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K Balachandran Mar 2020
Life, a brief sojourn,
In an unknown airport lobby,
Between an arrival and departure.
Megan Hammer Aug 2019
Turning the clock back, searching the face of this man
And he sees me - stands in the lobby
Frowning and sad
Ask me your questions, tell me your name once again

He’s taking a group to the lakes
And he’s holding some whiskey by the picnic table
Hit me
He throws back his head and laughs

Standing beside the river
Where our hands touch the edge of Montmartre
Back to a beach where I’m quietly waiting
On the rumors of summer, on you to come meet me

Lay out a blanket, bring something to feed the birds
He watches them fly back to our place
Where I fall asleep as he reads in bed
As he closes his eyes, dreaming of a church on the mountain

Come back, I’m dreaming of a flight back from London
Where you stand at the gate like the first time
Take me to the basement
To the old hotel room I’m still in

Answer my questions, I’ll say your name once again
Frowning and sad
Because I can’t turn the clock back
Searching for the face of this man
Wren Djinn Rain Aug 2015
Here comes the sun in all its glory
tracing the hemisphere in its slow
rise over rubble, but first the tallest
steel and concrete dedications to
the lives living high while their
green shadow casts below over
the desecrated. I see bright night light
shining blue. I see wide, wild light
only high noon. Morning, all day
veins are caving under the rubble
under the tallest.
Here comes the nasty truth, suited
in belts clasped with wealth for
well being, beating the lies with
a dollar sign, until the ugliness
of the first story presses like
meat into the underneath, under
the detritus concealing lives in
the dirt with the needles.
I see bright night light shining blue
in the park restrooms. I see wide, wild
light only high noon from the under-bridge,
waiting for trains to come crush.
gunning for what?
K Balachandran Nov 2014
Holed up in a bunker, a soldier dreams that the war is over.
It's just poetic justice, a dream for an emerging new dawn.

See, every soldier defying orders, leaves the post and embrace
the one whom he was made to think as enemy in his naivety
they dance in the no man's land, where they plant a rose garden

With them aloud, let's chant,"Bury the guns fellas, war is a tale
told by perverts of the worst kind, just to sell deadly warheads.
that **** happiness, book the culprits that make war, allow them not
to fornicate truth, blatantly like this, deceive the world , gift turmoil."

— The End —