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"floodplain" poems
Imagine that I could write a salve, compose an ointment of verbal herbs to heal, even mere protect the already-torn-so-easy mental flesh, just to disguise/hide the multi-colored bruising our fickle mistress-in-common provides when you are down so far another bruise joining the cast like a  floodplain subsuming one more feeding creek bed into the shapelessness of indistinguishability imagine that where atoms hide eternal between creation and destruction, borrow brief the set exact you require to restore the taken years from fathers/mothers/brothers/sisters, children, return that which went unused by the uninvited, unseemly human whim of war and lies for no gain imagine that the deep sinkhole of despair that ***** one in, years in the formation, appearing in instance, and worse does not drowns but leaves helpless, unable to climb out, and all our scratching digs us in deeper until we cannot be, seen or heard or just be imagine that a check comes in the mail, payable left open for filling-in, in the amount of full restoration, with no additional fees of guilt needed for deposit and cashing/caching out: and you wake up and the stony chest is breathing lungs free imagine that and I do; for I am the smoke of return and rest, sky inscribing, knowing precise needs and the screams and the years unfair taken, they are screened through the five perceptions, and the word weaver sets the loom for each peculiar requisition, no imagination needed imagine that you lament and anger demand verifiable proofs mathematical, cursing the knights of false hopes with untethered regret I do not imagine that; hear it and accept; my task, imagine that, making you imagine that, thus commencement of repair begins when we imagine that for this how new healthy cells  are born quiet-now,  go, imagine-that, now*
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Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 1:02 PM UTC
imagine that
Imagine that I could write a salve, compose an ointment of verbal herbs to heal, even mere protect the already-torn-so-easy mental flesh, just to disguise/hide the multi-colored bruising our fickle mistress-in-common provides when you are down so far another bruise joining the cast like a  floodplain subsuming one more feeding creek bed into the shapelessness of indistinguishability imagine that where atoms hide eternal between creation and destruction, borrow brief the set exact you require to restore the taken years from fathers/mothers/brothers/sisters, children, return that which went unused by the uninvited, unseemly human whim of war and lies for no gain imagine that the deep sinkhole of despair that ***** one in, years in the formation, appearing in instance, and worse does not drowns but leaves helpless, unable to climb out, and all our scratching digs us in deeper until we cannot be, seen or heard or just be imagine that a check comes in the mail, payable left open for filling-in, in the amount of full restoration, with no additional fees of guilt needed for deposit and cashing/caching out: and you wake up and the stony chest is breathing lungs free imagine that and I do; for I am the smoke of return and rest, sky inscribing, knowing precise needs and the screams and the years unfair taken, they are screened through the five perceptions, and the word weaver sets the loom for each peculiar requisition, no imagination needed imagine that you lament and anger demand verifiable proofs mathematical, cursing the knights of false hopes with untethered regret I do not imagine that; hear it and accept; my task, imagine that, making you imagine that, thus commencement of repair begins when we imagine that for this how new healthy cells  are born quiet-now,  go, imagine-that, now*
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Hafiz  (1320 ~ 1389) _____ The tide of my love Has risen so high let me flood over You. Close your eyes for a moment And maybe all your fears and fantasies Will end. If that happened God would become an infant in your Arms And then you Would have to nurse all Creation! _______________________________________ L.F.P. (20th - 21st century) the floodplain of my love has spread so wide encompassing all of You. Opened your eyes forever And every prayer and wish uttered see true realized. Since this is inevitable God, our parent, will have raised us well, each ever cherished. And then you and I obligated to write His song, name it Hallelujah!
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Jun 16, 2020
Jun 16, 2020 at 5:08 PM UTC
An Infant In Your Arms (Hafiz, L.F.P.)
my body is a pond pondering body of * a pastime of skipping stones rippling raphes limping lips collapsing clavicles * pop a lilac on my iliac crest. * how many hops can you make before sinking in my **** how many stones can I take before drinking from your stash? * [Stone skipping (or stone skimming) is the art of throwing a flat stone across water in such a way (usually Sidearm) that it bounces off the surface, preferably many times. The objective of the game is to see how many times a stone can bounce before sinking.] * my wellspring is a floodplain floodplain floodplain floodpain.
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Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 11:12 AM UTC
the day i decided i am a pond
I have this hot pink heart with lace taped to the edges, and these deep, deep truths that I suspect might be lies; I have this system for secrets and, though softly imperfect, I do have a pair of magnificent thighs. I have this floodplain soul that's a place for the thirsty and ***** but sometimes it's still not enough. I cradle my faults like things that need saving, and sometimes I burn with shame just like with love. I have this leaf in my hair that I picked up while walking; it was pretty, that early, still covered in frost. It's not much, what I have, but it's more than I came with. I'm counting my blessings since you counted your loss.
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Nov 3, 2011
Nov 3, 2011 at 1:48 PM UTC
Not much, what I have
when the sky saw your eyes i thought it was a floodplain, but you lifted up my chin and had an anerism. the sky came in folds. once you said it, i knew it was chance; and the torrent would climb up the bridge to the rug in my stomach
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Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 10:07 PM UTC
the sky came in folds