Let us write
up waves of
Navy blue
thunder clouds
Just to
run madly
Into translucent
Driving rains


Drink us up
some orange
With our
Full of

See them

Together like
Her tail
In the wind

Let us write
Ending it
All tired
Stories do

Where shall
We begin


trying to bake up something fresh

clear winding streams
divide wandering dreams
cool forests filled with evergreens
down twisted trail at deadfalls cross
I took rest upon soft bed of moss
in chorus with ever dimming skies
hear lone coyote's distant cries
fading echoes on the wind
his search and mine
will never end

gmw '17

Where my mind wanders during sleep is beyond me.

All of these joys, snacks and sights
Carefree meets, or sudden, thick fights
The brisk feeling of freedom to speak
A treasure to those even not so meek
Bless you those who meet my eyes
Only a few more glances, a couple more tries
Gentle waves may yet shape the cliffs
Understanding would be the best of gifts
I welcome what you several have done
With this band come the rays of sun
I take it as a sign, somewhat bizarre
You make me long to learn guitar
To hit the five-chord with such power
It lights candles and topples a tower

Excuse my constant, wandering mind
My thoughts are forever engraved, entwined
I’m not sure if I’ll ever want to see
What I dreamt last night, chasing me  
At times I’m locked inside this dome
I mean, I barely finished this poem
But you’re quite sharp, true and clever
Pick your poison, now or never

i scraped my knees in the
realms of time
i don't know where to hide
under the willow tree
to find and harvest
the new moon
a cracked ceiling blinks
with long lashes
my long lost friend is
still ice cold
it is not yet spring

greet my reflection if
i go too long
without smiling

a transparent person
it looks a lot like

I turn my weird dreams into weird poetry.
Brianna Jul 3

They like to keep me up night--
creeping around, haunting sounds, and pale figures in doorways I can barely make out.

They like to keep me on my toes--
Small phrases that make it sounds like they care and then they turn around and stab in me the back.

They try to remind me how to move forward--
but all they do is hold me back and keep me trapped between getting out and staying there.

These ghosts aren't the ones who haunt my hallways at night.
They are not the ones you can banish with some spell or some pretty knick knack you find at the store.

No, these are the ghosts of my mind.
They are the ones who remind me everyday I am in the same place.
They are the people who forgot me.
They are the loves I have lost.

The ghosts I cannot hide from.

Anon Jun 20

I've travelled not really far and wide
watched the mundane
some strange, some incredible
but the nightmares unchanging
city after city
I've laid awake at nights
finding solace in shadows
clinging to me as if desperate orphans

I will stand again
under the blazing sun
or dark skies
another strange land
shattered dreams in out-stretched palms
let me be the requiem of your pain
while your footsteps echo into tomorrow
on the sidewalk I'll be-- waiting for home.


I heard my own voice
In the music of Esma Redsepova,
"Queen of the Gypsies".
The Sorrow,
The Hopelessness,
The Aimlessness
The Grief.
We put on our backpacks here in Denver,
But we don't know where we're going?
If I am a European,
I am also among
"The Trash".

This poem was influenced by listening to the CD, Mon Hisoire (My Story)  by Esma Redžepova, "Queen of the Gypsies" along with Titi Robin before going to sleep last night

The lavender is sleeping tonight
The lilacs are keening
and the aster is listening—

What is the secret
that only the dewdrops
seem to know?

I stare out the dusty car window
and try to question
the grass blades
so different here than leaves.

I don’t want to be rude
in my gawking
at the chubby bees and busy beetles,
my eyes trying to take my mind over
and learn their teachings
lost to me.

In the gray morning traffic
I wish to be small
infinitely small
to slip through some crack,
out the door,
down the street
and drink the dewdrops.

Sublime rain children
Osmosis knowledge

I would be full
in my miniatureness
of the secrets and songs
of the underfoot
the unseen who are still visible.

I would admire grandeur again,
fear the breeze and the rain,
revel in their power.

I would be unable
to type on a keyboard
to speak by phone,
to turn the steering wheel.

I would tame the franticness
of bumblebees
and duel mosquitoes
with willow twigs

I would smell each tiniest
smell and forget the manufactured.

I would be whole
and dense,
gloriously slow,
moving with beautiful infinitesimalness
in my affair with the Earth.

“Thirteen hours to Amsterdam”

Loud speakers shatter the glistening night sky

Meandering my way, a stream of pedestrians, seen and unseen

Everyone here is a black sheep from somewhere else

Nomads with homes, borne away by wanderlust

And I decide that we’re all searching for the same thing

I carefully shelve my journal in the slender pocket of my satchel

And heave the bag’s weight over my shoulder

Thirteen hours to Amsterdam.

Do you ever feel
Pushed aside
By the people
Closest to you
In your life,
You go out on the Streets
Looking for love
From people who are hungry.......
From people who are fearful......
From people who are in a rush.......
From a Society
Where we're all taught
How to build walls and barriers
Of exclusion
Rather than bridges and avenues
That connect?

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