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andY Oct 6
what i’m longing for
is the opposite
of what i have now
a bustling house
with life, smiles & frowns
cats lurking in corners
and soups on the stove
warmth in the air
and hearts full of hope
Soot on LA highway signs. Billboard of you,
a real estate agent. All endeavor slides
toward inertia, extinction, forgetfulness.

It’s very tropical. Vegetation invades
the house unless constant inputs of joy
apply. The scientist in you feels the

great ape in you. The great ape feels
death growing wide. What about work?
I devote my present to my future existence.

In what way, in what sense
does one continue to resist. As
a dessicated cell, a mole of elements,

an ancient’s aura, a daguerreotype-like
shadow on a sidewalk, persistent headache,
paleolithic herbivore, potential energy, will.

Some wake up and pray, say thanks for
another day. Others curse their luck, stale breath,
the very thought of the rosy dawn makes them ill.

Lonely as leaf fall.
Nature knows no pity or self-pity
according to antiquity, the roof soot of the city.

I admire fire, tools and ore. Agriculture.
Cities, empire. Trading and taking (war).
Numbers, counting, writing. Libraries, discoveries, zero.

And the single-minded universe
that’s only a paper moon
without your love.
www.ronnowpoetry.com

--Harburg, Yip and Rose, Billy, "It's Only a Paper Moon", as performed by Nat King Cole, The King Cole Trio Vol 1, 1943.
we walk through the garden
the one beside the house with the yellow door
watching the geese lay in their pond
then we look up at the night sky
gazing the wonders that are the stars
and you start singing
la vie en rose

the water ripples
you start skipping stones
the long grass brushed against our ankles
as if it were a cat, rubbing its head on us

the grass left a mark on my shoes
but it’s all right
because you left a mark on my heart.
Elizabeth Sep 27
I am from yellow houses. The ones with green shutters and vines growing along the sides. I am from rainy weather with umbrellas to big to hold in my small, weary, hands. I am what I am. I am unloveable and complex but loved and solved at the same time. I am an open book but one that remains closed until someone comes along and open me, reading each page, some colorful and others just blank. I am a story worth telling and an experience worth sharing, some good, others not so much. I am from sunflowers and freshly cut grass. I am a blank page but I can easily be marked. I am what I am. I am from linen sheets and warm laundry. I hope to be less of a burden than I am. The youngest child, the one parents hope turn out alright. I am from tears and broken hearts. But I am also from sunshine and glasses half full. I am artwork that hangs on walls and painted in murals, ones you can’t glance at just once. I am from cold winters and warm homes during them. I am what I am. I am from clothing too big to fit my tiny body and fresh apples too small to fit my empty stomach. I am what I am.
Where I’m from
Casey Sep 25
The room that we called a "porch"
because that's what it was supposed to be
before it was enclosed with walls.

The room that we used as a fridge in the winter
because of how cold it would get.

In summer,
the room where the cat would lay, sun-basking.
Shedded fur floating like petals in the air,
illuminated by the sun-streams through the window.

The room with the handy outside-facing lock
so that your brothers could lock you in
when they were annoyed with you.

The room that was renovated into a part of the house
rather than an enclosed porch.
Ending the many uses,
but still containing the memories.
Written in my LA class, inspired by Bathroom by George Ella Lyon
Aseh Sep 20
I want to play house with you but you never let me I’m not even allowed inside your house even though I’m allowed inside your mouth.
My feelings for you are not simple if I stare at them too long my eyes start burning
my warmth for you always so flammable and quick to spread and trickle down.
But your faceprint floats around my mind it feels like a breath of autumn air to revisit
fresh and crisp
I want to inhale you.

Will you leave me stale and dull and achy
Will my whole body recoil unto itself like a tender spot that never toughens up
Are you so unlike that recurring drunk bruise on my upper right thigh
fat and bold, navy-yellow (I always wonder where you came from)
I hoped you might be fleeting otherwise I never would have let you kiss me like that
but here I am standing still while you weave through me stuck or afraid to unstitch myself.

I know
by the way our voices go
sickly sweet and weak and warm
how we drop low into a de minimis code we know too well for having never been taught
an uncontrolled hum the world cannot hear
I know
a tiny sliver of you
wants to play house too.
Aurora Sep 19
Lies in an empty house
Hiding in the nooks and crannies
Where memories unfolded
Laughter was had
And now it's no more

You could call me sentimental
You could call me a fool
But I always dreamt
That it wouldn't end this way

I wish love was real
My heart yearns for a welcoming place
Where I can show my face
And not be lost in this mess
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