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Logan Robertson Jul 2018
A black crow's darting eyes
spans the wheat field
and an orange pumpkin patch.
She sees
tall grasses of brown
bristling in the wind,
soon to be bushels of grain
and a pumpkin pie that she never savored.
She sits, atop her tree perch,
at times warm and storybook,
hidden by tree branches,
and at times out of harm's way
and infamy.
Her friends, the sun, and clouds in concert,
dancing along.
Her other friends bring alms and smiles.
Life is so good at times.
Down the road sits a mill
next to a waterfall
and a cabin,
with reindeer horns
hanging above the doorway.
She is in her element, happy,
carrying for her nestlings.
Back and forth her parental eyes dart
the hilly fields, a smoked filled chimney, and her babies,
all crawling with sustenance and awe.
A mother feeding a worm to her baby.
Off to her side is not a blind eye
watching her,
scary stick figures of
straw tucked under red shirts and hats,
with a tied tinfoil strips dotting
her eyes and tease.
Scarecrows, cease.
At times life is good nature, hand in hand,
knock on wood.
If only life could be circumspect.
Than darkness filling the light
and a stutter of life.
For a sad page is turned,
... tears.
Then, feathers fall.
The sound of a thud.
Silence and tears of her friend's swelling.
A baby's cry, missing her mother.
More orphaned tears.
Who would be this despicable?
On that rogue day.
A kick of a donkey,
an ***,
one bad rock on her path,
breaks the air,
as three little elementary kids were walking along
to school.
One, me, with a rock in his hand,
taking aim at her perch
and the death of the black crow's pages.
I confess.
... Bless me, Father, for I have sinned
it has been fifty years since
my last confession ...
a Tom Sawyer-like childhood gone worse.
I repent.
Some fifty years later I think of those first cairns,
including stealing the reindeer horns and milling
my brother and sister's storybook.
stream tears, and a sorry boat
rowed downstream

Logan Robertson

Outside Words Oct 2018
...All I remember was
Cancer and my hospital room,
My green gown, my bed,
My white hair and mustache
Until suddenly...

...Reality started to stretch…

…And flatten into a brief euphoric white…

…I felt a cathartic release
As I was encapsulated and bathed
In a glorious sensation…

...I floated for an eternity…

…Until I felt my euphoria lifting…

…As my eyes reopened
I found myself gazing
Upon a room of tiny lights,
Blue and pink specs
Dotting the inner workings
Of large wall sized machines…

…They lifted me upright
In a gray metal chair
And with sharp robotic groans,
A long arm from the wall
Held up a mirror to my face...

...In the reflection was a young man
I thought I would never see again…

…I had a wife back before,
But now I have a new one
Everybody in my situation,
("Reborns", as they are called)
Has brand new things and people
Filling their lives and concerns
They bring nothing with them
When they make their returns...

…Every morning I wake up
On the west 402nd floor
Of a residential tower
Next to my slim, youthful wife
And the trails of flying cars
That populate our view
From our wall-spanning window
As they soar through the city…

…I was told of technology,
Created and discovered
That could reawaken people
Who, like me, had died
In an earlier era and time…

…It’s strange that my past,
In all its importance and meaning,
Memories, friendships and scenery,
Seems to no longer be of concern,
Now that I have all this…

…I love what was, very dearly,
But the life I live now is for me.
I have new children, knowledge,
Friends and technology…

…I’m quite sure it’s possible
That old family members
That passed before me
Could exist in the same place
That I now live and find myself…

…But I can’t be certain,
Maybe they live further,
Deeper, in an unknown future
That I can’t even comprehend…?

…All I know is that, like me,
They have a new life somewhere
So I’ll do what I tried to do
My first time around…

…I’ll continue to grow and live on
In this new, world-spanning cityscape
Fueled by the love and memory
Of a past life remembered
only by me...
© Outside Words
The cherry trees dance while blossoms fall,
as if heavenly angels have come to call;
And willing winds fly through dogwood trees,
their leaves dotting landscapes from the breeze.

All this occurring in a dream-filled land,
of poets and prophets in glory's stand;
And gardens overflowing with daffodils,
waving yellow flags from giant hills.

The glancing birds fly off to greet,
in sunbursts' skies of colorful treat;
And rainbows curve their way to gold,
a cherished gift for both young and old.

Delicate as the blossoms may be,
their worth is greater than that of the sea;
While continuing to shed fragrant melodies,
and reviving sweet springtime's reverie.
Ellie Chestnut Sep 2017
I am the only one
    who can turn my pain
       into progress.

Do not call me boring-
   I've talked to the police
        with freckles of *******
     dotting my face.
I've woken up,
     Very confused,
in the bathroom of a
     Lexington pizza shop.

Do not call me weak-
       I looked into the eyes
  of the man who loved me like God,
        and tore out his heart.
     I looked into the eyes
of God once too,
         after snorting enough
Roxy to take down a rhinoceros.

So, I'm not sorry
      if I'm no fun at parties
JR Falk Oct 2018
i long for the mornings i stir and hear those even breaths rolling over soft lips,
when we are lazily tangled up in one another
where i brush the hairs away from your eyes, though closed,
and count the faint freckles dotting your nose
for the moments of intimacy,
like the first few mornings that i whispered i love you,
countless times before i ever really told you i loved you
where i stare at those mocha eyes opening when you wake,
only for you to smile warmly and pull me closer
the intimacy of the sun peeking through the window,
and the security of your arms holding me tightly
you are my morning cup of coffee
you are just what i need to make it through the day
a week from now i’ll be by your side once more
i will trace your jawline as though i am preparing my mug,
wrap you in sheets of memory
drink in the sight of you in morning light
and take you for all that you offer
im so impatient
you bring me so much comfort and i can live without you, i just get a little on edge
im hooked

Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
(from “A Love Song” by William Carlos Williams)


familiar that apple google and amazon
have me under 24 hour surveillance
e-specially now
as I am in their
geosphere of influence

but sending me a love poem of WCWs that isolates my locale, my intended inebriation status,
and is addressed to me personally (“you”),
that’s just creepy

so charged am I, obligated to oblige,
to counter-compose a love song of mine own,
under the pinot “influence,”
(in a manner of speaking)
which a love taught me to love

what if,
a new love song ecrit,
to an old and loverly land,
a woman-land designed to be desired,
no difference -
kissing a new girl first time,
a wet and unforgettable
when falling
on the neck of your one beloved anew renewed

now I tremble-tread
for the line of great predecessors,
“the land lover scribes”
skilled in natures homaging,
is like a line out the door,
around the corner as if
a new flavor ice cream
has just been isolated and mined and I...

but a novitiate
in a far away, wild untamed world
where my nature taken by her nature
cannot deny paying my just due:

late middle English, from self + edge

how perfect!
“an edge,
woven on a fabric during manufacture,
intended to prevent unraveling”

the pacific coast air
the irregular shoreline - expanding/receding,
god’s own forestry reserve,
the cascades, a goal on the horizon,
country roads where ancient wheat stalks grow wild
all a tonic intermingled, an alcohol to
imbibe through mouth nostrils eyes and skin

all will be my own selvage!
preventing the eastern unraveling disease,
a nearly incurable permafrost low grade
kate spaded infection,
brought along with me for decades,
my loon June companion, now stalling out,
lost from my happy head

a vineyard on every corner,
marijuana growing next door,
rivers that change like children growing up and down,
cheek to jowled property line
live the berries and the hazelnut groves,
god’s hay bales wrapped in plastic
like marshmallows dotting the landscape

all daring you to say

I could
it  here
A Love Song
William Carlos Williams, 1883 - 1963

I lie here thinking of you:—

the stain of love
is upon the world!
Yellow, yellow, yellow
it eats into the leaves,
smears with saffron
the horned branches that lean
against a smooth purple sky!
There is no light
only a honey-thick stain
that drips from leaf to leaf
and limb to limb
spoiling the colors
of the whole world—

you far off there under
the wine-red selvage of the west
Eryri Jan 30
You grow wild and reverential,
Your bowed white heads
Gather in prayer groups,
Dotting the well-kept lawn of the dead.

Do the residents tend to you?
Do their icy-white greenfingers
- reanimated by the winter moon -
Awaken you with a deathly touch?
Yue Wang Yidhna Sep 2018
There is a ghost in your voice
Haunting me through the silence

Through every droplet of memory
Dotting my otherwise starless night

I tried to gather them
With my words, my fear, my soul
And yet they remain forever bond
To a place I cannot reach
A being I cannot see
And a love I can never hear

Your flowering existence sheds invisible petals
I seem to be able to find
Yet, I'm ever uncertain
All these pieces of your soul
Did you left them for me to find
A breadcrumb trail leading only
To a chance in the future
To an uncertain promise
Or did I just stole the traces
Of your existence you left for the universe
Claiming them as something I could own

Should I keep them or scatter them

Or are they even yours
Could it be that they are the pieces of my soul
Still clinging on to you
That you're finally shedding away
To be complete on your own

What could I do
Standing in pieces
Holding someone's soul
That may or may not be my own
If they weren't
I'd still be missing all the chunks I've given to you
If they were
I'd still be empty
I'm forever hollow without you
MJL Mar 2
A stiff in the corner
A stiff in a pew
Watch the parade
Formality on cue

A choreographed dance
From station to station
First to the church
Then dirt destination

Like hospital corners
Clean little lines
Sanitized process
Dressed to the nines

Death can rub off
As every ghost knows
A sickness to catch
It seeps in your clothes

Orderly duty
Sterilizing the end
Except for our thoughts
Would never offend

The cliquing and pooling
People masking their eyes
The family alone
Will look to the cries

A lifetime of sharing
With nothing to say
Thoughts sprint to the bar
To silently pray

Bagpipes have started
It’s time to decide
Pay some respects
Or silently hide

Weak at the wall
Will flies to the door
Avoids every handshake
Just looks at the floor          

Dotting the “i”
Think neat tidy passing
A check box is ticked
Life’s not very lasting

A stiff well-dressed drink
A stiff well-dressed friend
Worth more than a nod
On cowards choice wend

© 2019 MJL
I should have said something, said the Irishman.
SMS Jan 3
At somewhere exactly this minute
Something exceptional happened.  
And I thank every star dotting the sky
And every star hiding in the clouds
That I found you a rocket floating  
Admist other travelers on this road
To be my guiding star and guardian
I thank every sunrise and sunset
That you’re there helping me
That I’m there attempting to help you.
Thank you for being so kind yet tough
So insightfully wise but not boringly old.
So nurturing but not overbearingly.  
Have a wonderful year and don’t forget
I’m here when you need your fuel
To be sparked by a little someone.
H E L E N A Dec 2018
They come in gold and silver,
Twinkling lights, gem-filled eyes
Of diamonds and critines,
Dotting this night scene with life.

I don't know where they'll go,
But with each pair passing,
Time went so, so slow.

Stones against my bloodied feet,
Cutting at these pulsating streams.
Tarmac, tar black
Laced with that sacred red.

I don't know how much further I can go,
The shards only dig deeper,
The lights are losing their glow.

They left with stains of crimson,
Apathetic silhouettes slinking in the night,
In a trail of shattered garnets,
Past the corpse of death's bride.
Some are left behind.
A woman with a past, she’s forever making peace with it
Its pages written when the years were raging and wild
mellowed by time, they nurse pain in brittle folds
when I try to turn them, she breaks into tales untold.

Her heart is stone cold and yet she knows of love
How? she doesn’t know. How? I can’t begin to tell
She gives her all to me and retreats behind the stage,
when I press rewind, she slips into the act to cover-up her ache.

She tells me she wasn’t looking, and in her made-up now
she built a life whole and knit a yarn of awesomeness
I broke the many mirrors that mirrored her insta smile
She cowered and hugged me to escape her own guile

You don’t know my past, she tells with mock belief
I remind her we are both travellers having come this far
Our journeys writ on milestones dotting many a stay
We’re interesting stories we picked and lived on the way

She doubts the past won’t measure up to my idea of love
The night, I tell her, doesn’t care what you did with mornings
It just wants you to lose yourself, moor you to its dock
make it whole again, and stop looking at the clock.
Is past a curse or a collection of experiences? It’s like a chasm full of pebbles, each pebble a story, telling of a journey unique and interesting.
Priyanka Oct 2018
Left behind
After a devastating ruin
I was the last of poets,
Left alone, to ponder
in a barren world.
They wanted me to write,
To tell our story
But how could I,
With you not around?

You weren’t among those
to submit to longing
And fairly warned
that burning desire
could etch history, or
We could bring us down.

Togetherness had a cost,
It pulled us low
from the high pedestals,
Of palaces we built
to justify our pretences
In the functional world.  

But how could I
Tell them of all the tales
You wove for me,
each word dotting
the timeline of my life,
And of the parallel universe
the one we created,
Like children knitting
magical tales
Oblivious to the adult sphere.  

The way we receded
into nothingness
and quiet evenings,
beside each other.
The night, a fellow traveller  
and the wind whispering
songs of our past,
That then faded
into a sea of companionship. 

The horizon of togetherness,
lost souls finding each other
its silver lining, working
Like the sunset taking away
trials of the day,
A blanket of the dark
soothing the aches,
The scent of our love
covering all wounds
like healing gauze.

What could I tell
of the unspoken words
that spread out each day
like fairy dust,
Sprinkled over
a mundane existence
Lending a special,
O special meaning
to our dreary lives
Complicated, yet so simple
in its wants,
that heard only
language of the heart.

Could I even begin
to talk of the rhythm,
The pulsating earth
beneath our feet,
When we danced
to those songs,
the numerous serenades
That held our minds
like morse code
messages from another
parallel universe,
Feet on feet
rocking together,
Swaying like madmen
to the tunes of our
silent disco.  

If only I could narrate    
alongside you, this tale
would bring alive
Saplings in a barren land,
Brought about
by that devastating ruin
called the real world —
the marriage of pain
with daylight drudgery —
fresh flowers would emerge,
Jasmines of love,
not those plucked buds
saved in a book of poems
that neither you, nor I wrote,

If only I were not
The last of the poets
Left alone
In a barren world.
What am I if not the last of poets in a barren world, without another to complete my story?
It is quiet in the dark
the winter air settles,
stagnant on the glass,
before the sun can thaw the sleeping dew

Striped wool hats and cracked leather gloves
emerge from the closet
to join a hopeless war.
They shamble,
illuminated by the high rise windows
dotting through the fog,
towards the front lines.
Catching the warmth from their breath

And for a split second,
just before it flits away,
they are dragons
#1 in my Year One collection, from notes on 10/29
Wk kortas Aug 2018
You’ll find them in all such establishments,
(Be they graceful small-town former Victorian homes,
Or cinderblock edifices mindful of some campus multi-faith center)
Sitting in the basement, cheek-to-jowl
With moldering burial records and banking statements,
Yellowed newspaper clippings, faded prayer cards
Small squared-off boxes hastily tabbed together,
Ostensibly temporary containers which have acquired
An unintended and wholly unwelcome permanence.
The whys and wherefores of their subterranean placement
A mixed bag of foible and outright foolishness:
Unresolvable squabbles concerning possession and burial,
Families that skipped out on the bill, leaving mom behind,
Cases of outright not giving a good-*******.
And so they remain, in lieu of repatriation and redemption,
To sit for something akin to perpetuity in some cases
(Members of the profession resolute in their respect
For the dignity of life,
Though their sincerity enjoys less unanimity)
While others wait for mass burial
Once legal niceties have been satisfied,
While still others, in care of firms not so scrupulous
About crossing their t’s and dotting their i’s,
Are flung, albeit somewhat surreptitiously, out the back door,
The remains to take flight if the grass is dry and the wind is brisk,
Otherwise to be left to the vagaries
Of curious birds and creped soles.
Evie Apr 27
apple blossoms float
through the air like pixies
the sun shimmers on her skin
like a precious metal
each freckle dotting her cheek and nose
like a new penny

water swirling in the creek
crystal clear cold
burbling merrily
through the stones
and leaves

her smile blinking in the sun
his hand
warm and tan cupped around hers
pressing his lips to her wrist
Kit Scott Dec 2018
once when i was a child
i sat in a field
surrounded by woods

and watched sparks leap from the fire to my clothes

i remember them dancing
and stinging skin hot
tiny freckle burns
dotting my arms

like stars

i remember the smoke
rising into the sky
and curling like a cat
caressing the darkness

as it twisted upwards and away away

the wood broke and the
scent of elderflower
filled me to the brim
with heady wild-smoke

and i remember thinking
big eyes filled with fire
my mouth just open and breathing the heat in

i want to run through that fire

to the other side within

i have always felt a particular connection to the smell of woodsmoke and elderflower due to frequent encounters with both - particularly together - as a child. so much so that the barest scent of either sends me spiralling into another mind.
Emily Jane Jul 2018
A patchwork of glittering metal and red brick.
Punctuated by the lapis lazuli coloured swimming pools dotting the veritable map below
Somewhere in the urban labrynth
Is you
Laughing, loving, scowling, sleeping, breathing, being.
And I am here, hurtling above you,
Wrapped in steel and aluminum, and encased by a hazed sky.
Do you hear me? The thrum and rush of a Faraway engine, an ever gliding bird that casts the briefest of shadows. Do you stop and note the rumbling sound, in amidst the orchestra of the everyday?
You lie beneath me and I move over you.
And yet, and yet,
you are unaware, unknowing, nonchalant,
and then I am gone,
Swallowed up by the all encompassing blue.
The flight back.

— The End —