Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nat Lipstadt May 3
the spring mantra arrives with distinctive citified sparkles

a family of ducklings splash, mimicking young children,
shaking, spraying, squeaking, babies bath bathing,
jumping in and out of a fountain pool
of a tall-storied Manhattan apartment building,
the mother-leader attends them well for she recalls
the untimely end of the babies of last year,
lost to wanderlust on York Avenue,
cars and taxis as instruments of mass murdering,
but new spring is the season of new birth

the Cercis Siliquastrum tree trunk (!) oddly sprouts
unusual pink flowers
well before it’s branches grow up into a fully blossoming tree,
a signed spring time ritual, but since it is a/k/a, the Judas Tree,
we wonder if spring hints of Cerci Lannister’s fate betrayed,
in this, her final May dance, oh, which Judas brother/lover
will bring us a winter fin finale

the temperature control dial busted, the variability too wide,
the youngers are skipping the interregnum season,
going direct to elect shorts and T-shirt, while those who no longer bloom in the semi-warm, recall the wet chill of past evenings,
voting to dress defensively, wearing their aging skepticism
aware that all changes are exact crossing line-defined, wrapped in
medium weight coats, concealing embarrassing gloves in pocket,
decorative silk scarfs for non-decorative purposed,
all betting the under/over the spring is here all-in not yet sighted

the streets are busy, the momentary pleasantries
of warm sky and sun push the apartment dwellers out,
a magnetic force pulls us to the outside to exhale, in order to inhale,
guises manufactured excuses appear, a loaf of bread, a latte necessity,
the children desert happily their wintery confinement,
by pushing their own carriages, containing in their stead,
their lilting accented nannies, excited by their version of spring break

Me? toy shopping for this month brings rashers of birthdays,
more May galorey, singing come Dancer and Prancer, Ian and Isabel, Alex and not-a-baby anymore Wendy, and because the weather so pleasant, cautions ignored, the credit card swiped repeatedly, frequently and joyously, xmas reimagined, another May time ritual, rooted in the September month of *******, of staying warm, staving off winter *******, and winter planting for spring harvesting

children score grand-multiplicities for god made in his place
grand parental substitutes, each with two hands each equal,
so both must be filled with maypole ribbon, brightly colored
toy bags, presents wrapped in paper unicorns and all manner of
sporting *****, as we turn 2 and 6, 7 and who ate 8?

all that my eyes did see when we surfed strolled the streets,
vignettes fell like the spring rains, they, now, from daytime banished,
to after-midnight to do their breast feeding of tulips and weeds,
letting little children grow up snuggling in still over-heated rooms,
naked legs kicking off winter blankety snow remnants while dreaming of springing onwards and forward
into the party of life by inhaling nature’s

nature.
5-3-19  606pm
Lauren Pascual Oct 2018
seated at the backseat
with our song on repeat
she reached for a stick
inside the back pocket
of her faded denim jeans
i heard a familiar flick sound
only to see a lighter on her hand
silence fell upon us
not knowing what to say
i glanced around
trying to find an excuse
not to continue to blatantly stare at her
still, she is all i see
through my peripheral vision
savoring the smoke
letting it all fill her lungs
puffing,
inhaling
yes, a stick could ****
sooner or later
if no one dares to stop her
but what if she's already dying inside?
or what if she's just doing this
to fight the demon
who made its way inside her soul?
chained her heart
no plan of letting it go
i may have seen her burned her throat countless times already
yet, it still feels like the first time
her thin lips pressed against the filter
how i wish it was my lips, instead
Amanda Jun 2018
Inhaling clouds of smoke each day
My head feeling ****** up
Wondering why I always see *****
When I look inside my half-empty cup

Want more than bottles and grams
Than band-aids, pills, and glue
I'm searching for peace; a permanent fix
That heals, not covers up, pain in me and you.
Written 3-24-18
Sabila Siddiqui May 2018
Mother,
The epitome of love.

A star made of combustion
Of crimson and wild blue.
Her smile like a cresent
shining bright
from an afar Galaxy.

Mother,
Vibrant as sun rays,
And soft like the moonlight.
Tremendous as lightning,
enlightning the dark sky
with a spark.

Mother,
The paintbrush
that paints vibrancy
on the dullest of days.

Mother,
A soul that burns with ferocity,
Whos hands are always busy
scrubbing, moulding, cooking
But her touch always caressing with love.

Mother,
Who's voice can be the ocean
Calming and soothing
Or as loud as the seas
Roaring and crashing in a storm
bursting away personal confinement.

But she rows
Even through the sea of troubles.
Nothing is too heavy
She marches on.

Mother,
Who sacrifices and compromises
To deepen skies
and hand stars to hold.

Mother,
Who's love I cannot comprehend and stomach
For she grows flowers from pain,
Inhaling O2
And Exhaling O3
Transfiguring weeds into garden for us to play.

She is the incarnation of love.

— The End —