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Em Apr 13
I choose an area where I can watch from afar
Sit on a bench covered in the clouds light tears from the morning
My red plaid shorts damp beneath me
A book sprawled on my lap, eyes tracing the outline of the sentence I can't stop re reading
"it's the truth even if it didn't happen"
I experience the sun blazing down on my thighs
I trace the red marks on my strawberry skin with my nails
Finding a strange sense of comfort in the burning sensation
A sense of knowing that no matter what
One can always expect the sun to burn
I don't like the thought of not knowing what to expect
the isolation in the unknown
I can trust that the sun will never stop sizzling my skin
And although it hurts, it's the safest I've felt in a while
Trying to get back into poetry again
Anais Vionet Jan 10
I saw Sting in the lobby this morning, we were going out and he was coming in. Lisa nudged me, “Sting” was all she whispered. He was with a woman and a man. The woman was talking to the doorman. Sting was dressed all in black except for a long stark-white cashmere scarf, he was chatting and working a dark-gray French-flat-cap around in his hands. His hair is very short and white.

We wanted to walk in the snow, if only for a minute.
A gust of wind caught us as we reached the sidewalk. The two American flags, on either side of the entrance, went rigid, at 9-o’clock as if saluting us. “Jeeez!” I said, like the Georgia girl I am - or was. “Don’t be a baby,” Lisa answered, like a true, pittyless New Yorker but her cheeks had turned a child-like pink. She flipped up her collar.

I patted my pocket, relieved to feel my phone and know that if we froze to death the authorities could use “find my friends” to locate our bodies.

Leeza joins us a moment later and I can’t help but notice that she’s dressed like it’s a cool fall day. Back in the day, when my brother would dress like summer even though temperatures in Georgia had dipped cruelly into the fifties. Seeing him, my mom would say, “Where there’s no sense, there’s no feeling,” but I don’t.

“Did you see Sting?” I asked Leeza (12). She gives me a blank look. “Sting”, I said, “the lead singer for The Police?” I add, as clarification. “I don’t know who that is,” she says flatly. “He was famous,” I say in surrender, “a long time ago, in the 90s.” Maybe the next generation won’t be as celebrity driven.

Thank God Lisa suggested I pin my artist-beret down or it would have blown away, like my resolve to walk in the snow. Still, I followed Lisa into the park like a cat on a leash - unwilling to be seen as any less Canadian. The show crunched like we were trampling over snow-cones.

Trees began turning away the wind as we entered Central Park, “I think we may survive.” I said cheerfully. Just because you're freezing to death doesn’t mean you can’t be ​​affable.

Why don’t pigeons freeze to death - I thought birds flew south for the winter?
BLT's Merriam-Webster Word of The Day Challenge: ​affable
Steve Page Dec 2021
Plastic pistols, cowboy hats
action men, palitoy combat

Hotspur, Tiger and Hurricane
leather footballs, broken panes

Matchbox, Corgi, Airfix, Meccano
Stickle Bricks, and (only) red and white Lego

Triang scooters, Raleigh Choppers
Dunlop plimsolls, orange space-hoppers

Down the park’s obstacle course
Witches Hat, iron rocking horse  

Bumps and scrapes, grazes and cuts
rub it all better, just-get-back-up

Home before dark, in time for tea
Billy and Ian, my sisters and me
London in the 60's
Diesel Nov 2021
A beauty touched! A yellow leaf!
Which shines and stares from midnight beams,
That topples waves with every motion
In yellow glaze and bright commotion!

  Not distraught by distant wind,
The yellow park leaflet rides,
Among the arch, among the brim
Abound a wood— stood sitting high:

And branches tight, which sit them fair—
Not caught up by their troubles them—
Swallowed by some ancient air,
And there I stood, beauty'd in:

Felt it did, in inertias touch,
Oh gentle leaf in gentle cusp,
You kiss despite a wind-eye breeze—
You sit and yet you give enough
A night wood, beauty-yellow tree.
Thomas Steyer Aug 2021
I ordered a wheelchair for my mother
The rest of the family was filled with horror
As it might make her feel sicker and look much older

She's weak, no surprise at ninety-four
She can walk maybe fifty yards but no more
She was a ballerina and raised kids no less than four

Cancelled the order but it was too late
When it arrived I rolled her through the gate
Really enjoyed ourselves, luckily she's of little weight

Arriving at the park, she was delighted
Seeing the flowers the ducks, she got excited
She held my hand and we were pleased to be united.
Simon Piesse Jul 2021
No service to all westbound destinations due to flooding . . .

At Ravenscourt Park, it rained apocalyptically.

Then, God said:

‘Let go of point-to-point.

Paddle properly, like you mean it.

Hear the gentle song of the hummingbird.

Sip the sweet cup of the orchid.

Steer clear of the piranhas that are possessions;
Swim away from the caiman, who can drag you under.  

Take it stroke by stroke.  Do not splash about.

Go with my flow.

When your meanderings meet the mighty ocean of my love

Be ready.

This is just the beginning.’
Diesel Jul 2021
But I fall victim always one,
To this delighted falling sun,
Still I get shaken by each leave,
Still possessed by cloud and sun.
Quiet Justin Apr 2021
You never realize how happy you are
until you can walk through a park,
a smile on your face, not a single worry.

You actually notice how nice the weather is.
The sunlight on the grass.
The child beating his son at badminton.
All the people just enjoying the day.
And you're one of them.
My self esteem is much higher.
Davina E Solomon Apr 2021
And the knowledge of the hedgerow plant, I found embedded in leaf veins ... like in mine, etched along blue lines of a notebook. In the ripples on the remnants of water that pooled, before the mudflats claimed them are the striations of  ol'butot near  Naivasha. His stories tell of caves, a gleaming obsidian of a pre historic introspection. Do forty day fasts suffice to exorcise the springs of sulphur or the forced baptism of a flash flood washing six souls to Hades ? The sun glinted at me through a narrowness of fate, a gorge of interminable seconds and I marvelled at the strata of time in a warp, for it blurted out a moan.

Love spoke in nuanced layers of molten flow that crawled to stillness. Can I not say that stone speaks? A couple of hundred years back in time, self titled discoverers  had seen land that had not been unseen by the thousands who lived for thousands until then. So yes, the strata spoke to me, like the striations in the leaves and the lines that were everywhere telling stories of interminable seconds. Time grooves like a death valley in an engraving, etched like a memory of that which has never been, ripples on sand, circles on water,
Anything can trigger a poem, this one dominoed into Hell’s Gate Park in Kenya. Down below, a random photo I took inside, a few years earlier. It was strange, there was hardly anyone there that day, except the hot sun and a tiny array of grassland herbivores.

“A sparse region of natural beauty, Hell’s Gate runs west of the ancient lava flows of Mount Longonot, a 9,111-foot-high extinct volcano dominating Lake Naivasha and the Rift Valley. Combined with Longonot and Naivasha, the region forms a unique sanctuary for bird and animal life. It has been a longtime favorite of hikers, rock climbers, and nature lovers” [Ref~]
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