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Marri 3d
(I snuck out of the house yesterday.)

Don’t make a sound.

The window holds my reflection in it,
It tells me,
“Don’t do this.”
“This isn’t you.”

I ignore the pleas.
I unlatch the bars,
And lift the window open.
It squeaks.

Be quiet.
Don’t make a sound.

I pull the screen up along with the window,
I squeeze through the opening.
This is it.

I feel the grass under my feet,
Freshly misted with dew.
The crickets chirp,
“What are you doing?”

I continue on.

I run through the grass,
Leaving footprints behind as evidence.

My feet hit the pavement.
Rocks digging into skin.
The night renders me blind.

The moonlight shines down on me,
“Where are you going?”

I reply,
“To see my love.”

I’m half way down the street.
I feel you there with me.
I feel you warm right there.

The dogs caged in the neighbors yard howl,
“Turn back! You shouldn’t do this.”

I look at them,
With finger over lips.
Don’t make a sound.

I reach a slow.
Legs burning, out of breath.

A car slowly hums behind me.

I get in.

The seat hot against my thighs.

“Buckle up.”

I comply.
The engine turns over,
And everything that was forward is now behind.

We pull into an abandoned parking lot—
You know, the one by the 66 Diner.

The car stops.
Seats creaking,
You turn to me.

Windows fogged,
With your tongue pressed to the inside of my cheek.

Car dark,
With my tongue pressed to the inside of your teeth.

Be quiet.

I have to be back by dawn—
No one can know that I left.

‘Till then.
The night is ours, Chase.
Kai 4d
it feels both like menace and comfort
like laying in damp grass
a threat of decay but a pillow of softness and promises.
Burry me in soft earth just below the surface...
Tiana 6d
I was filled with sunshine
Like I've never experienced summer before
Everyplace you touch on my body felt like it was bursting with light
My checks hurt from the smiles
The giggles as you spin me around
My toes curling in the grass
A flower hand-picked from the ground
Loving the nature sounds
Warm in your arms
I can do this all day around
Laura May 17
my eyes are laughing strolling arm in arm
cracking the pavement brimming of vibrations
stories of contentment, despondency
a feeling of being summoned urgently by an invite
gracious and acute
in the company of gods and goddesses
on a patch of green grass
i admit to being without admonition exceedingly happy
Isaac May 16
He doesn't need
To lie on his death bed
To celebrate
The simple gifts of life.

No matter what form
Or what size,
He celebrates.

Bystanders watch,
Jealous of his joy
Not knowing his secret
Open to all.

The grass is greener
On the side of who
Celebrates more than what
The other chooses to.
Written 16 May 2020
nif May 15
misty days
of moisture and sun rays
grass as tall as tree trunks
rolling by
a breeze fills my eyes
with skunk

nose blind
we roll on
and on we roll
between the weeds
this private show
no one need no
what goes
on and on and on
inside misty
days of mine

kisses by the sun define
golden brown backs
where nails scratch
eggs hatch
we lay

message relay

you cannot escape fate
nor hide truth
but one thing you can do
is be you
honest and true

no matter where you learn
nor from who
relay races
ideas and encompassed facts
as a matter of lies
I feel that
this poem is out of wack

started writing
what I want
the universe only gives
what I need

always pleased to know
I need not much
but provided
and more and more
I remain faithful to you
and more and more
I give to you
you give me too

Full circle
everything everlasting
dance and sing
from night till morning
these are my days  
rich and plentiful
watch as my garden grows
under the misty rays of my
all over the place but somehow stuck at home
Poetoftheway May 13
~for VB~


“A child said What is the grass?
fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child?
I do not know what it is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition,
out of hopeful green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners,
that we may see and remark,
and say Whose?”

Song of Myself (1892 version) BY WALT WHITMAN


­there is special delight for the city dweller,
when the first clean flushing of brightest spring green
disrupts the unending graying city ribs of worn concrete,
the alternating lifelessness of blasé brick, pretending
off-beige, ***** pale blue, a sooty furnace red,
well done,  a good pretense that they are, of color.

I am among thousands whose as a child my breath
gave way, taken by gasp, when first made
entrance to the green diamond sparkle oasis of
Yankee Stadium, hid by the urban dreariness of The Bronx,
near sixty years vision sustained with perfect clarity on
retina-implanted, a shock, an earthly con-trast.

today, an old-timer, a first timer, I’m gifted Whitman’s Song of Myself,
from a friend and poet, who lives hardy by a Port,
another islander like myself, surrounded by wet roads and
pathways to the Northern Pacific, amongst timberlands of
forested and natured grass, a differing kind of stadium,
both of us silently saying, thanks Lord, for lending us yours.

even temporarily, this day, your emeralding grass handkerchief,
equates our dispositions, so differently identical,
your name, our initials, in opposing corners, embroidered,
your grass tapestry upon this troubled earth, a scented, joint, poetic
remembrance, that though it’s but words that bind us, we! we know!
the songs we sing of ourselves, we sing in synchrony harmony.


Wed. May 13, 2020
Manhattan Island,
by the East River
Ashlyn May 6
The sun shown bright
and yellow.
Leaving my skin red like an apple.
The breeze moves my
hair like a ripple in water...

Hearing nothing but the birds sing,
And feeling nothing
but the grass and wheat
beneath my feet.
I run.
Finally, feeling free...
In a world of pain.
A school project. We had to focus on imagery, and include sensory diction.
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