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Bhill Mar 26
we need to honor the MEDICAL TEAMS
who are taking on this fight
they're at the front with all the risk
and sometimes there is no light
what would we do without them
as this virus takes control
one by one it pollutes us
in TEAMS, they stay on patrol
we need to honor the MEDICAL TEAMS
they will help us win for sure
they will hold their ground regardless
and help that someone find a cure

Brian Hill - 2020 # 86
Honor your MEDICAL TEAMS.
Salat Days
by Michael R. Burch

dedicated to the memory of my grandfather, Paul Ray Burch, Sr.

I remember how my grandfather used to pick poke salat ...
though first, usually, he’d stretch back in the front porch swing,
dangling his long thin legs, watching the sweat bees drone,
talking about poke salat—
how easy it was to find if you knew where to look for it ...
standing in dew-damp clumps by the side of a road, shockingly green,
straddling fence posts, overflowing small ditches,
crowding out the less-hardy nettles.

“Nobody knows that it’s there, lad, or that it’s fit tuh eat
with some bacon drippin’s or lard.”

“Don’t eat the berries. You see—the berry’s no good.
And you’d hav’ta wash the leaves a good long time.”

“I’d boil it twice, less’n I wus in a hurry.
Lawd, it’s tough to eat, chile, if you boil it jest wonst.”

He seldom was hurried; I can see him still ...
silently mowing his yard at eighty-eight,
stooped, but with a tall man’s angular gray grace.

Sometimes he’d pause to watch me running across the yard,
trampling his beans,
dislodging the shoots of his tomato plants.

He never grew flowers; I never laughed at his jokes about The Depression.

Years later I found the proper name—“pokeweed”—while perusing a dictionary.
Surprised, I asked why anyone would eat a ****.
I still can hear his laconic reply ...

“Well, chile, s’m’times them times wus hard.”

Published by Lonzie’s Fried Chicken, Grassroots Poetry, Poet’s Forum Magazine, Harp-Strings Poetry Journal, A Flasher’s Dozen (prose version), Poetry Life & Times, Centrifugal Eye, Better Than Starbucks. Keywords/Tags: Great Depression, South, pokeweed, poke salad, bacon, lard, front porch swing, sweat bees, nettles, weeds, beans
Bhill Feb 13
Could It

it could happen
intense, strong, emotions with exciting speeches

are you kidding me
have you seen it
do you even realize what's going on
back door thinking with front door faces
could it
****......

Brian Hill - 2020 # 44
What?
Hiding lot more
Than to let go,
Keeping quite
As you say so,
Being mellow
So I can outgrow,
Been hurt
To emerge stronger,
Saw sufferings
To be larger,
Being me
So I won’t be a goner,
Put on a brave front
To defeat my demons,
Helped others
To reduce their fears,
Hiding lot more
Then to let go…
Poetic T Sep 2019
We live on the same street,

but you anit nothing like me,


This isn't a 12A,
    The kids in this will **** you for


disrespecting the other side of the street..


Eternal outlaws, as kids we knocked and run
                                    each others doors..

But i knock your door,
          you lucky if you survive,

              the third knock that is off the safety...
  

A hole fills your vacant look, holes at the front,

                    smudges that cant clean off your regrets..


I'll knock your memory into the past..

          mothers will cry.. but you'll never realise


that we aren't just one street.


But you look at me wrong, I'll knock some sense
                   into your frame..

Bruised moments..

You cross my gaze,
                   my street…
                               I'll make the black
vison of bow heads grace the road..

   But you'll not see,

             your the one closed eyed,
                                     while others weep...
Erian Rose Apr 2019
different
isn't a bad thing
the offbeat
isn't wrong
everyone is special
in one way
or another
and that's human nature
we're made to be unique
be ourselves
in front of others
that's why I love
living in the offbeat
Qais Alalami Jan 2019
And as effortlessly as that,
You had me cracked
You chipped away at my cold exterior
Dodging shards of ice until I was no longer hard
My frozen heart exposed to the warmth of your hands slowly melting away with the steady breeze of your breath
Incapsulated in the prison of your knuckles
Only for you to drop my heart in search of another
Another that’s slightly warmer
Slightly more hospitable
And slightly more lovable than I am.
I guess my coldness could freeze everything, except your love for me.
Cat Lynn Sep 2018
I face the light... and I have to use my hand as a shield...
My pupils dilate in a painful reaction... It's too bright for me, but it can't be sealed

So I have turned my back on the light... on the sun... and it's flame...
I couldn't handle its truth... its purity... the Light and I were not the same...

So I faced my shadow instead... it laid on the ground in front of me...
I could handle the darkness better... or so I thought... It seemed to be free

But then I began to realize something strange about my shadow...
It would change its shape... it became unpredictable...it's me it would follow...

Even when I tried to follow it sometimes, it would play mind games
It would laugh... appearing to my left.. to my right... whispering my name...

There were days... I would be facing my shadow... my head hanging low...
And on my back of blackness, I would feel the bright heat of the suns light flow

Reminding me... that it was still there... reminding me it was still here for me...waiting
But my stubborn, rebellious, selfish heart ignored... its passionate side fading...

Finally... The shadow began to lead me to dark rooms...
black corners... where it would fit in with the other shadows... I was left alone... in a gloom

Too often this happened... and they abused and used all that they pleased...
Haunting me with my past... My worries... My concerns... My fears... They forced my heart to freeze...

In the night... I thought all was done out of sight and in secret
I was a slave to keeping my shadow quiet... What a prisoner I was to keep it

But soon the morning came... the Sun and its glory unleashed...
And my shadow cowardly used me as a shield...  all of the other shadows deceased.

I finally realized that I must look down on my shadow... for it is a low life of what I use to be
A beggar on the ground, dead as the graves in the dirt, a jealous mimic, and mockery

LOOK UP TO ME SHADOW!!! For it is I who controls you!!!
It is my choice how I make you stretch, and bend, and break, and move!!

My back is facing you now... and I face the sun, whose light will last!
It doesn't follow me, or make me feel low about myself because of my past

It tells me to follow it! It allows me to see!
It tells me to look up and believe!

And when the darkness comes to haunt me, it is still there.
It uses the moon, my friend, to reflect and remind me of its love and care!

It does not change its form, its light, or solar course.
It'll always stay the same and always try to be selective with its rays of force.

It provides things to grow, so I can be satisfied with its blessings.
But you? what do you have to offer? A darkening comfort of split-second feelings?

It has melted away the ice and snow, and scared away the shadows and ghost
Yes... its light is still blinding... but that pain will only provide warmth and beauty... and in this... I will boast!!!!
Thank You For Your Support
Riddhima Jun 2018
Thirty three years Alexander lived
Shakespeare wrote his tragedies
the teacher near our house
...in dhoti turned twice
still ***** with yesterday's mud
goes for another regret
what am I doing?

The play was staged
clowns and faces with paint
their age twenty
The man next door
his face well known
for the cycle he drew across the world
where am I here?
The lunatic
in house arrest wants to breathe
showing the foolish thumb
to people on lanes
but what am I doing?

What am I doing? Doing what? Doing what ?
Till half past three into the night
the question haunts my ribs
A inadequate path, oozing with men flood
but all headless clouds
Am I one in them?
All my life I have been placing this head
The weared out head of mine
In one body
in another
Trying to look into the mirror
On which body does this head of mine
look like me
the word dhoti used in this poem is a garment worn by male Hindus, consisting of a piece of material tied around the waist and extending to cover most of the legs.
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