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Changing variegated cloaks
Birth after birth
Wearing cloak of a man
In this birth
On this earth
Son I am
Husband I am
Father I am
Brother I am
I undergo daily grind
Life mystery
Difficult to unfold
Mind, matter
I combine
Observation, reason
Practice, production
Make me survive
I am content
To be born
Sleep on bed
Of roses with thorns
Born and die
Again and again
Changing variegated cloaks
For I am not God
I would've been God
If I weren't born
But I am born
Sleep on bed
Of roses with thorns
Sometimes bleeding
Sometimes healing
Mixed feelings
For I am born
neth jones May 26
scentless winter over
snow melts            
evacuates into the soil                                      

-under Springs attention-

our strained eyes are relieved                          
       with the dismissal
                                              of the reflective precipitation

Springs arrival elevates mood      
        alleviates the heart halved by Winter

'thirsty things firstly' ;
from the groundswell and sponge
the air is steeped with earth

decay to life
INCLUDES LINES PREVIOUSLY USED IN OTHER WORK OF MINE

alt version

melting winter evacuates into the earth
a swelling sponge
thirsty things firstly
saturation of decay
brings earth to our dry nostrils
our aching eyes are relieved of the reflective snow
as it is fully dismissed by springtime
Ioan Hazell Apr 29
I waited there a while,
Inlayed on heels in rays.
In the hiss of service
Where many whispered questions
From ten desks on the first floor
Climbed vaguely upwards
Dragged up in jumps by the stairlift.
Grey apron comes, mothering two boys,
Evidently.
Tapping cold against the drone,
politely mispronouncing my strange name twice
Then three quick apologies.
She's just playing dead by living neatly
Like hiding in plain sight.

An unorthodox commander
Rose in the yellow leafleting room
Who’s offered throne inferred pity.
A cartographer for the wasteland here,
Which naturally 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘖.𝘒. 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘸;
For the spectre of light,
Of fuzz and flashes
Which searched with expert lamps
and medicines
Was all in the wrong continent of being.
The windows of the soul are dirtier than these,
This big sign is too commanding.
jrae Mar 7
Bleary-eyed, an old man asks for change,
coins rattling in his hand. A woman
hands him saltine crackers across the aisle.
“God bless you,” he mutters, takes a seat,
and unwraps the plastic with shaking hands.
He smiles at her before she leaves the train.

Tonight, the passengers on the train
are surprisingly quiet for a change.
We are all staring down at our hands.
And then the silence breaks - a woman
cackles aloud to herself in her seat.
Her laughter travels up and down the aisle.

I overhear a conversation across the aisle
between a couple who’ve just entered the train,
and are searching for a pair of empty seats.
They’re muttering “the country is changing”
and they say they are afraid. The woman
sighs, and reaches for her lover’s hand.

I look over at a child holding her mother’s hand.
I meet the little girl’s gaze from across the aisle.
I see myself as a child too, but to her I’m a woman.
I wonder how often the little girl rides the train.
Does she long to see something else for a change -
something other than the back of a seat?

I notice a lady who has started dancing in her seat,
snapping her fingers and waving her hands,
bobbing to a silent beat. I imagine her changing
into a sequined dress and waltzing down the aisle,
giving everyone a performance to watch on the train.
I imagine standing up and dancing with that woman

and then everyone begins to dance with the woman -
we all jump up onto our seats
and suddenly we are in a ballroom, not a train.
We are tapping our feet and clapping our hands
to the music - the little girl across the aisle
is dancing with the old man who asked for change.

The train stops. We’ve arrived at my station. The dancing woman leaves the train. The passengers change and now there are strangers in their seats. I wave my hand goodbye to the little girl as I walk past her down the aisle.
"A Sestina is a French verse form, usually unrhymed, consisting of six stanzas of six lines each and a three-line envoy. The end words of the first stanza are repeated in a different order as end words in each of the subsequent five stanzas; the closing envoy contains all six words, two per line, placed in the middle and at the end of the three lines. The patterns of word repetition are as follows, with each number representing the final word of a line, and each row of numbers representing a stanza:

          1 2 3 4 5 6
          6 1 5 2 4 3
          3 6 4 1 2 5
          5 3 2 6 1 4
          4 5 1 3 6 2
          2 4 6 5 3 1
          (6 2) (1 4) (5 3) "
Major Rity Feb 8
Inventing a game
Old as stone
Following a rabbit down a hole
By exchanging a word, a world
Unheard passing of a planet
Quiet passing of a plane
Unseen passing of a bird, a soul
Heading to his nest, to rest
Untroubled breaking of the wave
followed by her sister, her brother
Continuous art
Connected
through breath and stars
Calling a silent name
Celebrating silent fame
"I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor.
That's my dream. It's my nightmare. Crawling, slithering,
along the edge of a straight razor … and surviving."
–  Col. Kurtz, Apocalypse Now
~

Remember
the golden age, Wally ***?
And the songs
my mother taught me?

We sang about what was.
Or might never be.

Like permanency.
Distinction comes
out of stiff and frozen silences.
Take it with
a spoonful of disdain.
Take it in the eye.
Actors are like breakfast cereals.
They're obvious
and according to taste.
I stopped needing them
long ago.

Beautiful
Tallulah.
Beautiful,
"less to this than
meets the eye"
Tallulah,
dismiss me,
that I may be free
to find Tennessee.

Open windows
and closing doors.
Always a breeze,
but never a way out.
Right on cue
the cards shuffle.

Butter and cotton *****,
tricks of the trade.
I mumble to be heard.
I am legend
to disciples
of the Method.

I wear my friends to bed,
burn them like newspaper.
They call me "Bud"
—cigarettes at dawn
after devouring the night.
And now my song ebbs,
as the stylus hits the leadout groove.

Tomorrow, I'll be better.
Today, I'm just me.
Flatfielder Dec 2020
During conversation
Between young and old
Certain leader mentioned
His practices beyond scope
Human civilization
Dignity and charm
Not nurtured but contested

A young person gives a point
Thinks coarse language and lies
Are better than smooth talk
Or suffering cries

But how will that person ever know
If blinded by rhetoric
Out of the land of dystopia
My worn knee
Just made that hurting click
(c)near_lane7
Flatfielder writes under near_laneu
Graff1980 Dec 2020
In your heart,
can you sit with the grieving,
see what they are feeling,
and grow some compassion?

Tears from a stranger,
a mother’s exhaustion,
wearing the body language
of those who’ve been broken.

No hugs allowed,
no warm faces to comfort,
no one to hold,
no matter how much we want it.

In your mind can you comprehend
what all this pain is doing to them.
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