Bjorn 1h

The sunlight creeps as the dawn withers slowly at five.
Today, it seems warmer
but the winds were a bit colder
than yesterday.

The world's first ever clock
was the chirping of the birds
That flutter gracefully to the sky.

and once it began to sing,
humans slowly return
from their slumber;
opening their eyes
to welcome another day.

Good Morning, Saturday.
He yawned.

Aynjul 7h

Whenever I hear new music,
its like the artist knows
Missing you hurts.
out of all The Life my heart holds for you
I don't know how to let it out..
for now, I just bleed words that cant rhyme
Lyrics, melodies, beats and time-
and nothing can tame my heart
so hopefully My poetry will reach yours

Feeling music is not the same as it was when I looked at you almost everyday

long eyelashes rest delicately on flushed cheeks
midnight hair cascades over his face
Blue eyes collide with brown
your soft lips grazing against mine

Lone fire
Don't need a sire

Have no clique
And they don't stick

They don't lead
Don't let themselves to be led

Often unmanaged
Don't want to be center staged

They avoid to be judged
Also don't want to be nudged

They are good listener
But don't find someone similar

Fighting inner war
Yet their door is azar

Like anonymity
Yet ready for charity

Die for their beloved
Yet not chosen to be loved

A lot they did
But want no credit

No rest
Unending quest

Remain unheard
Such are people untitled

JAC 1d

There is
An abundance
Of beautiful people.
We all know this,
We see them everywhere.
You can be one too,
If you are not one already,
Simply by stating something stupid:
"I'm a beautiful person too."

Chan S 1d

Hurt People Hurt People
Yes This Is True
But When Will You Learn
From What Hurt You?

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For Morah Ruth


We chew slowly and carefully,
the meal in front of us rests on a paper plate
—a sloppy joe, corn and peas,
slices of pear,
a single piece of corn bread.

the radio plays a familiar tune,
something from Israel.
Beautiful and nostalgic,
the music haunts the classroom,
like an unwanted tattoo,
on the back
of your delicate and soft wrist.

My co-worker Ruth speaks up,
tells me, “You know
I went to the Women’s March,
up in DC. Even wore a pink hat.”
She smiles for a brief moment,
as the shadows cover the classroom

Her eyes shine bright blue,
as the children start to yawn,
before they drag their feet
across the carpet,
clearing their plates from the table.

The walkie-talkie shakes
like a bobble-head: “Attention educators,
please be cognizant of suspicious-looking people
and suspicious looking activity.
Shabbat Shalom.”

I pull out my phone
and check the news on the Internet.
Bomb Threats loom over
Jewish Community Centers across America,
like a toxic-gaseous sky

spread over every place we call home,
every place we wish to keep safe.
Ruth, the lead teacher,
takes out her mini-white guitar
from behind the storage cabinet.

She strums the strings gently
and softly,
as though she is stroking
the mane
of a lion cub.

The children gather
around in a circle,
pull forward their yellow chairs,
and sing songs in Hebrew,
their lips in a moon crescent,

their voices soothing like
a hypodermic needle
breaking the skin
of an old golden retriever
for a sleep that is everlasting.

I close my eyes
as I fall back on the couch,
and hear
that lovely woman
laughing for the last time.

My legs begin to give away,
In my bed I will forever stay
No mother, I am not hungry
Nothing's wrong I'm simply tired

The simplicity of dying comes over me though I am not yet ready to go
I let out a gasp for air
Quivering, crying out like so

I roll over and the symphonies play
Delicate dancing thoughts on a brittle piece of ice

This is too insufficating, I no longer can breathe

The place was the unexpected carefree host
Of several tipsy nights wetted
By friendly toasts and temporary infatuations,
Lasting the duration granted
By gulping red clepsydras measuring
Time with the flow of inebriating substances.

My passion alas soon drove to the abolishment
Of such street hours of darkness to the benefit
Of clarity, concentration and sobriety,
For the unfolding of a novel awaiting
Virtual carbon particles to stain
Imaginary paper pages.

The place hence became my daylight salon,
Betaking myself to it, a necessary resolution
To having a semblance of social life, a foot
In the “real” world, while taking a compulsory break
From self-relegation to the seclusion
Of my private abode and imagination.

The sun, a spotlight directed on the thespians,
Lifting the nocturnal curtains, to unveil their act.
The stage, a familiar space for adult orphans,
Searching in Bacchus casual company.
Amongst the heterogeneous lot, a tall, big-lipped
Man, plays reminiscences of Tambourines.

His wide smile uncovers chipped white teeth,
Clashing with the colour of his skin.
The first time I saw him he was giddily bragging
Of recent dates made of sandwiches eaten
Sheltering from heat, in the fresh vegetable department
Of the discount down the road, from his apartment.

Incredulously I believed him, until he told me not to,
As of then he would be, my new befitted friend.
The big time dealer serving the entire region,
Always there when you need him,
To take care of the kids or escort you to the dentist
When in pain and to the other side of the city.

Notorious for going out of his way for others,
Generous with time, kind words, smiles and money,
His job does not define him yet completes
The spreading euphoria his presence bestows
Upon those who look for him or those
Who simply stumble into him, by chance.

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