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 Aug 2018 Iskra
faith autumn
Healthy
 Aug 2018 Iskra
faith autumn
To the best thing that's ever happened to me:
My mother told me that any serious relationship at my age isn't healthy.
And despite what I've experienced in my past,
I couldn't disagree more
When it comes to you.
Until my mother said that,
I couldn't find the words that could describe how you make me feel.
But now I know.
I know that
No matter if you're by my side
or out pursuing your greatness in the mountains,
Your smile reflects the light in my life that I've been yearning for,
Your words rekindle the warmth inside of my aching heart, and
Your lips revitalize my body every time they meet mine.
I have never felt healthier.
I have never felt more alive.
 Aug 2018 Iskra
CP
used me
 Aug 2018 Iskra
CP
I use men over and over again
and they don't mind
I'm humane and kind
I don't cross boundaries
I'm just a guest
we both know it and it's already been addressed.

When he undressed me he didn't ask about my father.
When he kissed me he didn't press into my heart
because that place is very ****** dark.

I use men over and over again
to feel something
to have fun
it doesn't really matter,
because we're all agreed, this is something we both need.

But you pushed and shoved, smashed and cannonballed my wall,
I didn't want you to ask or see behind my mask,
And even though I fought this fight with laughter against your shooting questions,
you pushed and shoved against my door to find out more.

You were sweet I must admit, romantic and gentle,
but there is a reason everything is compartmental.

because when you left the next day you didn't stop to check the doorway,
where you carelessly left behind my open heart and eyes.
I didn't want to share my insides because as you walked away you didn't check to see what damage you had done.
Asking questions you didn't want the answers to.

I use men but I don't ask more than I'm ready to receive,
and they agree I'm not trying to deceive,
but you blew the doors of pandoras box and left me with the mess
that I now have to try and repress
 Aug 2018 Iskra
Busbar Dancer
People only ever want to ask me about
the poetry -
those verses about
busted up noses in outer space;
about the pros working
way down passed
the corner of Broad and Main;
about fistfights and hard, hard drinking.
But I built a flowerbed this weekend...
Twenty two tastefully irregular stone blocks
in a crescent moon shape,
filled with the blackest of soils.
The sweat of toil.
The digging.
The planting.
Exotic grasses. Asian maybe?
Purple and yellow flowers.
Zinnias or some **** thing.
All covered in a thick blanket of brown mulch.
It's a fine thing to have dirt on your hands
instead of blood.
No one ever asks me about flowerbeds.
 Aug 2018 Iskra
Travis Green
I listened to the soft sounding consonants
rise above my foster home, swirling against
exuberant trees and iridescent leaves falling
in twisting rhythms on the scratchy gray pavement,
an indication of distant metaphors flickering with
no sound, a slow spiraling square root evaporating
into thin dust, as I gazed at the overlooking sun, how
its shining depiction cried for validation, scorching
light, harsh vowels twirling around galloping clouds
trying to discover perfection.  There was the crumbling
landscape lost in the background, shifting in smaller
silences and flaming depths, filled with complex thoughts
and stumbling languages.  As I sat on the silent steps
watching the various figures fade into each other, streetlights
and skyscrapers, scurrying pedestrians and corner stores,
my stained blue eyes crammed and slammed, drowned
and pounding, dying every second when I realize the essence
of reality, the way it burns bright throughout the night sunken
its own intensifying flames, endless shapes disguised in anger
and pain, like a raging moon vanishing away never to be seen
again, like a vicious galaxy burning everything in its past to
a satisfying defeat.  My heart is cracking and splitting in
expressionless puzzles, a puddle of solo soapsuds, a scraped
brick building resembling shattered walls, scrawny hands hung
in smeared surfaces, stuck in a blob of yellow paint scrubbing
away its flawless scenery, leaking subjects and predicates scattered
in misaligned pages, wet alleyways branching into quivering caves,
while I reminisce on memories of my mother, the way she used to
hold me in her arms, every touch of her thin fingers pressed
against my waist, its magical rhythm traveling around
my beautiful body, rushing down my angled spine.  I could
feel her smooth skin sinking into my ochre-tanned flesh,
how she embodied every glorious kingdom, a crowned queen
draped in extravagance, how the bright hues in her frame
made me feel all the serenity within the world, so magnificent,
igniting every imagination inside my being.  She was my hero,
a glorious gem that gleamed like an array of galaxies surrounding
earth and Saturn, a melanin masterpiece purifying the atmosphere,
a wheeling instrument strumming its enchanting melody across the horizon.  She worked hard all the time, trying to make my dreams come true.  Most nights she would grab a second job to make sure the bills were paid.  She never complained or grew tired.  She was determined that I would be somebody and make a difference in the world.  She was the inspiring teacher sitting on the floor beside the living room chair, demonstrating how to solve an equation, how to disentangle the numbers and simplify it into its equalizing state., the way she would educate my mind and unwind the questions in my brain, the way she showed me the value of an honest living, letting it seep inside my soul until I could breathe in the definition of a true man.  Now I can see how the warm days drift away into restless nights, how the hummingbirds that soar past my sight remind me that she is never coming back, the way the sinking flowers stand in confusion, crying rosebuds, trembling petals, stripped stems roaming in loneliness.
 Aug 2018 Iskra
Orange Rose
I wrote a poem when I died...
Another at my birth.
A brand-new sonnet when I cried.
And again when there was mirth.

A song for my confession...
A story for my pain...
A painting for depression...
And nursery rhymes for rain.

My creations live inside my heart.
I keep them there in shame.
Yet you looked around and saw my art,
And smiled all the same.
 Aug 2018 Iskra
Jayantee Khare

Better
to create new memories,
rather than
re-visiting old ones......


Just a thought
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