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Can I find a spark in this darkness
see through this grim mass
that surrounds my small galaxy
to see a dawn
within that gloomy volume,
experience colors unseeable,
hear a beating heart,
feel its pulsating energy?
This poem came about after reading an article about and seeing images of the Pillars of Creation captured by the Webb Telescope. Images are gathered by astronomers who can “see” the small dots of red from long wavelengths of light within the nebulas of dust somewhere in the constellation Serpens. Today I was feeling depressed and this poem also expresses that experience. It is a challenge, in the midst of depression, to see any light, feel any life, but reading this article and seeing the pictures, ****** me through the cold hard dust enough to see emanating light.
Yo,Mr Putin

(from da *****-boys)

Yo, Mr Putin, I'm sending you a present.
It's just a bunch o'herbs, to smoke;
they'll make yer less unpleasant.

Smoke 'em in de evening,
to really chill yo brain.
They'll blow away the nasty thoughts,
you have about Ukraine.

I'm sure you're gonna like 'em,
it's the Rasta, in yo blood;
we may be cousins, way back.
You should join us, in the 'hood!

You can't deny it Vladimir,
there's really no disputin';
your ancestors are same as mine
-we've all heard of Ras-Putin.

Briz 8/4/14
I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)
the night is silver
air, her dark ink
flowing like a pen, her
aches and sinews, water-
born, melted out of sky.
there is no cage

to hold the bird, page-like,
built out of river and
dream, it is free to fly,
carry the green of
the trickling leaves to the
rain-heavy cloud.

february builds her palaces
of love, a pretty rose,
a sentimental card,
a rain-sweetened kiss.

we are as full of the night
as a poem, our lips glazed
red, our hearts glowing
golden gathering petals
and sky.
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