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Ira Desmond May 8
The parks are now empty of all but the trees.
The rot in the woodwork has made itself clear:
the virus reveals a more wicked disease.

If we watch each other with growing unease,
more sinister shadows may draw themselves near.
The parks are now empty of all but the trees.

The nurses and doctors make no guarantees;
their furrowed brows are not at all insincere.
But the virus reveals a more wicked disease.

While some may not fret at a cough or a sneeze,          
our day-to-day life shows a mask more austere:
the parks are now empty of all but the trees.

The wealthy can shelter on yachts overseas,
far-flung from the whims of our mad racketeer,
for he, too, was borne of this wicked disease.

But Justice may not brook the fraud she now sees,
her blindfold being repurposed as protective gear.
The parks are now empty of all but the trees,
and the virus reveals a more wicked disease.
Tryst May 3
Star-crossed lovers died,
Upon a blade and poisoned,
At each other’s side.

Woeful was the bride,
At peace where two unseasoned
Star-crossed lovers died,

Taken by the tide
Who named two lovers treasoned,
At each other’s side.

Speak their names with pride,
For in that crypt where reasoned
Star-crossed lovers died,

Love does still reside,
In lovers lain imprisoned
At each other’s side.

Love dies not denied;
It dwells ‘twixt where garrisoned
Star-crossed lovers died,
At each other’s side.
.
I should have gone away
To seek a place my own
In this month of sundays

fear kept me here to stay
In this house not quite home
I should have gone away

There are no games to play
No empty fields to roam
In this month of sundays

There is no place to stray
If I wanted left alone
I should have gone away

If the sun shines, make hay
Before fate comes unknown
In this month of Sundays

The sky may soon be gray
Fate may break every bone
I should have gone away
In this month of Sundays
I wrote a villanelle!!! It's not great but **** these things r hard to write okay

definitely a first draft
Embracing the symphonies of midnight
Carefully sewn in between silence's guise
As salvation from this perilous plight

Shallow breaths as they clasp their bent knees tight
Crass caprices brim their minds in surmise
Embracing the symphonies of midnight

Ardent baton flicks to get them just right
Quietude, serenity—ode in reprise
As salvation from this perilous plight

Tinkering bells escorted by dim light
Yet shrill shrieking with menacing disguise
Embracing the symphonies of midnight

Soft, steady beats aloud, to hear I might
Lone martyr forgives in between my thighs
As salvation from this perilous plight

In low weeps, choruses of tears recite
Here I stand, dawning upon raven skies
Embracing the symphonies of midnight
As salvation from this perilous plight
Day 7 of #NaPoWriMo 2020. Been practicing fixed verse forms and today's a villanelle. Prompt is writing a poem with three things you hear at midnight.
Maurice Apr 4
I’ve finally opened my eyes and seen,
That encased by the blanket of this cave, I am free,
Still, I look around and see the world laid out in front of me.

To have woken from the long drawn out dream,
I’ve yet to recognize those surrounding me,
For they’re blinded by its light, my eyes have been opened and seen.

Cushioned by the falsehoods of its warmth,
Deceived by the lies in its message,
Whenever I look out, I don’t recognize this world in front of me.

submerged by the intensity from above, the curtain has fallen over,
Omnipresent, its beady eyes wait to deliver with intensity,
For the facade of the forever omnipresent has opened its eyes and seen,

The cataract of its illusion has lost its control of me.
Comfort in the cave has provided its solace, now
As I peer through the cracks to this wonderful world laid out in front of me,

I see the canvas of an artist, eager to begin,
Waiting for the soon-to-be sprouting daffodils,
Beneath the blanket of the sky, I’ve finally opened my eyes to now see
The beauty and innocence of the world laid out in front of me.
09/22/19
[Crime-scene. Time ceases to exist for YOU,
the necrophile. YOU are on top of the corpse.]

YOU:
Cadaver, corpse, a body's just a body
and yes, I'm guilty, sleeping with the dead
it loves me, then it doesn't love me.
                                                             ­ [Beat]

The rosary you must! To rest in peace, so
transfigure me baby while warm on my bed.
Cadaver, corpse, a body's still a body.

Indulge me; martyr to your livid beads
please intercede for me, oh, please I beg
for it loves me, then it doesn't love me.
                                                             ­ [Beat]

Now shall I exorcise you; set you free, from
the purgatory found between my legs?
My body, yours a corpse, but still a body,


And when your sinews loosen, skin erased
by time who shows no mercy for the dead,
will you still love me then, or won't you?
                                                            ­  [Beat]

To resurrect is daunting, but you shall have
the body that my kiss declares undead.
Cadaver, corpse, a body's just a body,
which loves me, 'til it doesn't love me.
                                                             ­ [Exeunt]
She wanders at the edge of her existence,
her mind long overgrown with wild nettles.
Her heart’s lost in an opalescent distance

where the moon spins into cobwebs as she listens.
Her heart beats like a war drum, then resettles.
She wanders at the edge of her existence

and stumbles on a winding path that glistens
with blooming garden beds and bleeding petals.
Her heart’s lost in an opalescent distance

to reach a rose-gold sun that slowly christens
the day into a burst of blues and metals.
She wanders at the edge of her existence,

the willows bowing at the sun’s insistence.
While waiting to see where the shadow settles,
her heart’s lost in an opalescent distance.

She recites epics to her heart, but if it listens,
it remains concealed among the moss and nettles.
She wanders at the edge of her existence,
her heart lost in an opalescent distance.
Because Her Heart Is Tender
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth, on the first anniversary of 9-11

She scrawled soft words in soap: “Never Forget”
dove-white on her car’s window (though the wren,
because its heart is tender, might regret
it called the sun to wake her). As I slept,
she heard lost names recounted, one by one.

She wrote in sidewalk chalk: “Never Forget”
and kept her heart’s own counsel. No rain swept
away those words, no tear leaves them undone.

Because her heart is tender with regret,
bruised by razed towers’ glass and steel and stone
that shatter on and on and on and on ...
she stitches in damp linen: “NEVER FORGET”
and listens to her heart’s emphatic song.
(The wren might tilt its head and sing along
because its heart once understood regret
when nestlings fell beyond, beyond, beyond ...
love's reach, and still the boot-heeled world strode on.)

She writes in adamant: “NEVER FORGET!”
because her heart is tender with regret.

Published by Neovictorian/Cochlea, The Villanelle, The Eclectic Muse, Nietzsche Twilight, Nutty Stories (South Africa), Poetry Renewal Magazine, and Other Voices International. Keywords/Tags: villanelle, 911, terror, terrorism, never, forget, heart, tender, regret, heroism, patriotism, courage, sacrifice
With dazzling colors that ensnare the mind
Twisting, turning away from each other
Escaping the form managed by mankind

Taking the freedom, they finally find
The solution for the observer
With dazzling colors that ensnare the mind

And clashing chaos creating the bind
That captures logic of practitioners
Escaping the form managed by mankind

No longer a beautiful gem find
But frustrations for a puzzle solver
With dazzling colors that ensnare the mind

With hands trying to break the bind
Reorganizing the scrambled color
That escaped the form managed by mankind

Until frustration leaves no hope behind
Will it finally find, freedom forever
With dazzling colors that ensnare the mind
Escaping the form managed by mankind
Ordinary Love
by Michael R. Burch

Indescribable—our love—and still we say
with eyes averted, turning out the light,
“I love you,” in the ordinary way

and tug the coverlet where once we lay,
all suntanned limbs entangled, shivering, white ...
indescribably in love. Or so we say.

Your hair’s blonde thicket’s thinned and tangle-gray;
you turn your back; you murmur to the night,
“I love you,” in the ordinary way.

Beneath the sheets our hands and feet would stray ...
to warm ourselves. We do not touch, despite
a love so indescribable. We say

we’re older now, that “love” has had its day.
But that which love once countenanced, delight,
still makes you indescribable. I say,
“I love you,” in the ordinary way.

Published by The Lyric, Romantics Quarterly, Mandrake Poetry Review, Carnelian, Poem Kingdom, Net Poetry and Art Competition, Famous Poets and Poems, FreeXpression, PW Review, Poetic Voices, Poetry Renewal, Poetry Life & Times; also winner of the 2001 Algernon Charles Swinburne Poetry Award

Keywords/Tags: Villanelle, ordinary, commonplace, everyday, love, bed, sheets, warmth, comfort, delight, limbs, night, light, white, hair, back, hands, feet, romance, passion, desire, longing, ***, intimacy
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