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ryn Dec 2014
My last few hours,
In the land of a week's refuge.
Bade goodbye to water towers,
Away with sunsets made of rouge.

Ready to fulfil a previous standing pact
To a life I left and put on hold.
I'll leave you in memories of retrospect.
An experience worth weight in gold.

As always I find myself in the driveway .
Standing all alone, in the dark.
Looking up at what does lay.
Spellbound as usual as the distant dogs bark.

I'm sending wishes into space,
Kisses to the dots in the sky.
Going to miss this place...
As the coming year would go by.

I'd long for you,
My twinkling lovelies in my nights.
Following hours would be through
You'd be replaced by city lights.

For now allow me to drink you to a stupor.
A feast I can't get enough of.
Let these minutes extend into forever...
Goodbye Darwin stars, you have all my love.
Time to go home.
Jordan Rowan Dec 2015
I'm in the sun by crashing waves
But no one waves to me
I hear them speak most every day
They don't speak to me

I'm lost in a foreign land
Wishing I could be back home
Where even when I'm by myself
I don't feel so alone
I'm going home

I see eyes on their solemn face
But I don't see life
What is this terrifying place?
It's not what I thought it'd be like

I miss my streets filled with snow
I miss the gray skies above
I miss my hands feeling numb with cold
I miss the warmth of love

I'm lost in a foreign land
Wishing I could be back home
Where even when I'm by myself
I don't feel so alone
I'm going home
Nat Lipstadt Jun 7
the earth is curved - sure y’all knew that.  
but to get to the Northwest,
Interstate 84
ain’t le route plus directe

nope curve north to Ontario,
wave to Bex as I cross over
London and Toronto, also can’t recall
which poet from Rochester hails,
or did they shuffle off to Buffalo?

Crossing Erie, Huron, and Michigan Great Lakes all,
brings to mind
my mother’s birthplace,
Last of the Mohicans,
and the three years I did in the Cleveland Penitentiary,
where sun was illegal and baseball was a pretend play
of cowboys and Indians
but by ***, it made me
the penitent fella I am today

Look skyward to Montreal,
yes, there he is, the Leo Priest,
the baffled king,
blessing this poetic meet ‘n greet trip
with a smiling unsurprising
hallelujah

Apparently some US citizens still can traverse O Canada,
even if one forgot their passports,
and are not PNG’s (Persons Not so GREAT)

over Minneapolis shed a tear for Diane,
a poet- gone-missing, and wonder if you reader come from
St. Cloud, Fargo or Duluth, Bismarck or Aberdeen,
surely they still speak poetic English there
in a twangy metering methodology  - well, message me asap

wow there really is a Saskatoon!

the pilot asks us to lean left in our seats
to help turn the plane
so we go to Portland and not to Vancouver...
me thinks he might be a touch Rockie Mountain High,
considering we are at 30 thousand something Imperial,
as he walks the main cabin with an oxygen mask and a
huuuuuge grin

see the distant Cascades
through a ***** in the shuttered windows,
must be close to “the coast”
(as if, harrumph, there were but one)

ah, words in the clouds, ripe for the plucking
must be getting close to Oregon,
where poets grow on trees, woody words like ****,
and log-float poems down the Columbia to the sea

gonna drink me some poets
under the table cause this
trip I ain’t no driving and I am already
“flying” ‘n scribing and arriving
on a high tide and a good wind
Cné Mar 2017
Normally I don't celebrate a one day holiday
But it's a drinking holiday, so celebrate away
Drinking green beer
Spreading good cheer
To the Irish and non, Happy St. Patrick's Day!
I don't really drink beer. I usually just stick to the hard stuff.

But waiting to get off work, going bonkers and berserk.
Hehehe
Puds Aug 2
The Clock Runs Down Never
Slowing
As Seasons Turn By Degrees
And Life Goes Where Its Going
In A Mist Blown Away On A
Breeze.
Nick Burns Aug 15
My alarm clock screams.
Been awake for three hours;
so ahead of the game,
unaware of my powerless range.

I’ve been tossing, turning, creaking,
coming up with new names;
another attempt to link together
all of my fireless plains.

Hey, I’m running on fumes.
Hey, I’m Eugene Tooms;
stretching, twisting, warping,
got you reaching for clues.

It’ll all come together,
posted up in a small room;
just typing up a dichotomy
of life as a lifeless plume.
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