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Seán Mac Falls Dec 2012
Backward-man loves his dog.
Ties him up before and after
His walks, likes to goad his pet
Too, speaking as the weather wails
And howls then dog looks down,
Sad on his master dumbfounded.
A chain is worn as it scrapes
The ground connecting dog
To his master.  They both love
The sound of it hissing as it strikes
The concrete pathways, sometimes
Man and dog feel free, not a part
Of each other, the chain may break,
And fear is for forks in the road,
The rusty pockmarked grip of his links
Have always been there on walks
Ahead and behind though it makes
Things confusing as if in a dance
And sometimes they wonder which way
They might end up after all—
And when the dark and golden
Rope, as always, is finally tied
To some old fruit tree, the man
Is happy his dog has both sun
And shade, but also has joy watching
Dog beg for ripe apples he cannot
Reach.  Some people might come
To think that dog thinks those apples
Are not for eating.  Everyone loves
Fruit, don't they?

Backward-man built his dog
A house as cold as a three-
Storied barn, out of things
He could not afford, things much
Too good for dog to not care
About, maybe man built dog's
House for himself, he cannot
Really impress his dog.
Backward-man likes to think
He knows what dog is saying.
Barks and whimpers have deep
Meanings, 'world is a good place,'
Dog says, but when pooch says,
'World is cruel,' crying, disobedient
Whines gets him a serious kick
Out of old anger from backward-
Man.  And man can be a hell-
Hound on his own, the way
He twists and unravels the things
He needs, like truth and food
And love— that goes without
Saying for backward-man hates
His woman, but loves his dog.
shåi Apr 2017
there is a girl
who's dark skin glistened
like stars in the night

her eyes
flash crazy
like the dazed sun

she craves attention
and love
feelings strong-
a hungry wolf inside a docile sheep

she wants to be understood---
loved upon-

her expressions like
ever changing
in the turbulent wind

her hair cascades
on her back
like a sea of
fluttering moths

she seeks to please
such self-sufficient desires
what shall be her remedy?

her eyes remain
like gaping wounds-
a scab undone

her forehead,
a canvas of ash

a dark horse
of old
conceal a heart
of time's own

she is empty
in soul
her body
a pristine cat

she wishes to please
but how can she?
if she remains
the servant of her past

Isabelle Apr 2017
As the blanket of stars
Light up the sky
Here I drown
In ocean of works

Mountain of papers
Piled in my table
Waves of emails
Left me miserable
9:16pm Still at the office :/
Idiosyncrasy Apr 2017
Oh baby, it was a tragedy
**We were each other's hamartia.
Are we?
Sally A Bayan Apr 2017
A wind passed, and roused my lethargic mind
then, i noticed golden yellow leaves
starting to drop from  the money tree.
as a young girl, i recall chasing leaves falling
careful not to let them touch the green grass.
i pondered on my own invented i run?
to catch, or not to catch.....even one leaf
was a child's dilemma...that became mine,
for, a leaf falling, is a poem, starting...
a love...blooming....or, an elusive one
or one that's struggling...

after a fall, comes the rising...where
something should be bravely emerging,
this is the time, when tamed, unnamed feelings
suddenly, become verses, sliding from the tongue,
mind is active, hand is alive, pen hurriedly writes
the soon-to-be-born poem,
...the one hashtagged...chased...or sought.
a word, a name, a face forgotten, now remembered,
a love...that is fading, or falling out,
all these should be held, grabbed...captured!
before they truly escape from our grasp
or, be blown further a cold, autumn wind
...and leave us drowning, in a stream of regret...


Copyright April 19, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
we’ve traded knowing apples with
lush green mothers of cadmium
and fiberglass
veins of copper,
silver, and gold

siliconed our brains to currents
of controlled thunder

we ****** flat breasted,
hand-sized puddles of glass like
only lesbians and lonely wives
can wish for

iron our souls out
in selfies of people
we wish we were

epoxied our hearts to
shallow resins of hope

followed polyester roads
of truth

have we forgotten the
simple flesh of carbon?

of our belly buttons?

of our eye lids?

oxygen of ******?

**** me not
with metals of progress

but with
ancient odes of
skin and calcium

i’ll take the devil of

over this
Phoenix Bekkedal Apr 2017
I'm not good at being grateful.
I'm a boat
I can float
and I'm mindless
I am a boat
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