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 Jul 2018 Harriet Shea
O, Moon, big white pill, ease me to sleep.
Anyone have a big straw I could borrow?
The river takes its course
Following bends and curves
Carrying  loads
And silt
Not , all beautiful pebbles
Rolled over the river bed
The river moves on
Always serene and pristine
Not all days in life as proposed
The river moves on and so does life
Just something
 May 2018 Harriet Shea
If only I could
This strangeness
I've never known
A plague upon
My worn out heart
Tread marks
Upon my soul

Twisted emotions
Warped by time
My weary muse
Walks the line
It's more than some
Mere travesties
Something is damaged
In my inter being

Perhaps a bit to long in Hell
Forced to survive
The prison cells
The scourge that came
In the afterbirth
Societies label
Of my true worth

All these things
Below the surface
I lost this war
Traveler Tim
 May 2018 Harriet Shea
An abandoned house
once a home
The dust stay to tell
the termites come to live
as the owners of the wood.
A picture hangs on a wall
A story written in his eyes
A smile drawn
Though, as I look
closer and closer,
deeper and deeper,
I see an imprefection
I reach and pull the seam
the fabric lets go,
revealing what was beging to be told.

A thought implanted in a passerby
A seed, growing
A tree, roots spreading deep
Pollinating a forest


Though, I ponder
another possibility.

My eyes sparkling against the moon

Walking past
My own house.
The story of a boy who does not know how to tell his own.
 May 2018 Harriet Shea
I once had
a beautiful voice
and you asked me
why I no longer sing.
I turned to you
and quietly replied
"because I was a bird,
and you clipped my wings."
these hands,

these hands were meant
to melt in the keys of the piano
and not for pushing buttons
to operate complex machinery,

these hands were meant
to climb the plateau’s of New Mexico
and not for spilling a half bottle of
Dutch milk while the tv watches me
passed out on the couch,

these hands were meant
to build treehouses for my children
not to drunk punch lousy bums
on the slum streets and lose,

these hands were meant to
pick peaches in the orchards of Georgia
and not to be holding my **** as it
****** in the linen closets and China cabinets
while in the drunken state of befuddlement,

these hands were meant to
make colossal sandwiches
and not to swipe my card
in the drive-thru,

these hands were meant
to caress my wife and
waltz her through life
and not be defiant,

these hands were meant
for gumption and not for
delusions of grandeur,

these hands were meant
to make my own dreams come true
and not someone else’s,

these hands were meant
to have purpose, talent,
motivation, diligence
and not to be shoved
into the pockets of uncertainty and
suffering from indolent characteristics,

these hands were meant
for bigger indentations
in the world and not to be
tyrannized by simplistic minds

these hands,
these hands,
these hands...

but somewhere down the lifeline
of my palms
I had left behind
my spirit and my soul
a long, long time ago
and it’s never too late
to get it back,
oh no,
it’s never too late
to get it all back.
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