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L B Oct 2017
Drinking before noon--
not my habit
In the quiet of my favorite room
of softest brown and purple ciphering gray
One wall off-white reflecting light
or a good mood
or something--
I once needed
from my soul's depth--
Trying to forget

Startled by a train's screech and howling wail--
its bell about an intersection
“Look the hell out, why don't ya!!”
--get outta your own...
my own way
and let the failures just stream by

There's this calendar by some bankers called:
adorns the wall
between my daughter's sketches
that I seldom see
on well-worn afternoons
among accustomed things

Yes-- "One here!"
to un-invest
in this day
I have no interest
in sunlight or the ceaseless
songs of birds
I forgot to turn  the pages on the months
Forever sunk in April
having given up on June
with its birthdays of the dead
missed events, appointments, bills come-due

Just a picture there-- the bottom of a tulip
stung in warmest pink
within the sepal hand of green
that holds it steady-- ******
A year-- dangling from a nail

if that's allowed
--my ***** mind, I mean
Old one from this past summer.  Don't visit this place much-- certainly not for long-- but now and then....
Carter Ginter Nov 2017
I don't want you to be
Just another date I remember
Every year that goes by
I don't want to have to think about how we were
And how it'll never be again
But what I want brought us into this mess of a situation
And what you feel could take us out of it
Or leave me here to suffocate in it
aneeshans Nov 2018
Then it was raining
frequent and changing
shapes and layered into tranquil.  
We are closed inside
Like two butterflies
In a jar of cocoons
Above 1110 feet of arching silence,
along the long roads,
Look for the distant meadows

a warm kiss in the neck shortened
a long paragraph of a longer book
into a word
The air is filled with
an old book’s smell
a long-dead memory
a toys broken head
a piece of cloth that you left
an old calendar with a marked date

We will arise from this cocoon
Trespass into those woods
flew away from here.
Somewhere beyond June
Like a pilgrimage unknown
There’s daylight and ardor
she is a winged angel perched on a tulip
A Season of Woe,
A Season of Merriment
Tommy Randell Jan 2018
If the Calendar was a colander
Would we sieve the future year?
Would we keep the bright and happy days
And let the wet and ****** days
Never touch us with their tears?
Would we look ahead and mark them off
Before they ever got here?
Vanish them with a little cross,
Delete them with a little cheer?

I never thought I actually would
But getting older has made it clear -
If I could choose my future days
See my time through in a happy daze
I would - Make all sad memories disappear,
Pass by all the lost loves and regrets,
All the anxiety they create every year -
Life is for living, keeping it as good as it gets,
No matter how deep past wounds appear.

Tommy Randell 01st January 2018
Tommy Randell Jan 2018
If the Calendar was a colander
All the wet days would get sieved
Life would be dry and sunny
And we'd be tanned and crisp!

But what if the year then had less time
What if days just disappeared
That what remained was all we got
And Life was left with shorter years?

We would have to change our diet
Maybe go on a fibre craze
Eating Dates with every meal
To fill our week with Days

Some of us would get older slower
Some of us not old at all because
If the Calendar was a Colander
We live where Rain used to fall -


Tommy Randell 02nd January 2018
This 2nd version is for my wife Carrie who only liked the first line of the Colander Poem - We husband Poets try to oblige
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
why I love certain men

it’s a raining and writing Saturday,
a washout for the beach visitors who chose their
calendar lottery tickets poorly

but hurrah and huzzah for the poet
in the no-sun-today-room with
steam collecting on his face from his 20 oz. Canadian mug,
the rest of him cozied neath a
wooly mohair knitted and tasseled blanket,
from a now naked and shivering alpaca goat in Turkey or Tibet

perhaps we’ll make a tiny dent
in the 1319 poems,
in the ‘sorta started to do’ list

new one sneaks in demanding immediate satisfaction
and threatening my mind’s incarceration unless,
serviced and unleashed as the Frenchies say

Frites, immédiatement!: (french fries, now!)

I love most men; certain men more than others,
not because they are soft to the touch,
look great in thigh highs, can fix a backhoe,
lay hands on animals, just as they do upon their grandchildren,
or write better poetry than me,
they make me weep from zealous delight at
their capricious unprecedented constancy of their
honorable actions

they are soft to the core, which is itself
wrapped in a leather soldered steel,
which defines them by their self-questing constant,
asking themselves preface and postface,
doing it well, in between,

what is the honorable thing?

this honor idea of which writ previous
doesn’t dissolve - indeed grows crescendo stronger,
like the miracle of the Yom Kippurs rams horn
crying out to heavens at the concluding end  
on the holiest judgement day,
a shofar miracle for it inhumanly grows ever louder,
ceasing only when nightfall marks a new day begun,
reminding both sinners and saviour each,
to inquire of their colluding selves on this forgiveness-giving day,

what is the honorable thing?

some are borrowers and some lenders,
of anything, the substance or the whom matters not,
but the bonding bonfire from which the deal is done,
is of a uncharted organic chemical matter unrecognized
but millennium ancient

here I stop

the call to breakfast must be obeyed,
for it’s with lovely made, menu man-poet requested,
this is too an honorable thing to do,
and the 1319 half blood~half writs poking my eyes,
can be faced with new courage afterwards
on a perfect raining and writing Summer Saturday
for the next one hopefully and woefully

may not come till the September (Rosh Hashanah/Jewish New Year) when acorns fall

certain men will greet that fall Sabbath/ New Years Day,  
when Atonement begins, a ten day process to the final conclusion,
by asking of everything living and of every act human performed,
for the forgiveness requested inherent in the absolute bar setting of

what is the honorable thing?

which by the by,

is why I love certain women too...

and all who are honorable
will read this honorific and remain
clueless as to whom it is addressed...

oh god, I do so love that best!

what could signal honor even more...
Jarvis Dec 2018
first a checkerboard of red and white squares
trapped between thick black bars.
Days of the week,
and I was wrongly convicted.
My fingers reach for help through my metal cage,
yet only receive paper cuts
on the corners of divorce letters.
Letters drowned in blood bleed off the page
and stain my Saturdays and Sundays.
now neatly separated into red and white columns,
walls dividing weeks and weekends.
National borders barricade one house from the other.
Two countries clash in a
war waged with
two atomic blasts burning
my culture into ash
white as paper.
the absence of red and
the erasure of my father
from the calendar taped to
my mother’s refrigerator,
and I’m frozen in place.
a vast snow-white plane:
One step forward,
nothing in my future.
One step backward,
blizzards in my past.
ground made of paper so thin,
with every step,
life crumples under my feet.
Dead Rose One Mar 2015
In The Prison Of Winter, No Rise, No Set**

orbit nearly closed,
the radio announcer gleefully
chirruping, the twittering fool,
"only ** graves to X off till

the weight of the prior
the wait of the more
no matter how little
yet to come
                    too much insufferable

having suffered
multiple life sentences
you snit ****, u don't know better,
ha, they don't even run

there are no sunsets
in the girding grays
of harsher enough and words that fail me,
are the winners in the
winter of the ****,
tests and hunts,
I have successfully

of course I'm wrong you
petulant hobgoblin wringing
nyet from me you'll get no concession,
**** science,
there are no sunsets in the winter
and the sunrises,
short unsweetened,
light-less, less of less,
frigid glaring revealers
of dead trees
and deader

maybe in the Rockies,
perhaps the Alps,
wonderlands photoshopped,
pretty lies on the Internet BS posted

where I live,
wear the wear the weary
neath the sweat stink of layers of
unbundled choking hands,
winter's damage
assessed and assessment is
never overdue, payable in

heating bills I can't pay,
a job that said no more of you,
unpretty please,
a woman who sorcerer-scarced herself
right freaking black magic quick,
trust me I have certified verified,
me and Nixon,
X's on the kitchen calendar,
there is daylight, there is mighty night,
almighty in long and colorless
and nothing in between,
but the smog stained slush of
                                                    smothered life

but definitely
no sunrises and no sunsets
watched all day from the
imprisoning kitchen window
which doubles
as a *******

there are no, not any,
you know what,
cannot even say them,
the pipe dreams of better yet,
pipes that have beaten down
me and my
disassociated senses,
signed sealed and now delivered,
from the formerly known as
The Summer Man
MalakF Jul 2018
Today is the day I'll go down in the calendar,
It's the day of my surrender.
The day I wave my little white flag,
the day I give my life back,
the day I kneel down to the enemy
asking them to put an end to me.
I surrender,
I surrender.
This calendar charters momentum
adherent to the four seasons
of Earth and its humans:

Born so serotonergic:
The Vernal Equinox;
Feel the spring empathy
and the fresh aer movement.

Glutamatergic apex:
The Estival Solstice;
Azure haze of summer vibrancy,
Touch the bright side of it.

Fade to dopaminergic:
The Autumnal Equinox;
Lost in the arms of fall liberty,
Feeling the reach.

GABAminergic in depth:
The Hibernal Solstice;
Rainy daze in winter ecstasy,
There's water on the moon.

This Entheogenic Calendar,
That Apotheosized Existence;
And The Other.
Entheogenesis is Empyreal, Apotheotelos is Ecliptic:
In that sentient spectrum determination is given,
Reflections are drawn from this conscious continuum.
annh Jan 2
spinning lazily
vacates the old year for new
A 1-5-7 poem.
Bryce Jun 2018
Gliding deftly along the city street
rolling quick and constantly
onward to some unknown scene,
some backward park in the nighttime
smoke curling from these
parted lips, moist and inviting
calling me somewhere I've never seen.

New day, new night
new feelings, rage in delight
fill me with your hilarious entropy,
knock my quarks into the next century,
will you please?

Now you're smoking the pipe and all at once you are free
between you and me, this smoke is thicker and sticks
like glue,
wispy and dreamy and the world spins and calls Toltec
telephone company can't pay me for all those calls collected
and rendered obsolete
Sun god dead as that silly calendar meme

and Imma tell you
these ladies in the picnic table
buried alive for boxed lunch and god's brunch
Jesus ******* Christ
and a indelible roster of good guys,
to which we all must strive to live and die
never moving forward
chasing our tails like a sick dog
under the jasmine runner between the decades-old tanbark
imported from overseas
dead trees
dead canine
and oh isn't it just divine?

You see it, pretty lady.
I can see it hiding behind your eyes
the things you don't tell the others because you're afraid
if they found out,
you'd be crucified.

Well honey I hate to inform,
With KGB efficiency that these love-a-dumbs
aint Methuselah,
they'll be dead!
long before your flood of tears tears me from the land
ballistas me across the great expanse to some strange Ararat
of the eastern seaboard,
or maybe wash me deep along the 80
into the desert sands and tiles
on a leaky cell phone screen
desperately trying to dial home on low battery,
realizing all this was one big deferred dream,
baking in the sun and shriveling
oh well, back to the grindstone-- all those lies plucked your nose,
gotta cut it back to size,
'else your soul it'll outgrow

Don't worry honey bee
It hasn't happened to me,
and We know with calcuable mathematical truth
that it'll never happen to you.
Tammy M Darby Oct 2014
Damnation haunts yesterdays footsteps
Poison tipped arrow's bearing memories
Seek their mark
The day offers no mercy or  respite
From the long night screams in the dark

Salty sweat drops upon burning dreams
Awaken oh soul to the blackness and fear
Its but a fleeting moment of millenniums to come
Marked so carefully on a calendar of tears

Turning helpless eyes away from the light
Placing trembling hand upon forever's door
Incomprehensible words muttered under your breath
Slipping into oblivion
Off sanity's sharpened edge.

@ Tammy M. Darby Oct. 5, 2014
All Material Stored in Author Base.
C Davis Apr 2015
Who counted hours out of the sky
And clipped the ends off?
Who quantified
Who cheapened the flights of the sun and the moon
And put limits on time
Trapping limitless eyes?

Each day
Is one thousand days and each hour
Is one thousand hours, and
Years pass in seconds
While seconds last lifetimes

But my calendar

Has no capacity for this.

A moment
Lasts as long
As the glow lingers
When it's gone

And all the while
The clocks tick on,

I maintain whoever measured
The day
Was wrong.
patty m Oct 2017
Scorching summer 
all the days past
fluttering off the calendar
as the glory of autumn reappears.
Sweet scent of coriander
green incense sticks offered to household Gods.
Forest and earth twice blessed
as rain falls 
                        I listen 
carried on waves
of your breath,
shadow stroking
the trusting kiss
the face behind the face
relaxed in sleep
I am your root
your bone your gristle,
earth's curve our circle.
stretched into time
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
(Inspired by and dedicated to John Edward Smallshaw, and his "Spice")**

I am a summer-man,
Because I'm blessed to sit by the sea.
Let it and the other two Musketeers,
boon companions to me,
Sun and Wind,
erase my discomposure as I
reside in the Poet's Nookery.
Let them have almost
all that troubles,
but not all.

I am a summer-man.

On the bay, on the beach,
I see birth, I see death,
osprey nests, carcasses of mussels and horseshoe *****.
This, somehow reassuring,
the cycles,
this circularity,
the tides and inevitability.

I am a summer-man.

Student of languages seasonal,
Peaches, plums, cherries, poetry
and loving Woman.^
This, the  summer alphabet-soup of my multiple tongues.

I am a summer-man.

Sancerre and Pinot Gris, super cold,
Paul Simon, Nina Simone, with proper aging,
getting  hotter,
Salsa and Afrikaner hints, super louder,
Even "Still Crazy After All These Years,"
chills outer.^^

I am a summer-man.

When ever this lad's writes appear,
it proves once again,
there is no truth that his  
name was once Dr. Seuss
In a prior life, even if
each is signed by
Ogdiddy Nash

I am a summer-man.

Disrespectful of the calendar,
if I can, try to make
summer season stretch-marks from
May to October.

I would add April,
but the IRS is already ****** at me.^^^

Though the cherry blossoms of May
now gone away,
the lilies of June
arrive, but but for a week or two,
soon, like my mom, withered away.

Acorns in August^^^^ have arrived too swiftly.

This summer, beloved,
and love of summer, deep-rooted.

Season of my Peter Pan Poetry Galore Festival.

A love,  incapable, impossible, of ever
growing old, ever growing cold,
it cannot wither.
It is summer heat reminders exposed,
how it misses its man,
that hide in the flames of
the teasing, popping, reminding
Winter fireplace's crackling pops.
^ See "The Summer Alphabet of Woman (I Speak Woman)"
August 23 2013

^^ See "Made the bed backwards"
August 24 2013

^^^  See "Caesar Has No Authority Over The Grammarians"
August 22 2013

^^^^ See "* Acorns in August (Sonata for Summer Cello and Fall Piano, No. 3)" August 19 2013

* Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel

April come she will
When streams are ripe and swelled with rain;
May, she will stay,
Resting in my arms again

June, she´ll change her tune,
In restless walks she´ll prowl the night;
July, she will fly
And give no warning to her flight.

August, die she must,
The autumn winds blow chilly and cold;
September I´ll remember.
A love once new has now grown old
this is undoubtedly
the spun cycle

I could practically
pen a calendar
of our seasons

marked holidays
and monthly art
animating image-flips
from shimmer grins sprung
gone grinchupsidedown

imagining voiceover
as replays unfold
harlee kae Jul 2014
today is the twelth
and i wonder if
that had any effect on you at all.
or if you even looked at calendar.
because you're all i've thought about.
at my cousin's wedding
i had to go in the restroom
to hide away my tears.
and i got a stuffed animal.
her name is sage.
but murphy is much softer.
and i miss him
almost as much as i miss you.
Aditi Dec 2015
It was not good
No, that does not make it bad.
You would find no date marked
On my calendar
Or a goal set
It was what it was
Nothing more than that
A thoughtless act of letting go
And I had finally done something well.

There were no midnight epiphanies
No, the sun still shone the same
The world was still its own paradise
We all were burning in our own flames
Nothing had changed,
Yet nothing remained the same-
Cause of
A thoughtless act of letting go
And I had done it with grace.

I had the day planned,
I had written about it to an extent
The words lost their meaning,
The pages went deaf.
It came ever so suddenly
Like the first drop of rain
From a single lonely cloud
On a sunny day.
Yes, I did not think about it
I just decided to begin again-in another place
Just like that.

It was not selfish
It was not necessarily brave
You don't exaggerate it
To something it never meant.
It was just her
Letting go of the world
That no longer made any sense
She cut all her ties-
The final act of letting go
And she had done it so well.
Sebastian Macias Oct 2018
There is evil after each word
Time has lost all value
And Monday's aren't so bad
Funny to think about it
As life has gone, chapters closed
One begins to imagine something
A place that was never told
The hidden face of this world
Simply put, reality - the truths
Not the visual reality of daily life
But the one inside your mind
A reality that is essential
Here we begin to understand that
What makes us so powerful,
Also has the power to weaken us
What we crave like children
Most often surely destroys us
Another day on a calendar
One last chance for good bye
And you begin all over again
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