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 Nov 2015 Lucy Ryan
Mike Hauser
This life we live is a waiting room
Some wait to long, some leave to soon
What magazines do you have strewn
All about your waiting room

The daily grind of The New York Times?
Or do you prefer The Outdoor Life
The magazines that you display
Tell more of you than you could say

Does Better Homes And Gardens fill your life
While Rolling Stones consumes your night
You have a choice in what you read
And a lot of that is what you'll be

So is Popular Science what you cling to?
Or is Christian Alliance your holding glue
And would it change your point of view
If you knew what comes after...
The Waiting Room
Up in the mountains this Thanksgiving weekend taking a well needed break from life and writing. Of course my posting issues are hard to break! So here's an oldie.
Her hands walk on my chest
She manipulates me the best
Her voice penetrates my mind
Her substance I cannot find
She kisses my skin
I want to give in
Her body wraps around mine
It feels like everything's fine
Her smell intoxicates me
Her gaze captivates me
I lay down next to her
She pleases me that's for sure
She touches me with a delicate finger
She makes temptation always linger
She knows what I want to hear
She is the reason that I fear
Her name is Lust
She thinks she's a must
However, she is not real
No matter what you may feel
She leaves scars and tears
She is the worst of my fears
She has broken many a home
And left many men all alone
She is fun at first
Yet an unquenchable thirst
I refuse to let her in
I will let Love win
I once read a poem.
At least it was called a poem by the poet who penned it.
It certainly stirred a hot cauldron of controversy.
Evoking the elite establishment of hallowed
writing circles to shout their disdain,
to cry out their contempt for such audacity.

"This is not poetry," was the hue that arose,
"it is nothing but prosaic, plagiarized drivel;
written thousands of times across the aeons by
those who have lost, have gained, or ever hoped for."

Perhaps some of us were tainted by the sin of
envy for this unheralded poet and for what he
had achieved with such rudimentary text.
At the time, I also spoke to the crime of the author's intent.
My own aspersions were raised by his act of describing
such incredible possibilities with such simple words,
such purity of condensed thought.

Alas I see now, it was the very simplicity of
the poem that blinded us all to its wondrous truth.
Elementary words which could envision glorious unexplored
mountain peaks, and the assurance of their height's
attainment with nothing more than a steady, faithful pace.
Hopeful words, filled with such grandiose power.
Capable of birthing new life solely from the
pure belief in their profound truth.

This great work of art was forgotten till this night,
as I sit here in a futile attempt to grasp words from intangible air.
Chasing and forcing them into a meager
attempt to share some small piece of wisdom
for two young hearts beginning this journey together ...
two whom I care for as you.

But, lacking as I am, I fear I must
expropriate this forgotten poet's verse.
Offering it to you humbly as my own,
stealing these words even as he stole them before me.
Simple words, distilling all the grand descriptions of all
the illustrious poets, bards, and romantics throughout the ages.

Proclaim it to each other as ecstasy bursts forth,
for its wondrous spell is then truly manifest.
Declare it over sorrow's shared tears,
for its healing sway is miraculous.
Whisper it over anger's destructive rage.
It has the power to quell the thunder.

Speak it as a vow, never to become merely words.
It must be proclaimed with the passion and soul of a poet.
Welling up from the deepest depths of the heart,
and the truest regions of the mind.
For these mere words encompass all.
Believe them as they are intended,
for these words are truly everything.

"I LOVE YOU"!

© S.Loeding All Rights Reserved
Written for my Son and new Daughter on the occasion of their marriage.
A part of you goes away ,
Everyday,
To never come back again.
And what is left in you,
Are the scars of yesterday.
The promises, the kisses,
The love you once felt,
The nights, the stars,
The life you once wanted,
The touches, the smells,
The laughs, the tears,
It all goes away,
Everyday.
And what is left in you,
Are the scars of yesterday.
 Nov 2015 Lucy Ryan
Mike Hauser
she is the color
the color of blue
the wide open sky
the deep ocean hue
more than the thought
you thought that you knew
apart from it all
that has come true

the melody
that plays in your head
the tunes pitter patter
the rhymes wonderment
the tick of the tock
on which time is spent
the beauty you seek
she's where it went

she is the day
outside of the norm
the heat in the flame
the center of warmth
the hidden passion
that's given in loan
the very last line
to the end of the poem
The title of this poem is from a line in a Fleetwood Mac tune by Stevie Nicks. It popped into my head last night unknowingly and sounded so familiar I Googled it. But I like it so much I kept it...
 Nov 2015 Lucy Ryan
Justin G
I Am..
 Nov 2015 Lucy Ryan
Justin G
I do not identify myself as a black american
I do not identify myself as an activist
I do not identify myself
As anything other than what I am
Do not arbitrate my existence
It will only magnify your bigotry
Do not lecture me
It will not ratify your ministry
Do not objectify my identity
Do not marginalize my sincerity
I know your criticism
It will not dwindle me
I am defiantly deaf to it
It will not compute
Trust me
It will only intensify
What I occupy
Do not subject me to anomaly
Do not try and direct me
I will not comply
Do not concern yourself
with my essentiality
I am not lost
Do not concern yourself
With what defines me
Just ask
If I am willing and able.
 Nov 2015 Lucy Ryan
Nat Lipstadt
~~~

the wind of correction

*those invisible currents
for which we create labels
like most everything,
comes in shades of vagaries,
colorations of fierce and gentil

some bear the names of hurricanes,
gale forces, and those, the knotted stiff ones,
welcomed by man's power mills and sailing ships,
and the softest of summer breezes,
caressers of my isle sheltered,
for which I must winter~survive,
that have far too short a half-live,
those summer winds that rejuvenate my sinking soul

but the wind that gets no acclaim,
is the wind behind us that straightens the hunched,
the wind that has no illustrations of its un-famous name,
'tis the wind of correction
that lifts
the wings of the becalmed,
the bewitched, and the downtrodden,
the one that lifts chin from chest,
the one that energizes,
cures the curvature of our spines
to make us sally forth, clear eyed and optimistic,
leaving behind the residue of debris of destruction

when blown off course, be patient,
for a course correction by a kinder kindred force
will set you aright, push you into flight.,
for this wind comes to everyone,
someday, sometime

you do not know the wind of correction?

unfamiliar where and when it blows?

perhaps you call it something else?

I have heard it said,
that its other,
more
correct,
truer name is
love
For TMR
 Nov 2015 Lucy Ryan
AM
I am drunk
 Nov 2015 Lucy Ryan
AM
I am drunk
and I forgot who I am
but remembered you
and I have no other demand
but to stare at your beautiful eyes
that hold all the lights from the stars

I am drunk
and I lost myself
but found your silhouette
and I have no other request
but to make you mine
pretty please, would you be mine?
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