Poetry feeds my soul
like a needle feeds the thread
upon which you have sewn
your ruby-colored letter A
across my heart,
marking the shame that
I must carry each time
you tell me you love me

and I’m a slave
to you.

there’s no release
no release from the
purgatory that you’ve
placed upon me.

Food for the soul
(I think maybe I am your slave).

In this prison full of lies
The cells are oversize
But the walls...
They ain't made of concrete bricks,
They ain't breaking with just six
Wrecking ball kicks.
And the windows...
Oh, my sweet child, the windows...
They don't even exist.
There's no piercing light,
No chasing dreams, no flying kite,
No escaping hopes,
Just me and my thoughts...
I'm pacing blind
In this prison that's my mind.

i saw your collarbone like a
drowning man see’s the surface.
i urged to break it.

Nature can be, savage or kind
Which way does it go; can it be defined

A young toad was trapped by a sprinkler today
His life could have ended and be swept away

I noticed him there and expected him to hop
He was stuck I could see and I needed to stop

The mower, would and could have, swallowed him up
Had I not looked his way and stopped so abrupt

His leg was trapped in a sprinkler retract
In came down quite hard with a vicious impact

I was able to raise it and help the toad out
His pour leg looked broke, in that there's no doubt

I hope that he lives and heals up real quick
I'm glad I could help, the toad I named Rick...!

Brian Hill - 2019 # 197