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Julie Rogers Nov 2018
Was it you spinning vinyl
In that 3rd floor apartment in New York
Walls close, a small space
You’re wrapped up in my sweater
And singing songs I knew once
To her and her angel face
While leaves paint the pavement outside

Or was it you shouting
In that rally on the streets of suburbia
Last fall, the rain fell forever
But you were brave wrapped in my sweater
Chanting with the big crowd
The air smelled like kettle corn
And the people on the street sides cheered

It couldn’t have been you
On the cold bathroom floor in Seattle
Cold sweats, pupils dilated
My sweater pulled over your sequin dress
Vinyl record song
                Skipping
                Skipping
                Skipping
                in the background
How you looked like disco ball
Shattered on the floor that day

It may have been you buying coffee
Across the taxi tracks in Brooklyn
Americano, extra shot
The city bubbling over like shaken soda
Smiling like the day I gave you that sweater
Broken as the disco ball on the floor
Spinning the vinyl I bought you in suburbia
Tati Oct 2018
Id spend my afternoons in the garden with the flowers
My only real friends.
We’d talk while I drank my milk tea and laughed for hours about absolute nonsense
The daisys would keep me updated on all the gossip going around the garden
And the chamomile’s would offer their advice on anything I needed.
The lavenders would make me laugh
And the roses would compliment my makeup
Since it was inspired by them
I’d bring my diary there and share with them all my stories and the crazy things that had happened to me that day, since they were the only ones that would listen.
They became my only source of joy
One day I walked to the garden, ready to tell them all my new adventures
But when I began to speak, I noticed something off.
They weren’t responding.
I nudged the orchids.
“What’s wrong? Why aren’t any of you speaking?”
I sat there for hours.
No words.
I came back the next day, hoping they’d speak again.
But they never did.
Afia Sep 2018
I'm sorry
If I woke you up last night
My pen told me secrets in whispers
And I carved scars and tales
Of silly incantations and
old fallen trees
Of silver days in summer breeze
and tattered amber sundresses
Of apple bites and ripe grapes
near the broken glass on the carpet; they decayed
Ashes danced on my lips; sculpting poems on my skin
and flicking cigarette on my wounds
Smudged mascara and dulcet memories
Leather fabricated journals of vintage times
hiding crisp carcasses of yellow daises
Euphonious chortles and
early morning smiles
Forgotten tea leaves in the teapot
and ****** bread turning cold
Sun rays, like gold dust, sparkling in the air
Through the tall trees of a forest
hanging on the clouds in despair
First day of Spring, magical it is
like a caterpillar's fate
Silky cocoon, shiny chrysalis,
emerging out as a butterfly
Leaving as old and embracing the new
Igniting the sky over my purple roof
Shadow Dragon Aug 2018
The vintage doll in the window
staring into thin air.
Fake tears in a pipet
drip down her face.
Born into original sin
and the urge for it to wash away.
Slow soapy circles
on the porcelain skin.

A made up story
to clear the sky
that otherwise
drip
drip
drip
down water
watering her eyes.
Rowan Ayman Aug 2018
Have you ever been in the early seventies?
Have you heard the melodies
Have you felt the style
Of love songs or even rock
Have you seen the houses
Calm lights and wooden tables

I guess love back then,felt different
In the cafés that play jazz
And streets crowded with trees
Or just a few benches by the sea
Extremely Seldom beeps

When elegance was still a trend
When movies didn’t have much quality
But an impact was always left

Friends were not virtual
Outings were not for photos
Cards were played for long nights
Walks were not interrupted by texts

Have you ever felt that warmth
When you enter a house somehow old
Like the sense of memories is still there
Nostalgic in a soothing way
Hard to explain
Unless you’ve been there
Have you ever been in the early seventies?
Afia Jul 2018
A shaft from the golden sun,
reclined peacefully in my lap.
The amber gleam reflected back,
and gently baked the solemn land.
An ardent whisper furnished the woods
with a viridescent scent that woke up the woods.
Silver songs of sleek streams,
chased the lullabies away;
gently.
Ancient tress cuddled the wind,
their leaves clapped in sheer bliss
The broken winged white eyed bulbul,
warbled hymns to lift the curse.
Scarlet tainted vintage letters resting in the rustic mailbox,
await your tender touch; while they chant for a past long gone.
But lily livered clouds,
they have turned your courage into a yellow illusion.
So now defy the toxic words and the errors you made,
A different person inside your skin, long ago, burned our hearts on the hateful flames.
I look for answers in Nature.
trf May 2018
I'm wide open,
Standing stark at your front door,
Like a covered peep hole,
I'm not welcome anymore.

I'm wide open,
Your shadow frame cracks the floor,
But it's drifting away from me,
Scaling back the dinosaur.

Now I'm closed,
Alone in a clothing line,
Thrift stores we used to find,
Our vintage passing for time.

Do you suppose,
Roses are thorny vines,
Grapes don't smell like wine,
You were never the nurturing kind.
clever Apr 2018
bodies in black in white
eyes in technicolor
we were picture perfect
but everything good fades
in time because
the vivid fades away
and vintage is simply
old and worn and used
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