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 May 2015 Tomas Denson
L
Sheets
 May 2015 Tomas Denson
L
The remote control looks different
Television has 20 new channels
The side table is not on the right side of the long bench anymore
Her favorite mug is now a vase
Her spoon and fork are not in the drawer
No cookie crisps in the cupboard
No kimchi in the fridge
Things were different from when she still lived here
Things were different from three years ago

Everyone is soundly sleeping upstairs
Her old room is now her cousin's
Her old bed is now her sister's
She will sleep on the floor
But she couldn't find the mattresses
She doesn't know where to look
But she looks everywhere
She couldn't find it
Exhaustion and frustration seeps in
“Where are the mattresses?"
She screams in her head
Tears start streaming down her cheeks

She wants to sleep now
She wants to rest
She wants to feel home.
But she doesn't. She couldn't.
She doesn't know where the sheets are
She couldn't find where the sheets are.

“I don't live here anymore. This is not home."
I am an island child,
Of dire rocks and thistle,
Clear lake and lone skies,
Of bonny birds who whistle,
I race the strands with tides,
Waiting for my lad to meet,
So lonely are the night stars
I dreamt in my loft to sleep,
Far is the isle of my mind,
To slip away on new voyage,
Near is the sorrow into kind,
As I wait for keep in marriage.
She has the loveliest smile
She has the warmest hug
She has this magic
Turning my tears into laughter.

I do admire of your strength
And also to your patience which is very in length
You always do what is meant
You are always there in my every achievement

Having me inside your womb
It is like finding yourself a tomb
Your bones starting to crack
You cannot even eat your favorite snack

Hands down to you my Queen Bee
I promise I will not make you dree
I shall give you thousand of posies
And shall make a gown with full of lilies

You are my mother, my sister
My best friend, And my teacher
Even if I give you troublesome
I will always love you my dearest mom!
Thanks for the chromosomes mom. And also your very very life-changing lessons. It is your day!
Give me truths,
For I am weary of the surfaces,
And die of inanition. If I knew
Only the herbs and simples of the wood,
Rue, cinquefoil, gill, vervain, and pimpernel,
Blue-vetch, and trillium, hawkweed, sassafras,
Milkweeds, and murky brakes, quaint pipes and sundew,
And rare and virtuous roots, which in these woods
Draw untold juices from the common earth,
Untold, unknown, and I could surely spell
Their fragrance, and their chemistry apply
By sweet affinities to human flesh,
Driving the foe and stablishing the friend,—
O that were much, and I could be a part
Of the round day, related to the sun,
And planted world, and full executor
Of their imperfect functions.
But these young scholars who invade our hills,
Bold as the engineer who fells the wood,
And travelling often in the cut he makes,
Love not the flower they pluck, and know it not,
And all their botany is Latin names.
The old men studied magic in the flower,
And human fortunes in astronomy,
And an omnipotence in chemistry,
Preferring things to names, for these were men,
Were unitarians of the united world,
And wheresoever their clear eyebeams fell,
They caught the footsteps of the SAME. Our eyes
Are armed, but we are strangers to the stars,
And strangers to the mystic beast and bird,
And strangers to the plant and to the mine;
The injured elements say, Not in us;
And night and day, ocean and continent,
Fire, plant, and mineral say, Not in us,
And haughtily return us stare for stare.
For we invade them impiously for gain,
We devastate them unreligiously,
And coldly ask their pottage, not their love,
Therefore they shove us from them, yield to us
Only what to our griping toil is due;
But the sweet affluence of love and song,
The rich results of the divine consents
Of man and earth, of world beloved and lover,
The nectar and ambrosia are withheld;
And in the midst of spoils and slaves, we thieves
And pirates of the universe, shut out
Daily to a more thin and outward rind,
Turn pale and starve. Therefore to our sick eyes,
The stunted trees look sick, the summer short,
Clouds shade the sun, which will not tan our hay.
And nothing thrives to reach its natural term,
And life, shorn of its venerable length,
Even at its greatest space, is a defeat,
And dies in anger that it was a dupe,
And, in its highest noon and wantonness,
Is early frugal like a beggar's child:
With most unhandsome calculation taught,
Even in the hot pursuit of the best aims
And prizes of ambition, checks its hand,
Like Alpine cataracts, frozen as they leaped,
Chilled with a miserly comparison
Of the toy's purchase with the length of life.
 May 2015 Tomas Denson
JDK
It's in me.
It's in you too.
I've seen it shining through all that talk of
what has value and what has not.
Shimmering like an electric eel pulled fresh out of the channel;
squirming and writhing with a fully charged desire to
live
To burst forth with golden sparks that drift off to burn down
the spoon-fed notions of a "normal life."
We pushed it aside,
so that we might fly in to the night sky;
so that we may catch a glimpse of that certain, undefined
bliss that makes us feel truly alive.
Embrace it again.
**** it back into your skin then exhale that exuberance that has no beginning and no end.
Because we're still breathing.

Light the fuse.
I know it's in you,
I've seen it.
The taste of it still lingers on your tongue.
It's on mine too.
We made a toast to masochism.
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