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Robert Ronnow Mar 2019
Off the train I hit the streets
and start laughing. This is ridiculous,
incomprehensible. How can innumerable bipeds
have individual inner lives. Why are they doing
what they’re doing? I have no answer
New York City but to also go about my business
in this case prepare for surgery, survival.

But why survive with so many exact replicas
to replace me? A swarm of ants or hive of bees,
social organisms they’re called, climbing
over each other, avoiding bumping and amazingly
making way, anticipating the sudden turns
and straight paths of others, strangers but brothers,
sisters incubating, the cells of a small
*****, nodes of a single semi-conscious organism.

The concept of a higher power that cares
for me is also risible yet how else
can I explain the surgeon and his team,
robots and magnetic resonance imaging machines,
all primed and trained to save my life.
They are not particularly interested in what
I do with my time. I am immediately
in love with the Irish brogue of the head nurse,

the Indian skin of the physician’s assistant.
The long extraordinarily thin
fingers of the famous surgeon. All
mine to savor (and the other cancer patients).
Back on the streets, rush to the train.
So many women to choose from! One
in fishnet stockings stands out, tall
calm, still, graceful. No cell, no hair, no hurry.

Yesterday’s suicidal thoughts: the mind
is a clever servant, insufferable master. Therefore,
meditate on this: absolute need, dependence on the Other.
I still like Hombre, The Shootist and Ulzana’s Raid
but realize those dead heroes
were subordinate to society: the gun manufacturers who armed them.
Thus, I go for cancer tests, accepting, not predicting results.
Hero accepting help.

A torrential rain following five days of flooding,
tornadoes out west busting up wooden towns
all because too many of us are hoarding plastic, herding electrons.
None of us know how it will end, what the outcome will be
(of our surgery). The best that can be said
is Don’t forget to breathe. And you might
as well believe in that higher power.
www.ronnowpoetry.com

--title from a tune by Billy Strayhorn
Bohemian Feb 2019
There's a little yearn and
fancy
To ramble upon those wet meadows
Breathe the mist in air,merged
With the leaves rustling on the trees about the edges
Where street lights stammer to lighten intercept
When from the neighbourhood visits the melody of someone's flute
Someone
Dwelled into the night
For awaken till this hour of it
Jenna Feb 2019
The color of death,
is conceived as red
blinking consistently,
threateningly, and
annoyingly

Time slows to seconds
for there is a timer
to mark my death
white, rectangle strips
draw me to,
My last resting place
sometimes
love is a one way street
and i always go the wrong way
and love the ones i shouldnt
going down these one way streets causes me to crash
Wellspring Feb 2019
It's the most surreal feeling
Walking down a street that
Should be full of noise and traffic,
But for some reason, it's not.
A sad ukulele strumming away in your ears,
The sounds of the wind,
The birds,
The trees,
All accompanied by the empty streets,
And the grey clouds moving slowly overhead.
So this happened this morning. It was weird.
Allen James Jan 2019
Like the moment I first saw her,
Parched lips that tasted water,
Mother Nature's only daughter,
Living on the street,

In the open desert valley,
I feel her air around me,
Effortless and soundly,

One day we will meet.
Ivyanna Jan 2019
It's in that woman's smile
It's in that child's laughter
It's in that man's gentle word
It's in that dog's jolly run
It's in that sound of beggar's accordion
It's in that street singer's voice
It's in that baby's sky blue eyes
It's in the touch of your hand
It's in the honest "thank you"
and in the sincere "please"

- that's where I find hope,
  that's where I find peace
Lewis Hyden Dec 2018
Ramp
Ramp up - still
Under pavements
And concrete roofs,
Beams of lead,
Mortar, spaces open,
Ramps leading up,
Speed-bumps, graffiti
Straining under layers of
Stairwells, asbestos,
Cold, sickness, hunger,
Tears, bitter chill, hot
Blankets, sogging, filthy,
Ramps ascending through
Exhaust fumes and tar and
Blood and sweat and smoke and

The top.
Cold. Overlooking the vile city
In all its putrid splendor.
A dream swirls in the blackness,
Then dies.
© Lewis Hyden 2019
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