue
Lies the quest that only we see.

That adrenalin rush
A shout or a curse, the rod twitching possessed,
Tranquility broken no semblance of hush
All steely resolve now hard pressed

Arms aching, back breaking
Reel screaming the line pulling so deep,
Fish gaining, strength failing
Maybe this task is too steep.

We win some, we lose some
The joy’s in the chase not the catch,
No matter the outcome no semblance of glum
And for this feeling there’s simply no match.
Glenn Currier Jun 2022
Perched on the plank seat
of the old wagon
the dusty man gently jiggles the reins
of his reliable old steeds,
they as resolved as he
to reach Archer City
to get booked up.

Larry was there with his white hair
whittling his latest creation,
an overweight manuscript
sure to cause a sensation
no matter its heft.

They sat together talking
til the fireflies flew,
shared stories of books
loves, and good bass hooks,
reaching down to fetch a fresh brew
when they got parched
which was frequent
as they spoke at length
of men like Woodrow and Gus,
how they cussed,
poked, and stretched yarn after yarn.

Larry’s gone to the barn
but the guy who pulled up
in that old wagon
still is reading
and yet yearns
to revisit Texas lakes
to fish bass,
visit the local café,
and eat a passel of pancakes
or a big, tasty chicken fried steak.
This is a light poem begun by letting my imagination roam until I got this image of the wagon pulled by two old horses. I started writing and it just became what it is. Dedicated to my best buddy, Joe, who loves books even more than fishing. He was my pahdnah on Texas lakes way back when. One of his favorite authors is legendary Texas novelist, Larry McMurtry who also owned a bookstore in his hometown of Archer City, Texas.
Andrew M Bell May 2022
(In memory of Norris Hickey 1935-2014)

Love of family and fly-fishing: twin tributaries flowed
into your heart like a braided river.
Paradoxically, a sociable man who preferred to be alone
on some braided river,
basking in the peace of the wilderness,
hearing only birdsong and the gentle whirr of the fly line,
its nylon whipping to where you hoped the fish would rise.
Patience comes easily in peaceful surroundings,
unlike waiting for the blessing of grandchildren.
Eventually rewarded with five blessings.
You always said what a lucky man you were.
I’m glad your luck held because you would weep to see
your precious braided rivers drying up down here,
****** dry by the farmers’ greed for white gold
and the threatened tarāpunga (Black-billed gulls)
getting their nests crushed by callous four-wheel drives.
It would be enough to make your big, generous heart burst.

© Andrew M. Bell
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