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Bellissima May 13

The news came in blows–bashes
to the heart, a butcher
beating a pound of meat.

The doctor said it was your breast,
that sack of fat that hung
so peacefully along your torso.
That soft small pouch which carried a secret,
a coin purse hiding stolen money.

It was that round raisin spout
that oozed liquid love,
what had once nurtured life
only now, to take it away.


The chemo was cold,
naked branches
in the midst of winter.

The doctor said your hair would go,
that those sun brushed locks would fall,
an autumn tree flaking its leaves.

Your nurtured garden,
to be plucked and uprooted,
picking carrots, bare and bald.


The disease crept up– multiplied,
a bomb of ants
ravishing a crumb of bread.

The doctor said that it had spread
to the cauliflowerd bumps between your hips,
to the heart shaped tubes that cradled
the unwanted mass, a *******
born without a father.

It was an attack your womanhood,
the predator, a ghostly outline
that lingered faintly in the scan.


The surgery took hours–heartbeats,
the wife of a soldier
waiting to hear of survival.

The doctor said they cut you open,
scraped it out, a pumpkin
scooped and carved on Halloween night.
Your gooey insides probed and poked,
until the rest of it was gone.

He said they shut you with staples,
a spine–like trailed railroad track,
that the skin around turned yellow,
while you looked sore and dead.


The healing happened slowly,
an infected wound
spewing pus then scabbing over.

The doctor said that you were clear,
like fresh water, clean and pure.
He said your hair would start to grow,
spring up like tulips
from beneath your scalp.

and you smiled so warmly–
the sun had baked your mouth.
Not only had your body healed,
but your soul.
*n a k e d* branches
A *b a s t a r d* born without a father
shamamama Apr 11
I met Mother Taro once,

        She is an angel you know

I saw her in the greenery of
John Pia's Taro Patch.

She dawned the past, the present
and the future
More plant than woman,
and yet more root than angel wing--
Though her heart shaped wings
Repelled water as well
as any albatross or nene.
A rare bird in spirit.

She shared her plight to me
Of this modern time,
Watching the changes
In the faces of human kind

She remembers being a Goddess
And providing for all the people
In a time where she
traveled with the people
Over waters near and far
In double hulled canoe
To share her spirit
With new families.

And now, she feels like a myth
Told and retold by the elders
Alive more in the memories
And less on the land.

As she spoke, the message
Became more and more clear.
When might and power and greed and money
Seem of more value than
Root, wing, earth and pluck
We must take the time,

take the time

To tend each keiki and tend with care
So they may multiply
In healthy soil, water and air

So We the Living
Can live into eternity
For the winds of time
Will spite the might,
She said.
Seize this time
Seize this  day,
Seize this moment
to tend
We the Living.
May John Pias Taro Patch live on into eternity.
Daniel K Feb 5
Buried in darkness,
Accompanied by scent of metal and dirt,
No time given to discover colour.
But to toil on and on, day and night,
Supplying the fortunate doppelgänger with
All the needs to prosper.
Whether it knows or not,
That ****** beauty never fails to show.
Eyes of recognition solely
Centred on the fruit bearer where
It’s decorated with wonders of nature.
Though with flick of a finger,
It’s life will cease as the supplier
Has all the power in the world to
Go into strike.
Arousal of schemes powered by
Darkness about, that of light
Will shrivel into the fine dust,
Those that feed the void
Of Jealousy.
Matt Sol Jan 20
Had I been there
never lately
everything is
ever changing
everything is
over rated
a unique sense
of desperation
nothing less could
satiate this
nothing less could
alleviate us
where I am right now
is where I am meant to be
I'm firmly rooted
Based on an affirmation that I learned to activate the root chakra, located at the base of the spine. I have always found this bit of information to be, while a bit redundant,  quite comforting
Joy Nov 2018
There are many shades of black.
You taught me that.
There's the black in your hair.
And the dark shades in your lashes.
There's the boom of pitch black
in your top
and in the gloss of your sunglasses.
There's the black tulip in your figure
blending with the shadows
of evergreen forests.
You inhabit them
the same way you inhabit
what white water lilies cast
on the treacle of saltwater by the sea
at two in the morning.
The smoke from your cigarettes
cause a vacuum of color
and you paint within it
outside the clichés.
You move silently
and demand the truth
Your black eyes ex-ray words
spoken untruthfully.
You plant fear
in the hearts of liars
and hypocrites.
And my other
bright pink-stained girl friends ask me
how do I adore
the pitch black roots at your feet.
They ask how am I not afraid
of the German shepard
barking by your side
as your hands hold your lipstick tube
as if it is a rifle.
But you taught me
that we build homes
as well as we can.
There's brown in your eyes
which if observed closely
is the texture of pine trees in November.
They cast light on my hair, face and hands.
Your pierced ears
lend themselves to me
on a moment's notice
even as we argue.
You have built a secure home with me
as we grew up together
intertwining dark and light
with bruised knuckles,
and knees.
And you
still and likely always you
are my dearest friend.
My home.
The perfect other half.
I see your fingertips covered in paint.
You paint me
in my best light,
in my best colors,
in my best shades of black.
Yours is the deep root
which keeps me on the ground
as I try to grow upwards.
You fix me back
to the things I am
when my evergreen forest
threatens to get me lost.
"Thank you!"
"I love you!"
are the biggest words I have.
When it comes to you
they're far from big enough.
Leah Oviedo Oct 2018
When that sliver of daybreak tugs at your eyes
Wake up to unexplored possibilities
Stretch your body in gratitude
Embrace the gift of a new day
Open your heart to a compassionate view
Welcome the sun as she rises for you
Ground into this world and listen for what you need
There is work to be done
In the streets and in your own heart
Start from the root
This is the first poem in 'Start From The Root', my recently published book of illustrations and poetry.  After a year of polishing this book, I'm excited to have completed this goal. I have been writing poetry for most of my life, but only seriously in the past four years. After several people I loved died in just a few years, I began to write poetry as a way to heal. It has been some of the best medicine.
Lyn-Purcell Oct 2018

For every story of addiction
has trauma at the root

Thats the usual case anyway.
I'm sorry everyone for not updating as much as I want.
I'm still feeling really unwell...
Hugs everyone
Lyn ***
(a lighter piece sup *** wit tree)

'm, oh yes mud hum,
     who hoop fully iz zaftig
and/or mister
     Jack Rabbit, whoever wig
gulls or crinkles their nose
     creating a lil whirligig
at this bit of flummery unrig
yule lated impossible

     to make cogent
     and/or tangential with trig
perhaps best red
     after taking a swig
of vintage carrot juice with a sprig
of favorite herb, more'n enough
     to slake thirsting herd
     at the yearly

     Peter Rabbit shindig,
which senseless literary rig
ma roll even Bugs Bunny
     trump petting donned Taj Mahal
     swiftly tailored hare
     reed styled periwig,

     (would turnip his nose),
     button size or overbig,
yet all Joe King aside,
     and please do not think me a ****
excepting (Trix are for kids, eh...?)

this intentional faux paw, an
distress signal tis ideally geared
     for a Unitarian
     herbalist hook can
transform this pro
     fessed human imposter,
     (who in truth got cursed
     as a **** sapien

     by Bunny Foo Foo with elan)
particularly in the guise of Han
nub bull the cannibal,
     (whose unisexual name Jan)
also doubles up

     as my birth month
     dwells in Lan
zing, Michigan, and earns
     keeps employed as a nan

knee, yet experiences inner pan
dumb moan he yum,
     (seized with grippe to dig
     in Farmer Brown's garden), and ran
like the dickens
     all the way to Tran
sill vane ya leaping
     across Atlantic Ocean forced
     to adopt the lifestyle of a Van
dull with razor sharp buck teeth.
Lyn-Purcell Jun 2018
Dissect yourself. Get down to the root
of what your demons use as their
sustenance, and cut
it out.
Easier said than done, I know.
Rip out the causes of by the root and your demons will wither and die.
Be back soon!
Lyn ***
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