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Brent Kincaid Nov 2016
I miss those wonder-filled days
When watching clouds was fun,
As well as watching movies
And more than only just one.
Two movies, a serial and a cartoon
Was the Saturday morning fare
With greasy popcorn and sodas
If we could find fifty scents somewhere.

My brothers and I loved picking
Through those illegal dump sites
That lawless neighbors often used,
Near us, in the middle of the night.
Once I found a Buddha statuette
And didn’t know who the guy was.
In Christian America of the fifties
Knowing such things had no cause.

Brother Jim found a tricycle there
Almost completely okay to ride
And Dan found a kind of wood box
With a handful of coins inside.
He got to pay for the movies for us
But Sam didn’t find much at all.
He did manage to slip at the time
And take a pretty hilarious fall.

Maybe it was easier then, those days
For kids to stay so entertained.
The only thing that might spoil our fun
Was if nature chose to make it rain.
Many times our fun was exploring
And rain could make it a weary slog.
It caused some unpleasant journeys
Through some unattractive bogs.

We built go-carts out of some junk
We gathered on our treasure hunts,
But usually they were contraptions
My mother definitely did not want.
Mom was like that, careful with us.
Worry-wart that she was back then
It didn’t stop or really slow down
Us four adventure-minded children.
Lillian Harris Nov 2016
The air in this room
Is asphyxiating
But the sunlight is
Too bright outside
And I am far too sad
Inside
And this feeling
Is like cold hands
Grasping
My heart.

So I'll wait and I'll fade
Into the night
A slight figure
In the fog
And walk under the
Sallow light of street lamps
Pretending that my darkness
Will fade into
the black of the sky
If I allow it to slip away
It blows and claps
limbs begin to crack
It smokes and cries
the water can't be held back

It shakes and groans
the hills implode
You cry and scream
the place which was once your serenity
The black spot on
my heart that has
spread through my
body like a plague

The great river of
ice, confessing to
the coldness of
my soul

I swim, battling
the tide of my
innermost thoughts

A wanderer who
hates the loneliness
of the road

The palm of my hand,
empty
Silverflame Oct 2016
Water
Calm, mysterious
Diving, exploring, drowning
Forgotten treasures found, burning hot ground
Feeling, wandering, searching
Secure, solid
Earth
running through oceans of green
above the heavens are blue and clean
below the water sprints fast
the giants around, what shadows they cast!

over the edge of the world you lean
to behold such a breath-taking scene
all darkness and pain will pass
though all of this will not last
for the hearts of humans are glassed
Timothy Ward Sep 2016
Surfing is playful
When there's a tide
But it's awfully painful
When waves have died
And what of the poet
Who was filled with rhyme
Whose verse is now crippled
By a heart that pines
Torn is a poet who knows
Not when to share
Forlorn is his heart
Of emotions laid bare
It seems at times the muses play me for the fool that I am. I wish I wouldn't be so naive and open but I am compelled to be me!
fly sweety
your eyes were made for wandering
but please stay homesick
for your bed will always be made
just in case you need some warmth
my fridge will hold your favourite fruits
                             I’ll keep them fresh forever
and according to the gravity of your mood
I have red and white wines to ease the night
countless candles and I’d love to make a bonfire
                           if ever you’re in need of light
for your heart  I’ll be a refuge
even if you flew
out of sight
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