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Taylor Ganger Jan 2018
My hands are way too cold
I haven't written a word
I should do something else
I should
Just
Find some time
I should drink tonight
And sleep twelve hours
Or play that saxophone
It gathered so much dust
I can smoke cigarettes and sing songs
Drive to the country to see the stars
Paint my feelings
Watch movies
Tell stories
Write

Gah!
But if only I had the time!
Mark Wanless Dec 2017
"The Rhythm"


The rhythm patterned daily grows and is
The conscious now replete
With shades and hues of legion feathered touch
As universe existent ill or good
The end is not a valid thought to think
Beginning spirals back in timeless forms
Of cause vibrating co-dependent atoms
Bump and bump no space between
Called here or there
Wise and deep and calm the ocean lives
Among us is us to the bone degree
Of what we guess we are
Words are spoken and mistaken
To be valid firmities
So walk we do up in the air of self
And dream we tread a ground eternal
Day by day with closed eyes fearful
Of the image in the mirror
Yet there is a way that stills
The shaped confusion foaming
Vast and brilliant in the heavens
Of the mind we share and share alike
That cannot truly be in darkness for
Inherent is a constellation
Casting light in ten directions
Every corner that is but a name
Illumined
Stefania S Nov 2017
flying, soaring
fields below
flowers and trees
freedom

spread open
wide
waiting for reception
withheld moments

gliding mindlessly
numbing
doubtful
the sun bellows from above

clicking and tapping
claws measuring
distance
timing not scheduled for flight

moon dancing
echoing night
shadowless wings
winter ignites

below they cry
look from there
above your head
it's everywhere
Stefania S Nov 2017
the draw
five cards
three
maybe just the one

i don't flinch
empty cups
nothing new
laughter, empty

paths of green
ivy and oaks
sumac i hear
i listen

sparse in other woods
sparser than here
webs catching passerby
my eyes watch

in the distance i see the melting
heated
a wanderer's corpse floating
swim upstream the message declares
Uka Nov 2017
I can stick a gun in my mouth and it will jam. I can cut myself and miss. If I set myself on fire; it will rain to put me out. I can work up an appetite and not eat. If I stick my face to the wind; I won’t burn my skin. The world spins and I stay still. I can hear bombs from miles and crush rocks to sand. Give life to what is dead. I can move a hill to mountains’ domain and they won’t argue. I can throw the world into chaos and be praised. When I sit long enough; it is art. A mind can be set for this outcome. A person can image great future and greed. We have this power to march for one. We have this power to march for all. An unmovable object walks into a room. Does the room move with it? Or does it still stay? An unstoppable object steps on dry land. Does it crack? Or does it stay together? We are not malleable for a reason. But we can be broken with such few spaces. Such small and uneasy movements from across the world. It can be miles; but next to us. It’s impossible to march if no one knows how to dance. To waltz into trouble is easier than a solution’s dream. It is elegant and depressing as the same. We can compare scars but stay clothed and masked for others. We sometimes don’t miss when we cut. Sometimes the gun goes off. When a fire burns; it won’t be put out quick enough. This is real. This is life. But words mean more. Word mean more than actions because words are forever. A page can be lost and found. Paper can be cut and burned. But it’s still there in the mind of the writer. It’s still there in the mind of the poet. We as humans have the ability to move the hills. Move the world. But we care to not join. We, as many others, keep straight. We fall into the lines given ease. Giving the ease a way into the mindset of strength. Too much hate. Too much greed. Too much misunderstood points and confusion. We want to identify as something else to make us special. We want to be different than the person better than us. We worry about who said this and what they had done today. We look at horrifying things all day and change a picture to match it. We are numb. We are ignorant. We are invincible. And that’s sad.
Uka Nov 2017
Sadly, I am null. I can see nothing but forest. Dense and thick as shadows in midnight lights. Can I still see them for what they are? What purpose do I, as a simple body, take from such feeling? I haven’t missed a beat. Never off of scale or rhythm long enough to catch the tempo. This is the feeling I can muster up after half a day. Like cream isn’t sweet enough for strong coffee. Or the rain doesn’t fall hard enough to break the ground. A mind can only hold a candle to the objects that surround it. But what prime can I count to that will get me closer. May I be able to count that high? Can someone such as me count on the speed of time to solve problems for me? This is only a simple thought or play in my book. I can sit for hours and count how many evil intentions I have passed. Every single human being cannot and will not comply. I think this is why we see evil as such. A good person can say a good person. But I don’t see this as solid as the sentence. A bad person can still be bad after a good thing. But a good person is holding true to good even after a bad thing? What bad measures does a good person have to do to be bad? What questions press against my forehead like rocks and soft sand. The amount of time I have placed on this plain can weight a mountain’s ton. We as people cannot feel a ton though. No human can lift it or experience the difficulty. So how do we know what it is? It is just a word and a number measuring what we as people cannot achieve. Sadly, this too is something a ponder about as I press on a mental quest. I sat in a chair long enough that my knees decided it was time to weaken. I have had this feeling before, but not with a good outcome. I begin to walk around the room as normal. No purpose of course, just as some track around the fake wooden furniture. I skim my hands across water swollen surfaces from missing costars and melted ice in glasses. I have to side step to get around stools and piles of sand from beach trips and communal drinking fits. I have had friends over of course, but none stayed too long so see this of me. I may not look like the type to keep a secret or thought to myself. I am more open the usual as of right now. I can chip away at a keyboard or book. I can perform mindless tasks better than the rest of the world. I can blend into the surface long enough to take a life-time of conversations in an hour’s time. I can walk outside and feel wind before it comes. When rain falls, my eyes begin to water at drops that weren’t from water. I think we as people haven’t understood each other enough. Maybe it’s a people thing to be so ignorant to this fact.
Stefania S Oct 2017
a hand
to hold
fingers, neatly nestled
grasping
solid touch

warm syrup
honey spilling
mouths overflowing
with sugar

wounds
salt inflicted
poked a bit
now healing
coaxed to fit

blind of sight
deaf of sound
sticky sweet leaves
falling to the ground

delighted you'll run
hollow inside
the man in the moon
laughing, the lies
whispered truths
behind phases of light
narrow windows
buckets of light

no rhyme to follow
or reason to bend
time its worst enemy
also best friend

run through the trees
follow the footfalls
but watch for the thistles
and momentary recalls

names won't be remembered
and the earth will change
but the forest longest living
will remember her frame
Stefania S Oct 2017
i touched the buttons
actually having to
erase needed time
reading instructions

as a child the card catalogue
an escape hatch
saturdays spent in dark corners
our local library a getaway
a reprieve
a sanctum

but now everything is online
and the single floor of books here
in the basement, confined, kept hidden
moving tombs their home

i started with the term feminism but landed elsewhere;
phenomenological studies of women
journals not older than i
but long outdated
historically sad

the library made me cry
i wanted to read everything
but also bring it home
a little girl in the patchogue library once again,
alone and crying.
Stefania S Oct 2017
the walls of her fortress
dripping with sage
knowledge
centuries old
empty of rage

her gut, a tortured field
often ablaze
truth lies there
while battles were waged

kitchen of flowers
table a maze
lovers look across
not knowing each's gaze

moments of crime
passion betrayed
within the lives of the "normals"
they laughed as they lay
bedridden with ***, long slow daze

south fly the geese, crows never go away
the sparrow calls morning
the owl flies today
blocks of comfort, boxed and weighed.
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