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First and Last
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

You are the last arcane rose
of my aching,
my longing,
or the first yellowed leaves’
vagrant spirals of gold
forming huddled bright sheaves.
You are passion forsaking
dark skies, as though sunsets no winds might enclose.

And still in my arms
you are gentle and fragrant—
demesne of my vigor,
spent rigor,
lost power,
fallen musculature of youth,
leaves clinging and hanging,
nameless joys of my youth to this last lingering hour.

Published by Tucumcari Literary Review and Poetry Life & Times.
Keywords/Tags: rose, love, ache, desire, longing, passion, autumn, leaves, clinging, hanging, sunset, lost, youth, joy, joys, yellowed, golden, first, last, final


When you think
life
will leave you
hanging

when you think
there
is no more
hope.

Remember
she
is right there waiting.

Always ready
to hit the road.

Her headlights
call you,
the engine
roars.

Just press the
accelerator
and she'll show you
more.

She'll take your worries
far away
and nothing else will
matter.

As long as the arrow on the speedometer
rises
as long as you go
faster.



The beautiful BMW.

She will never let you down

...

as long as you pay for gas

:)
FloydBrandon Feb 2
Days I
like are night  
when you are near
do me a favor dear

Hang yourself
from thee
crystalline chandelier

Breathes reek
of sheets
in Velvet and Belvedere

Dreams
Anna Jan 2
The first moment
You looked at me as if I was a muse
Your muse or just
An object to appreciate for hours
24 wouldn't be enough
So you put me inside a cage
With walls made of glass
So you could see me inside
And I wouldn't go away
I tried hard but didn't matter
What would you do to escape
From a maniac painter?

Eyes over me
And suddenly I felt
The desire you had on my body
The curiosity of how did it feel
To touch it
Or how I smelled
Would it be like the rose you showed me
In your garden
She was pretty but
You said to me I was the new
The newest definition of beauty
And that you wished you have met me before
I definitely prayed that it never happened
And if God could hear me down there
Would he set me free?

I had a mother
A father
A family and friends
A life and plans
But none of that mattered
In days I'd be just
A human painting
Hanging on the wall.
Kai Dec 2019
A rope swings gently in the wind
hanging from an elevated stage
an audience mills below the steps

From a gleaming metal bared window
a young women in plain clothes watches
she sits proper and straight before her fate

They come at dawn clacking with her chains
she holds her head high down the hall
as tears stream down her petite face

The steps are high as they hoist her up
ringing the rope around her fragile neck
the roughness is a promise of darkness

In the crowd she sees her children mourning
Not yet dead she smile at them sadly
and mouths “I’ll always love you”

There is an ominous thump from below
and she struggles in the air hands grasping
too light for the rope to snap her neck

Hours and hours later the crowd gone
she breathes her last breath alone
hanging for something she didn’t do
Kansha Betha Nov 2019
and I bleed
to your song
as I blankly stare
at the ceiling

wondering,

those things you did
felt like I belong
to a certain somewhere
but you left me hanging

leave me with nothing.
Siren Nov 2019
I can't stand
            them
            you
            me.
They took away
the ground
I was
standing on.
                                 What am I
                                  supposed to
                                  rest on?
Lydeen Aug 2019
How
Counting
Saving
Stashing.

How many will work?

Or! Maybe I can
disassemble
my Pencil Sharpener.

Or better yet,

Knit a long,
Skinny,
Scarf.

Where to hang it though?

Perhaps I could take a
Too Hot
Bath,

And sit till it's cold.

Maybe...
Weigh myself,
Until I'm satisfied

That'd do it too.
If you get all of this sorry lol but I bet almost everyone does on here
Chris Saitta Jun 2019
The cicada husk of the crescent moon sheds in cyclides light,
Molted whispers of life, spread like perfume behind the ear,
Or like silver earrings unadorned and scattered around the night-lit table.
Here too, the garden gown of Babylon lies heaped in soiled ruin,
Beaten down to sand at the foot of the bed of the Tigris and Euphrates.
  
Though the dunes are its aerial, root-bound springs,
Though the underground nymphs tend with cicala wings,
And underspurt of incessant summer song to lure
The resurrection rose of Jericho to bud once more,
In desert-faith for the hanging garden of a full moon.
“Cyclides” are more formally known as Dupin cyclides, which are geometric forms that can be ring-shaped, parabolic ring-shaped, or take other similar shapes.

Almost all cicadas (also called cicalas), including periodical cicadas, live primarily as underground nymphs until they emerge above ground in the adult form for several weeks to months.

The resurrection rose or rose of Jericho is the name for two varieties of resurrection plants, one of which grows in Iraq (modern-day Babylon).  The hardy plants can survive extended droughts and like the Biblical city of Jericho, from which they take their name, are thought to be reborn from ash.
Wolf May 2019
Nooses set up row by row
Holding heads that hang down low
Corpses swaying to and fro
Life passed on so long ago
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