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Heidi Franke Dec 2023
Riding the air
In dark morning
A steady current of rain
Descends
Upon everything
The fir tree
The house roof
My dogs fur
The empty Ash tree
The fallen leaves
Brown, red, yellow, orange
The bird feeder catches the water As does the bird bath
The puddles
The street
The cement
My head

My ears hear each
Multitude of patterned drops
In apparent chaos
Reminds me of the brain
The synapses in my brain
Circuitry, each drop a connection from
Dendrite to dentride
Messages of the unknown
Of falling to earth
Of vulnerable life
Unprotected.

The unhoused, in the cool soaked air of December. Will you remain blessed?
Will you spread your joy in the patter of rain to those who bare the rain in their skin, on their dampened clothes? Adding a chill.
Will today you find some without a home
Bringing tarps, blankets, source of heat, to those who listen
To the same rain
While they shiver
And you stay in your glow with your tidy wood burning fireplace. Stay comfortable? Risk giving for giving sake. What floods of love can you share in December rather than giving to
Your precious family, the left overs, the excesses
And give to charity that make each day another day for breath in rain from the heavens. I choose the rain. I could be the one in
The open now, soaking as I pen these words.

Hoping words of love, neutrality, non-judgement and altruism be the "church" we reside in. Drop by drop.
Over a hundred different sounds of rain brought to earth by gravity, in my receiving ears, and the tiny sparkles of light reflected upon the  light from the street lamp shining upon concrete saturated by this extended morning rain.
Sunday. Sitting under my porch with coffee in hand, dog at my side. Dry from this music of rain. Thinking of the homeless. Now mustering the strength and courage to buy Starbucks growlers full of coffee for about thirty and driving around town once again finding cold people shivering. Time to order that coffee and give warm to some as best I can in my limited way. Looking for costs of pull over rain coats. My gifts to my children this year is to give what I would give them to others less fortunate. Be neutral in your thinking. Be rid of judgements of self and others. More love, less hate.
Mary-Eliz Apr 2018
Are you my muse?
Well, are You?

Every time we talk
ideas crop up

Sometimes crazy
sometimes not so much

But little flicks of light
appear
like a runway
signalling

along the synapses
of my
frontal lobe

Or a light bulb might
show up
in a bubble
above my head

No matter how
No matter where

They insist on follow through

even though some fizzle
and some just outright die

~~~~~~~~~~

So are you my muse?
I need someone to blame!
Danielle Mar 2018
Synapses roll off the tongue,
Stutter and glitch
Stut-t-t-ter and glitch
Repeat....Re...p-p-peat
Misfired.
You a broken doll
With your bright brilliance.
I loved the character Glitch from Syfy's Wizard of Oz
LAlgaravia Feb 2016
Whenever my
perception
gets attached to your
image,
Little flowers blossom
from infinite branches
of my neurons.
Old notes from an old diary
For an old and eternal love.
Grace Pickard Nov 2015
Which part of me would choose?
For it is cold in my mind and warm in my heart
If only I knew what goes on within your mind
So perfectly flawed

I could crawl into your brain...
The simple masterpiece of all I've seen-
" pure beauty" is a mere insult to the magnitude of its indescribable wonder

Peering through the amygdala
I'll see your past in awe-
At how it's brought you here,
A creature so wonderfully subtle with tongue
And bold in nature:
Sui generis.

I'd love to journey through the thoughts of you
Through and through I'd wander
And wander always turns to wonder



To be electrified by your synapses
And burnt into oblivion-
A million pieces of me
Becoming blended within
Something wholly powerful
Is but a dream
Locked behind
The gazing brown puddles
Reflecting the moonbeam

— The End —