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No more sorrow
No more holes
No more broken things—
like souls

No more chains
No more rust
No more death—
that turns to dust

No more pain
No more fear
No more shame—
with hidden tears

He came
He came
He came
I strolled through
A library. T’was as abandoned
In the hands of time
As the proverbial Ozymandias.

It guarded a wealth of knowledge
Under each leather wrapped parchment
Like a pearl inside an oyster, just
Not under Adam’s ale.

One of them, as abandoned as the former
Stared at me, sitting in a
Coze on the floor.
‘Mommy!’ it cried

In such a desperate and helpless manner.
Instantaneously bonded I with it.
It was one akin to a mother and her child
Fragile, yet quite unbreakable.

All this in a book.
Words I have not to say
About that fervid day
And how etched it is.
This poem shares an intimate bond between MARS and a book. MARS adopts the abandoned, lonely and weeping book as if it were the MARS's own child.  A mix of archaic English and complex words let the reader bond with the poem as the MARS did with the book.
There is the ancient story of a shepherd boy
whose king outfitted him with armor
to ready him for the challenges of the day
and the boy could not walk
so he threw off the armor
picked up his sling
and tended his father’s flock
with peace and joy freely erupting in song.

My armor is not wealth or wit
I cannot make myself fit
into the current conventions and hype
trying to conform to the normal type
stops up the energies that yearn to flow
freely and gleefully and urge me to go
to the dawn, darkness, clouds and sun
to wrap myself in words that run
like sparkling streams
and windswept dreams.

Poetry is my armor for each day
where worries and problem allay
where I search my feelings and mind
for the word elixir loosening knots that bind.
This armor does not weigh me down
but frees me to my triggering town
where I find and create the poet me
and the landscape of my soul’s poetry.
My favorite book about writing poetry is one by Richard Hugo, Triggering Town where he says, “Your triggering subjects are those that ignite your need for words. When you are honest to your feel¬ings, that triggering town chooses you. Your words used your way will generate your meanings. Your obsessions lead you to your vocabulary. Your way of writing locates, even creates, your inner life. The relation of you to your language gains power. The relation of you to the triggering subject weakens.”
The trees and the earth
Both wear a scarlet gown
Tinged with tangerine
Never thought withering
Could be a time entrancing.
A tanka poem about autumn. :) Have a good read! :)
I feel like I’ve seen it all.
The rise and fall.
Ive never meant to make it past 19,
Felt love, hate and betrayal, thanks to the fates.
This is a cruel world, and I’ve known it since the beginning.
A black sheep never knowing what I was missing.
Forgive me for the pain that I’ve caused, but I don’t think I can feel these things anymore.
Above this cloud of madness
flows a gentle cool breeze
drifting  away all the sadness
striped butterflies flapping at ease

sound of the waves are heard
once suppressed by the chaos
rhythmic crashing no longer weird
silent therapy broken by the gentle dose

If only one drowns deep can one taste
the salt can be the much needed sweet
where there is no emotion to waste
and only generous soul to greet.
More lonely writing sitting by the window.
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