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I try to think of things
little things that is
Like the time I first saw
your beautiful smile
it held me there looking
When life is sad
I  think of you
and that is all it takes
to make me smile
and remember how wonderful
life is....
One last snowflake
And the roof collapsed.

One last raindrop
And the levee cracked.

One last grain
Before life is breathless.

One last kiss
To seal my blessings.
 1h shamamama
Jule
If only you could see
What makes rivers flow to seas
Brings love back to me
I’d rather look out my window
To beaches and trees
Than watch men fall to their knees
I’d rather hear waves crashing
Against cliffs
Than hear men using tricks with bricks
To sort out rifts
But this is where I’m living
Men fighting men and
No first aid given
Just dragged across the floor
In an attempt to be hidden
I need to get out of this city
It’s such a pity because
I used to see it as pretty
With dreaming spires
And so much culture
But now all that I see
Is vultures
Making  me want to flee
live by the sea
And finally be free
Guided by starlight,
I timidly step
On the shadows
That lurk my heart
Feeling alive,
I suddenly ebb
All the doubts.

Crushing the waves
Of uncertain and fear,
Opening graves
Of sorrows and screams,
Just to ignore them
As  they have
No more power
Over me
You see?!
I might have lost my wings
No one knows
What future brings
It might be dark ahead
Just look up instead
And see the twinkling stars,

Guided by starlight...
Hear the forests cry.
The leaves who tell their own rhymes.
Only to forget.
A Haiku is:
Be three lines of five syllables, seven syllables, and five syllables.
Contain a nature or seasonal reference.
Be in the present tense (swims rather than swam).
Be subtle and observational.
Contain some sort of twist in the third line.
Not worry about rhyming.
Even as dying, I have no time
For bitterness.

Life was too short,
Even before.

Each step holds gratitude for the sound
Of snow beneath it.

For
Now

I carry my passenger
Unburdened.

Say no to nothing. Not
Even the cancer.

Even tomorrow's mother's tears,
Father's clenched fists upon casket;

Flowers; loss. Inevitability.
Death grows inside me.

The opposite of a
Pregnancy.
I pile up twenty years worth of
Publisher-declined
Collections.

They reach me to my knees.
Little towers of Poetic
Injustice;

Mini-monuments to the years
Of mailbox disappointments
And cursing the arts.

Now I thank for every manuscript
Returned with their polite regrets.
Another volume of "Unpublished

Works"
for the future.
They are my Twelve Monkeys.
My Poetry of Gold at the

Rainbow's End.
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