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What my hands should’ve felt
You took on yourself
When they strapped to the cross
The maker himself
Happiness maker ...

music and colors ...
and a quiet dance ...
sweet poetic night ...
and a warm lap ...
into a bed love ...
where no any words ...
just brighten eyes ...
and lips' whispers ...
to start a great sweet night ...

smile ...
just do it baby ...
to let me get ...
the happiness ...
while i'm looking ...
at your eyes...
smile baby ...
and get your wish ...
to start our great love ...
smile sweetheart ...
we are together now ...
to give you a happiness ...
as you gave it to me ...
from your smile ...

good morning ...

hazem al ..
Lean Harvests
by Michael R. Burch

for T.M.

the trees are shedding their leaves again:
another summer is over.
the Christians are praising their Maker again,
but not the disconsolate plover:
     i hear him berate
     the fate
     of his mate;
he claims God is no body’s lover.

Published by The Rotary Dial and Angle. Keywords/Tags: plover, skeptic, atheist, agnostic, Christians, god, creator, maker, fate, mate, berate, lover
Bhill Mar 4
appearances continue to be the decision-maker
we as animals need optic sensitivity first
what is next

Brian Hill - 2020 # 64
Silver Feb 12
how lonely it must be to
and know alone
MisfitOfSociety Mar 2019
Out of the womb into the microwave.
Lost in it's soup till it pulls you beneath the grave.

Get this woodpecker out of my head,
I can't hear myself think.
It's voice speaks through the radio,
telling me to go build the anti man.

Seeing life through the anti man's eye,
We are all perceiving a lie.
Hold it in your hands,
Wear it on your heads,
Put it in your arm.
You are pushing yourself into place.

We're killing god,
And we're building the anti man.
We are at war,
With our maker!
Ainsley Feb 2019
when i meet the maker
is  no man but a woman
with a cigarette in one hand and exhilaration in the other
with love in one eye and disdain in the other.
i look at her as she looks at me
she raises an eyebrow as those
sweep over m e
‘why are you here’
the question hangs in the air such as a bird would before it has to choose whether to fly or
‘to meet you’ i answer
she just throws her head back and laughs
the sound of
bells filling the void
though i grow cold and frightened when the sound reaches me
she locks
with me, sending shivers along my spine
then her answer chills me to the bone
her idea her question hangs in the air like an
‘what makes you think i want to meet you’
Diána Bósa Jun 2018
Once I was a preserver
a wayfarer
a maker
but later
you turned me into a useless stargazer
by losing the will of being your tracer
I ceded my kismet on becoming an engraver

I grew to be nothing but a moveless eraser
once a
delight to
splurge an
assortment of
chocolate while
enhance its
purveyor like
copious spoons
on layers
there that'd
make confection
sweet as
pie but
connoisseurs haven't
hastened the
dictate conclusively
every time
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