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Sidney Chelle Dec 2018
today, i return to Massachusetts. i will step out of Logan Airport and breathe the air i haven't breathed in four months. it will taste crisp and cold. i will do my special little breath before the big one when i step outside. maybe the wind will hurt. maybe it will feel good. maybe the hurt will feel good.
today, i will be driven home by someone who drinks Dunkin and softens their R's, just a little bit. just enough for you to notice if you listen. i will look out the window for the one house with the one chimney and i will say "you can turn here."
i will pet my cats and i will lie down in my bed and when i roll over, i won't hit the wall. when i look across the room, i won't see the dark lump of my roommate in her bed. i will not hear her phone buzz quietly during the night. i will not hear people in the distance, shouting and singing and laughing.
and when i wake up tomorrow and sit up, ready to say good morning to my parents and my brother, ready to play guitar and kiss my friends and cook and drive and smile and cry, it will all be the same as before but completely different.
because i am completely different.
"you are of this place. it is changing you."
i am of Pitzer now. i am of California and sun and In N' Out and cacti and mountains and linguistics papers and psych memes and long walks and Laemmle's and McConnell and dry air and sleeping late and ramen and boba and love and friendship now.
i am forever changed.
i am happy.
to be young and free and growing up is the wilderness. we are the wilderness.
"you don't have what it takes to survive the wilderness."
i have explored the wilderness.
today, the explorer and her wild heart are going home.
Stephe Watson Nov 2018
The sun's setting,
though it may leave you darkening,
is the start of the burning
far under your soles.

The browning now crinkling of
Summer's endlesseeming greening
is but the start of Springtime's
asylum in Xylem.
Phloem's sweet ware will
flow in 'em somewhere
down the line.
It’s pithy, I know
but life is born in death.
And though, come Fall,
trees seem seemingly sapped,
there's an inspiration transpiring.

The firepit's cooling
it's embers cast only shadows
and shades of memories of warmth
and story
and light...
None gather round, the gloomy.

The dormant circle
an ashen reduction
of oak and of fir
but its blackdust when wetted
(yes, ink!)
and dipped in by brush
will one day,
with luck,
be the source of a poet's
enlightening words.

The monarchs have gone -
a silent orange rustle
and, all at once,
the milkweeds go dry;
the once-green
stalks stand stock still,
Rods of Asclepias whose
seedlings are ever
the earliest snows.

Leaving home:
wherever the Earthbreaths may
take them -
bleak, brokenhearted,
hope in a coma...
How unlike the joy of the
flutterbys whose time now
has fluttered by, a chorus
as uttered by
the ungiven hope
who, though unasked,
has wandered the winds
to bring its daughters
(each healing, each hopeful)
a deathgiven panacea
to lands now in their
own limited unlimited Spring.

And you!  I know
your (sic) fiercely pretending
not to be crying.
Hell, to never've cried.
I know your lifework is
'manly' (your words) or
some other idiocy (my words)
and unbroken.  Hell, unbent.

But think on this:
if she's gone far enough,
far enough along,
far enough away;
enough time gone by
since you broke into One
('broke in two' is NOT how it feels),
if enough not enough Her
has passed,
then she's also
more than halfway back
to you,
to Whole.

Nothing can go,
nothing is lost
for there is no
'away' within this Here.
No one now, either
at a loss -
for the knowing
is nigh.
Even the knowing
cannot be going
for long 'fore returning;
the yearning is turning
from far-off to nearby.

The Sky lives as well
in every dark puddle.
Its blues, now on Earth
where all even All is at Home.
For John Shreffler whose images are the sole inspiration for this poem.  Thank you, sir! :)
Sharon Talbot Sep 2018
If spirits can walk the earth after life ends,
Or even before, to soar in flights unhindered
By physics, let me dance then!
To reel, arms out, on a vivid green lawn
In a garden before a comfortable house,
Where lush flowers grow and summer reigns,
Touching rows of Constable trees that tower, emerald,
And violet-shadowed even at noon or painted
In twilight, soft before a rising moon.
I would skip over roads and find that field
That lies, protective, above the Connecticut,
Watching as it winds lazily northward.
Then, being sure that all is right,
That the corn is tall and full,
I would speed up to a rounded hill
Above a Victorian barn in Leyden,
Ten acres of rye grass for the cows.
I would stand at the summit and gaze
Far away, down the sleeping valley in its haze,
To the little towns and glittering in
The sun, my alma mater, towers
Of attempted wisdom, of spires and dreams.
Then I might then bathe in a little lake
Where I once romped with friends
After a wedding, **** and laughing
While puzzled farmers watched and leered.
As before I would flee to the river that wound
Down between the hills, splashing through
Pools in shade and sun, basking on smooth stone
Whose marbled veins glow in the canyon light,
Remnants of an ancient era, of pressure and time.
Then on I’d go, bounding from one hilltop to another,
Turning north from the cesium-laced Deerfield,
Passing Vermont’s border to stroll the streets
Of Brattleboro, Putney and Newfane.
I might find a canoe and glide up the West River,
Somehow floating above the rapids and dam,
To rest on the flat water as the sun sets,
Skimming lightly, watching the trout rise
To sip dancing insects or hear the splash
Of a bass as it flicks the surface with its tail.
And then I would sit with the ones I love,
Silently, breathing in the mist that rises
As the sun slips below the hills;
Sunset-colored, elliptical echoes
Catch the low swells like waving glass.
I would wait here until morning returns,
Not ready to leave this beauty or the world.
Reverie about the places I love.
mrs kite Oct 2017
the fishtank is whispering to me
i tell it i want to go home
the filter shudders a laugh
i am throwing myself against
concrete barriers to feel
blood gasping for breath but
i drown it in the shower
punishing tender flesh with the faucet  
if this place is supposed to be beautiful
no one told my heart
and I feel the weight of my ugliness
in the pit of my stomach
an egg hatching, shredding insides,
fully deserved.
Case Coniglio Jul 2017
Long has my spirit restlessly waited
For this journey to begin
Quickly I have found this journeys end
Although, I confidently know now
The spark deep within
Burns and glows brightly
For many nights and days to come
Until, restlessness knocks again
© 2017 Case Coniglio
All rights reserved

Final thoughts after completing the Long Trail in Massachusetts.
Terri Hahn Jun 2017
Do you hear it?
The hiraeth
Here it lies
City lights
The shining bokeh behind your eyes

Can you hear it?
The hiraeth
Here it lies
The rustling leaves
Of Franklin’s oak trees

Will you hear it?
The hiraeth
Here it lies
The snow knee deep
Childhood friendships we shall keep

Can you hear it?
The hiraeth
Here it lies
The ducks of bronze and feather
Make memories of hometown brighter
A glorious hstory of jew in his array of spirit today
that rose on a dream where bona fide with proprietorship it posted its golden way in a suburban place near the bay.
This glorious monument of her time with mayoral sublime
and a museum grew a Buckminster Tavern extemporizing resound
she lie in midst of my siren that denizen Yankees.
Victoria Capaldo Sep 2016
shallow puddles on pavement
two pairs of brown boots
stained with rainwater
move quickly in step
one behind the other
sharp air beating
against bare faces
eyes watering
weaving between
strangers in a rush
to go nowhere
beeping horns
voices booming
a blur of faces
passing by often
not looking up
in and out of doors
under the lights
street lights
traffic lights
blue lights
green lights
illuminating the streets
reflected in the shallow
puddles on pavement
stirred by two pairs of
brown boots.
Nora Apr 2016
The hills peek
Their heads out above
Still clear waters,
Tombstones tall and
Tremendous enough
To stand for the loss
Of five whole towns

Beneath the calm lies
Rusted railroads,
Crumbling foundations,
Fading blueprints of a
History long forgotten

It’s quiet on the Quabbin,
Silent front and stark divide,
Monument in mourning
Flooded, forlorn, fated
To be forgotten
Harry Meltzer Sep 2014
My nights are beer sipped
macaroni and french fries
with barbeque sauce,
sitting like this and talking
and nothing is better
except maybe if we had
better beer.
To tell you the truth -

the beer you brought is ****
but outside while we smoke our cigarettes
the conversation’s good.
My shadows walk faster than I do

on Commonwealth near Kenmore
and winter is coming
finally coming after that summer alone
when the thick Massachusetts air was too much for my senses—
our breath steams in the cold and the smoke.
To tell you the truth
you look so good holding a cigarette.
I don’t care if the beer was ****

I’ll taste it on my teeth tomorrow
when I wake up on the floor
next to your bed.
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