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Don't be amazed by what I am about to say.
We all dream, like we all breathe. The day,
That we don't do so, is when we are no longer.
We're gone with the wind, done, and we are
Sunk, dumped in the quick sand; we died in the war.
We're nobody, deceased; and there's no future.
No more dreaming...

We all dream; nobody really knows where dreams
Come from. Dreams just happened, fled like steams,
Appeared and disappeared like the errant clouds.
We dream all night long, sometimes we remember
Them; most of the time we forget them. The crowds
Can't forget the star; like the chorus, and the master.

We all dream night and day, while standing or sitting.
We all dream while resting, but don't remember a thing.
We all dream of a better life, and a better spouse.
We all dream of a nicer car, and a bigger house.
We all dream of better days and a better tomorrow.
We dream of better health, more fun, joy, and less sorrow
And better everything and much better living.


Copyright © February 2016 Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.
b for short Sep 22
Don’t worry, I turned off my heart.
I disconnected its valves and
tapped my foot to its last beat.
I repainted the walls of its chambers
a nice neutral color that would
really brighten up the space.
No trace of love.
No trail of grief.
You wouldn’t even be able to tell
that it belonged to someone else.
I spackled the holes left behind,
plastered its cracks, sanded its nicks.
Refinished the worn floors where
too many games have been played.
With any luck, interested buyers
won’t look too closely.
“This one’s got some good bones,”
they’ll say, and marvel at its potential.
I marvel at its potential.
For now though, I’ll turn it off.
I’ll turn it off, if only for me.
© Bitsy Sanders, September 2025
Nat Lipstadt Sep 12
so, we all, grand and great nieces and nephews,
aunts and baby, fathers and mothers, nanas & poppys;
pick your preferred identifier; gather round to worship
him, but end of day, color us tired, and early to book & to bed

long drive, long day, to get to our
tiny slice of heaven on earth, a
no-points-required destination,
and the baby, with his roly~poly effervescent
charms and delights; oh boy! he's going to be
trouble for the ladies later in life;

he's a sound sleeper; twice-a-day napper;
great eater, and I inquire to the sky, can I?
order half a dozen more on Amazon,
exactly the same? is there any limit at all?

but its 3:56 am, the new master is fast asleep, the
funny smelling old man, tiptoes to the sunroom
sanctuary, bursting with three, count-'em three,
poem hooks in his convection invention mind

and now that the artisanal dishwasher, that's him~too,
is done, his two loads, yet he awakes to put the urgencies.
to bed, write his thank you note poems to his fellow poets
for gifting him insights and of fig tarts pies, that are
invading his head,
     yet to to be,
written, including this child's future,
who he, will write by himself

and this little ditty, though pretty, is just an appetizer,
to a beautiful life ahead, and substantive poems yet
to be written and hopefully read....

the baby cries out. a geschrei,^ but back to his
dreams of strange houses, funny cribs, and
senses going crazy with new sights and smells,
and instantly back to sleep, my god that's some
perfect baby!

and the old writer, the would-be-poet, knows when
not to belabor the point, and there's work to be done,
good weather requested, ferries to ride, perhaps, even,
brioche french toast for breakfast and of course,
miles to go…
    
                                                                ­                 nml
4:18am
9/12/25
Shelter Island Keep
^
"Geschrei" is a word from Yiddish and German meaning a yell, shout, uproar, or clamor. In English, it is sometimes used to refer to the act of screaming or the uproar itself, and can also be a title for the famous painting by Edvard Munch known as The Scream
My mind is spinning in the river of thoughts
Swimming around
trying not to drown
Trying to survive
while everything else overflows
in just a second

Everything is calm
is what I say to myself and others
But behind the island are clouds of grey
And an angry sea
A sad sea
A place that does not know how to act

I liked the island
It is a safe space
One I imagined to be safe
But at a time the island cannot love and protect
If I don’t learn to take cover
I build the house
But it just breaks down because of the storm

I like the island
but the storm is more mine
More than the island will ever be

More than you will ever be
Raziel Aug 29
Intruder, intruder
Wake up, wake up
The birds are screaming the alarm.

Intruder, intruder
Wake up, wake up
The silence is growing louder,
The shadows creeping closer.

Intruder, intruder
Wake up, wake up
She’s coming, she’s coming.
Close the door,
Go,
Move,
Open your eyes, open your eyes,
Wake UP
WAKE UP

INTRUDER
I'm terrified of every corner of my home
Maria Aug 27
Look, what a wonderful night
Is setting like a gentle mist
On these houses, on these people,
And on those two, with a saffron sweet.

And everything’s silent under this night.
And everything sleeps under the dark gaps.
It’s so quiet around, no footstep’s heard.
Only the night sets its own traps.

Those two don’t sleep in this velvet kingdom.
Those two remain silent as guests of dark.
They’re not casual travellers of the Night.
They’re forever and perfectly loyal to their heart.

There’s nothing more magical than these moments!
There’s nothing more beautiful than this love!
The world seems to stop, afraid to disturb them.
This night is for two. They are both above.
Thank you for reading this love story.💖
sorry, no pets
no pets allowed
constantly,
no matter
how much higher
we go above asking price.

they tell us,
tenants have rights,
to formally beg
to keep a pet,
and landlords
must consider
each request.

bite me.

because ares
is apparently
dirtier than a child,
crayon on the walls,
smearing god knows what on tile,
sticking stuff up nose and ears,
to guarantee a hospital stay overnight.

please.

he drinks from human glass.
sleeps like a king.
catches butterflies
and runs at the sound
of a door opening.

he’s neater than i am.
neater than you.
what’s your excuse
for the issues reported,
but never followed through?
this one is about the landlords who paint over bugs and broken promises — while sitting on their high horses, pretending pets are the problem.
August 16, 2025
Heidi Franke Aug 12
Most days are like an empty worn
Out house
On 1300 south block
It sees all the wealthy
Empty from the lot of Costco to it's front door. -If you pay heed.

But no one pays attention
Or spends on empty houses
Those with front steps or beds to sleep in
Most walk by thinking something like,
That house did to itself.
To get to where it is.
But they would be dead wrong.

It takes years for a house to empty out
Because of neglect from all sources. For misfortune, no matter all the life inside.

I imagine this was a yellowbird house so proud to be built.
People, a cat or two, maybe an obedient dog walked in and out
Someone cared enough to put a roof on. It thought complete.

Some people are like empty houses. But, people bleed, they cry, that get torn down by so many things. One thing in common though, houses and people are eventually demolished if no one cares.  Time that waits for no one.

Someone may crash into your car of goods as you exit the fancy box stores that make you think more is better. But then your son collapses at home from an overdose. You had no clue he was on ******, did you? What were you paying attention to?  He dies from brain death. He hadn't even reached 26.

At what was your yellowbird home will now be remembered as the sound you heard of your young son's thump as he hit the bathroom floor as you readied for work.  

Split in half. Someone dies. You didn't plan on being an empty house now today, did you?

So, what will you do about it?

Seek to study, exam life? Rebuild, reprioritize?  It's just time. What have you got to spend? Time the only true currency worth its weight.
Rain Jul 11
The house that sees everything,

Still abandoned for little things.

No ghosts to roam the corridor,

Just empty silence that feels loud as a roar.  



Maybe someday someone will see it for who it is,

Not the stories echoed with myths.
A house at the back of my head
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