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 Apr 16 Nigdaw
Onoma
this outward ****** that visits

us--after cold buckles when its

interminable rites have been read.

this visitor--right from the heart,

going right for the heart...throws us

into that central fire.

April is concomitant with the abrupt

feel of flame, all dormancy goes up.
 Apr 16 Nigdaw
ymmiJ
Untitled
 Apr 16 Nigdaw
ymmiJ
dwell on hate
you will be hateful
dwell on love....
 Apr 16 Nigdaw
Piotr Balkus
In a mirror, we always look older
and we believe that it lies.
We blame it for every wrinkle:
Okay then, you lie, but why?!

How rude of mirror to do so,
like literally in the face!?
We give it so much attention
and what in return? Disgrace!

Or perhaps we do look older
indeed, and it doesn't lie.
Perhaps we lie to ourselves
and maybe we know well why.
 Apr 6 Nigdaw
bulletcookie
train tracks talking train
scenes rush past vision's film strip
melting in the light

-cec
Inspired by Jamadhi Verse's "Fast Track"
 Apr 6 Nigdaw
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galactic lensing
reveals star guts, black holes, dust
red tired light, dreams

-cec
 Apr 6 Nigdaw
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One said, "God knows best and will save us in the end."
The second said, "What if it's too late and the universe ends before God comes to the rescue?"
The third was a dog, with a hind leg scratching its side. It licked its paw, then howled at the wailing sirens.

-cec
NaPoWriMo - 4/5
(prompt) Now try your hand at writing your own poem about how a pair or trio very different things would perceive of a blessing or, alternatively, how these very different things would think of something else (luck, grief, happiness, etc).
 Apr 2 Nigdaw
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Dear feathered friend
what do you rend?
a worm from down low
or grub with no toes

Up 'fore dawn's porridge
you care for no storage
'cept to fill a small belly
with nutricios bug jelly

Quick in you flutter, by an' bye
tree's tea leaf readings, fool the eye
you twitter, tin whistle, and tweet
announcing your day's avian treats

-cec
 Apr 2 Nigdaw
Onoma
twelve pointed hats

lower over the silver pan

of her High North reclusion.

set down.

she stir fries the vegetative

chants of a clockwork coven.

an aroma fills the forest...

the unachievable balance between

decay & delectability.
looking back at the younger me
but that's history and it will
be rewritten,

in generations to come
when I've been discovered
they'll make me a saint
and
someone will paint me
in a flattering light.

She looks at the older me
and says,
oh dear me
they'll have to use a thick paint
to cover all the
cracks,

then She kisses me
and
the rest is history
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