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Zywa Oct 19
Everything that we

humans can touch is sacred --

Sacred Emptiness.
"Desolation Angels" (1965, Jack Kerouac), chapter 1-2-89: the essence of what you can touch remains a mystery

Collection "MistI"
Some say
death is a punishment.
I say death is a gift
Death is mercy.
And death is salvation.
A gift that is given,
But not to be stolen.
from the unkindness if men
And salvation
from the torment of earth.
Rb 2023
I need a gift for Grandad
Something that he'd like
Maybe just a book to read
He's too old to get a bike

A mystery? a bio?
A book of poetry?
It don't matter, he won't read it
But maybe, we'll just see

One with a nice title
One that makes you dig on in
Under fifty pages
A book that looks quite thin

A waste of money maybe?
But, it's for grandad not for me
A fine thing to buy others
A book of poetry
AE Jul 27
I've somehow stretched every limb
into a series of exhausted yawns
Now the rhythm of this day
Is with you
But it seems,
I am not the only one
With words breezy enough
To make you laugh
Because as I round the corner
I can hear the air rippling around you
And everything becoming lighter and lighter
Until you, a sun in everyone's galaxy
Illuminates the disillusioned
delusional rhythm makers
All here to gift you their love
Kata Jul 15
Curse the poets blood.
No matter how much I cut myself, I cannot bleed it away.
Curse the poets skin.
I cannot tear it off, it holds everything in.
Curse the poets feet.
The more I try to run away, the more they dig in, rooted to the words that ground my life.
Curse the poets tears.
They provide no comfort. They blur my vision, wet my pages and smudge my ink.
Curse the poets mind.
At times I dream of throwing it all away. But I cannot differentiate between reality and figments of creativity.
Accepting the gift was always easy

Committing to it was always hard

No compass, no road, no map could lead

No language, no gesture, no one to teach

No god, no idea, no love, no hate, no reaction, no purpose, no reason, no thought, no spasm,
no fiber,
no spark.

There, I broke it.
Because you are a dear, dear friend,
as dear as you can be;
A person sweet, a joyous treat
to work here next to me.

Of greatest wealth your superb health,
until a cold you catch;
The bills, the phone, you can't stay home,
and so a plan you hatch.

To work I'll go, I must not show,
that really I feel lousy;
No pills I'll take for goodness sake,
that could cause me to be drowsy.

Your nose will run, you'll say "Oh ***,
a tissue may I borrow?
Please do not lock your tissue box,
I'll pay you back tomorrow!"

Because you are a dear, dear friend,
and I would not want to miss you;
This HOLIDAY SEASON my special gift,
This Limerick was written 11-30-1995 by Bradley Ray Wardle, for my mother Margene Wardle as an attachment for her Christmas gifts of Kleenex boxes she was giving out at her
place of employment Mountain America Credit Union.
She said that people were always using her tissues and she was always low so she wanted to make a point and give each person their own box with this poem attached.
The best gift I have ever received from you is your embrace. You are soft like a teddy bear. When we were embracing each other, I didn't want to let you go.
I know your glow
it moves on tracks
of never-ending light

illumine, my dear glimmer

an ornament of love
spiraling along
flightpaths to each other

one maybe a failure in flickers

yet another a successful sparkle
drifted down gently as snow
about the tactile lanterns
of your hands and face

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