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L B Jan 2017
If that night could remember
it would call him back
to our Chinese restaurant
to fried rice and steaming tea
to our winter refuge of tile and cushions
60s retro black and white
Chrome legs of lacquered tables
with its mural of
our Great Wall

...winding, distant, wonder

If the snow hadn't muffled all
but our voices
we would not be—

so alone

Only I
felt his arm take its chance
around my shoulder
Guiding warmth
as good excuse as any
to touch

Two miles on foot
An arc in time
In lace of white
to hide— what might....

Below my window
“Good Night”
not enough
for troubadour
singing, pleading, stumbling...

(I worry about his long way home)

...and hardly notice...

How gently Time joins Snow
as if they cannot bare
instead, conspire
Decide the crystals
Send the flakes to sift over him

This loss needs snow
to blur his face
to fade from view....

This— tender let-down from the sky
As only snow can do...

Cover with beauty

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6o6zMPLcXZ8
Lowell, Massachusetts, January, 1970... Love was lost in the storm of war politics, *****, drugs, and grief.  His brother was a priest and chaplain, killed in Vietnam.
Breanna Smith May 2012
Sweetly does the rain
Sing against my window,
As it stirs the lavender
That caresses my nose,
Growing beneath my window as
My mother planted it there to do.
Wary do I grow of counting the
Lines,
Groves,
And cracks in my ever changing ceiling.
I try making out images instead of counting, Lacking creativity all I can see is
White,
Frooved
Clouds.

Dusk is capturing the world now and
The rain has finished it’s melody,
The insects and frogs
Take the stage and
Somewhere in the distance
Is the cry of a lone hawk,
Maybe feeling left out of the insects and frogs Choirs as,
He cries 
His sad
Song.

Pondering as to what the
Hawk’s story is
And as I ponder
I begin to hum
A soft melody keeping time
With the frogs and insects,
Maybe I am feeling left
Out like the hawk?

A breeze joins in,
String up the glories
Smell of lavender again
And cooling my face as it
Comes through the open window
I slowly drift
Off
To
Sleep...
...zzz
A slow sun
Peeps over the horizon
The golden dawn
Joins the lovers in
Their warmest embrace
Promise of
The most perfect day
Offered with reverence
From God Herself

Before the daydream
Can even begin
A swift hand
Snaps the blind shut
A not so casual escape
Towards the cliff edge
Startling the curious bluebirds
That were beginning to gather

Vanish does the dawn.
With caution
Light fingers trace the earth exposed
Cracked
Repelling all offers of relief
Regret overwhelming
The warmth of the sacred center
Evaporates rapidly

Releasing a sigh
Light and heavy
In every way
She retreats
As once again
She is reminded
That he is not
A morning person
Commuter Poet Mar 2016
This world is
An incredible place

Home to billions
Of living entities

8.7 million species
Each contributing
Their own living efforts

Every ant, that moves a leaf
Every bird that builds a nest
Every fish that joins a shoal
Every ray of sun that warms the earth
Every rain drop that falls
Creates an interconnected symphony
Of possibilities

Making the world

Nutritious
Dynamic
Evolutionary
Compassionate

Home

What a miracle to co-exist with it all
What a miracle!
6th March 2016
Olivia V Aug 2017
softly, she weeps
warm tears caressing,
tracing her contours.
a breeze, so soft,
moves through her.
it's silent tonight,
and so is she.

tendrils of green,
sway above her.
a dance of despair,
of solace and sadness.
and she joins
and she floats
and she moves with this wind.

she thinks and she thinks,
of ephemeral air.
how it stirs and it moves,
then dissipates and departs,
only to sweep
across mountains and valleys.

she wishes to be,
no more than a breeze.
gentle but strong,
to be felt by all
yet seen by none.

the willow above
with its weeping green,
grazes her cheeks,
and beckons her gently
to join with those currents,
in their invisible journey.

and so her body fades
into mere particles.
she stays silent throughout,
until she too
becomes,
an ethereal gale.

and in her place,
there is now emptiness.
and the willow still weeps
with joy for her freedom ,
in despair that she's gone.
not meant to rhyme.
Carter Ginter Apr 30
Bring me to life
Let in the light
Free my tormented soul
As I wait,
Alone with this empty horizon.

Slowly, but surely
Loneliness fades as the mountains rise up to meet me
Billowing above
Silhouetted across the sky
Stoic and unmoving
Their life runs so deeply across the earth
Without the posions of fear and hate
To disrupt their simplicity
And their complexity
They are pure existence
And this moment is everything
So I join them.

Air coats my throat and fills my lungs
Allowing the vibration of energy
Radiating from all that surrounds me
To dance across my skin
Through my body and
Into my bloodstream

I am by myself on this road
But I cannot feel lonely
Every inch of nature that surrounds me
Has invited me into their energy
Into their space and sense of freedom
Pure acceptance
No judgement
From the wisps of white dancing through blue shades of infinity
To the neverending marathon of greenery, fields and shrubs jog to the edge of forever
I cannot be alone
As my heartbeat joins the rhythm of the universe
KiraLili Sep 2016
The higher you trek up the thinner the air and thicker the mist
Forest get smaller as you ascend the stairs to Valhalla
Finally there are no more trees standing as you brush the last one
It's a hot summer day down below but cool at mile high
Gushing glacier fed water falls hammer overfilled drainages
Low laurel leaves bathe your boots in dew
Trails climb past these small deep stream side gorges
At these elevations your view plummets down the tight buttress valleys
Optic nerves are drawn to so many cascading vistas
Brow sweat is wiped by bandanas dipped in cold golden ponds
The snow is all gone but you can still see where it's weight smoothed mountains
Near the top of the craggy pinnacle is table top ledge
As if carved by the a larger hand
Butane hisses as coffee perks to a rolling boil
Steam from one tin cup joins the mountains mist
Thin air breaths slow from exertion
One sip of brew and you can hear the mountains exhale with you
Fisher Peak Kootenay Rockies mid 90s
ryn Aug 2014
A singular rose to say that you caught me from the start
Two of them would say that you too love me such
Three would mean three words that come from my heart
Five stalks would shout, "I love you very much!"

Six would spout six words that I always have said
"I love you, I miss you" is the message that they would give
Seven is the infatuation that I take to bed
Nine would want us together for as long as we'd live

Ten roses would state the absolute obvious
When they say that you are nice and so very pretty
"My treasured one", said eleven so filled with purpose
Twelve would cheekily suggest, "Will you be my steady"

Thirteen deemed to be unlucky for some
But roses represent that you are secretly admired
Fifteen is given with a face so glum
Apology is offered for what had transpired

Twenty would mean that I'm so much into you
Four more added to say that you're always on my mind
Thirty three reaffirms of my love so true
Thirty six would cherish all our moments in kind

Forty would mean genuine is my love and it's all I've got
I would genuinely love you if only you would let
Fifty of these flowers absolutely seem like an awful lot
But its worth to say that my love is free of regret

Ninety nine would cost but it'll say my love is forever
A hundred says that I'll remain forever devoted
One more joins to mean that you're my only love, ever
One hundred and eight is the big question that needs to be answered

Three hundred and sixty five roses represent the days in a year
They mean that I can't stop thinking of you every single day
I wish to give you eternal love that would span forever
On nine hundred and ninety nine roses these words would lay
Antino Art Apr 2018
Let's talk about this jazz club
that lives in my cellphone
in 1950 something with Chet Baker
back from the dead.
Let's toast to random notes taking flight
into the city in the middle of nothing nights we've known or been familiar with.
Let's shake hands cordially with the unfamiliar as in "deal", or "peace be with you" as if in church, tipping hats at that stranger passing by at the crosswalk some late evening in spring alongside dandelions sprouting forth from the pavement. Let's read between breaks of beats Kerouac must have hit in 1950 something San Francisco in yelps into the moonlit stages of the balcony of his boxcar boxcar boxcar gone by in a mad blur with whatever graffiti'd message of hope it bore on its sides. Let's hitch into the unknowingly infinite by way of the pen's mighty point. Let's unlearn the way syllable by syllable and demolish languaged signs like hurricane force candor blowing down fact-ory made terms and political decorum as smoke from the pages of their corporate handbook joins the Chet Baker solo note pilgrmage into the holy skyline. Let's move side by side unspoken as those jazz notes he forgot to play. Let's fill in those blanks with uninformed confidence beyond our abilities and grasp the unsayable names of our dreams remmebered. Let's see in seconds passing like bums inebriated with the holy moments gone too soon. Let's talk about nothing but this sacred second at hand on this clock unseen pointing overhead to the face of the moon gone full and hungry for attention. Let this happen only now. Only then will we talk about where it's going.
Philomena Apr 25
She thrashes violently
She can't awake
Can't get away
So she fights like her life depends on it
Maybe she's squirming under the weigh of an invisible monster
Or another dream filled with death
No matter the subject
I hold her in place
Cradle her to stop the movement
I call her name over and over
Until she joins the world again
THE ME I AM

I laugh
with a dead man’s laugh

(a man I never knew)  

my grandfather’s laughter

flowering like Springtime

blossoming in my mouth

not listening to the years.

Time joins the dots.
Painting by Numbers.

I see
with my mother’s eyes

the world
stealing into my mind

become music

anything it
chooses.

Time joins the dots.
Painting by numbers.

This gesture
is my big sisters

gathering me
up into her

nearness

tenderness.

Time joins the dots.
Painting by Numbers.

My father’s love
beats in my heart

sings in everything
it touches

amuses

me to see

how I

am

all those others
as well as me.

Time joins
the dots.

Painting by Numbers.
Two childish things to do back in the early days of the 60's so they tie into the memories ...painting by nos. I wanted to represent the traits and characteristics of people who I knew in my time...7 say would always be blue and something June would do, Join the dots was for people I didn't meet like my father's Da who was merely a story or certain tellings and re-tellings..."the slight disconnect" of a history I could never know except through my father's memory and being told "he laughed just like you."
Tom Spencer Jul 9
thinning clouds
drift eastward

fading light clings
to the trailing mist

in the sudden calm
beads of water

slip from the leaves
and are welcomed

by the thirsting earth
hibiscus flowers droop

ferns shimmer
distant thunder sounds

from the top of a tree
a mockingbird

celebrates this brief respite
from the summer heat

a neighbor steps out
and joins me for a moment

we fall silent
and drink our fill

Tom Spencer © 2019
Coming to terms with the tears,
The knife shunt into my side,
The days wasted,
And the years gone by....

Who was I, then?
Where am I now?

Beneath me the ground shakes unrelentingly,
The objective to set me falling.

My heart stands up on its own two legs,
And walks away from the strength I'd spent years rebuilding,
Only to stare at what tore it apart in the first place,
Enthralled by the fact that it's all history,
But then he just speaks to the mind,
Then he, too, joins the nostalgic glare.

Now it's as if it were yesterday.
I need not open up wounds that never even closed.

I simply forgot they were bleeding.
Wrapped in a cloud, I see everything
Below are hard workers, children at play, everyone going about their day
At my side, love, sunshine,
And as if at the perfect time,
Birds.
Flowing, blending with the sky and other clouds
Swooping, catching flies before they reach the crowds
It's a city.
The sun moves more naturally, taking me with
A cabin on a country side.
Trees lining the meadows in which we reside
The air, so sweet and fresh
The sun radiating and carrying droplets of life to the plants around
Night falls, the sun slowly touches down in the mountains, and turns into a goddess
The most picturesque lovely woman I ever laid eyes on,
Now joins me in the plush bed
Untill the next day, to venture out again.
L B Mar 24
Betty Coutu drives a mean Rambler
takes us public school, heathens
to catechism on Saturday morn
Smokes a cigarette like a prima-ballerina
Shifts three on the wheel
drives that clutch to the floor
with her thick leg
Makes the engine roar
a little
“to warm it up”

Turns with the grace of swan
Pavlova or belladonna
Something of beauty
just to watch her
three-finger the wheel through a turn around
all while taking a drag
exhales to ceiling
to music on the radio
Elvis? Roy O, Patsy Cline
circa 1959
Betty's hair is short, uncombed
but she's not without lipstick
lights her smoke with amazing matchbook skills
Calm
like a woman who does it often
takes on wear
with I'm in love, and I don't give a care
She shifts and turns
cigarette balanced like gossip on lips
or between
those first two fingertips
Smoke swirling
amid kids squabbling and whining
in the back seat
No belts back then
till Dad got home
to keep them in line
But, I bet on Betty every time
to get us there
I want to drive like her, so badly!
I sit beside her-- ossified
watching
her smoke and handle
like a total expert
I am distracted
and will surely fumble
my catechism answers
for the nuns
cataclysmically

She drops us off by an icy foot slide
I swear to God to stop back later when we're done
...with prayer and penance  
recitation... and resolvings
to sin no more
Once we're out the door--

back to that forbidden foot-slide

Always had a plan for fun
So did Betty's son
the hemophiliac
Bless myself like an Olympian
and pray for Johnny
before he joins me for a run


hemophilia:
a medical condition in which the ability of the blood to clot is severely reduced, causing the sufferer to bleed severely from even a slight injury. The condition is typically caused by a hereditary lack of a coagulation factor, most often factor VIII.
Lighting a cigarette from an old time matchbook while driving a standard shift takes some skills.  Betty was an 'effn ballerina at the wheel
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