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Arianna Oct 2018
Je rêve de la neige
Velouteuse
En hiver
Qui enterre la terre, doucement,

Descendant

Comme les ailes d’un cygne, enveloppant,

Le forêt noir

Fantôme

Dans le froid.
Playing with rhythm in French.
Dusting off the rabbity
that squirrely tempo anxiety,
closing in with night.

The irresistible pattern
the irrational illogical fight
a battle with one’s discipline,
mirroring our might.

I make it home a fluttering
belly twirled and muttering,
I tell myself tis alright!

The damage done, and everyone,
I’m just like them and millions more
succumbing at the Devil’s door.

And the taste, the burn,
the healing calm,
the shaking and the thinking gone.

Knock one back, slam out another
night is early, rock it brother,
Tying on a swilly swirling
buzzed-out brain and mind a twirling. . .

“Ahhhh…”

I feel better now, exhilarated,
exasperation falls to stout resound;
I pour again and knock it down!

“Ahhhh…”

Spinning now, not to say I’m spun
but choosey choosing several a pun
I see myself an accomplished one!
Yes, that’s it, that is me,
look upon with thoughts of glory
yank open the freezer for glass that’s hoary. . .

How cool am I? certainly not boring
all night I’m here, pouring, pouring. . .

Buzz subsides, thoughts slow too,
lurid leering, slobbering swearing,
stupid actions and nothing new?

I lose the bottle,
I lose my shirt,
***** on myself,
pass out in dirt.

Another night of drunken hero,
time that’s wasted for kingly Nero.
But who am I to judge myself?

I’m hardly worse than anyone else?
He still lives with demons
that once held him tenderly
when no one would
be able to find the words
to say that fill the glass
as it is tipped back
and slowly emptied
of the liquor that stirs
memories from the headwind
that blew the lovers' hair back
on the drive through autumn
windy, windy mountain paths
as another Queen song plays
on the radio and the raindrops
on the windshield tap along
with fingertips against the steering wheel
to Freddy Mercury and shared heartbeats.

The truth is he is lying
there like an open wound
as he begins to measure self-worth
with texting tempo and memories
of last summer being too hot
to cuddle with one another
though it was more than enough
to hold feet under the thin sheets
that remember the glass
once again filling with words
as another drink is emptied
and his head burst through clouds
leaving him to hydroplane
through windy, windy mountain paths
as the raindrops on the windshield
applaud with the demons
that beckon tenderly for his return.
What happens,
It comes to pass.
Leave thy mirror's
Laconian eyes and go,
Double-time;
Be quickening:

Take this gift,
Without a plan.
Calm and level,
Unprepared, but
'll be grand. Understand
the change, get going;
Now cut the tempo:

Let loose, lose it,
Get lost, use it.
You play the Cool Piper every Concert Noon
Change your Clothes; And the Tempo changes you
Why couldn't have I heard you Guys that soon
So I could strangle the Technocrat blue?
HA! I jest. Rarely do Gum-Humours speak
But when they do they leave a Mark aside
I guess this is no time to act so meek
When Spain's Wild Brother calls us for a Ride
And what a Ride! Many Blokes hitch a tug
Collecting Hot Dames they only knew for yonks
It's a Crazy Menu; But quite a hug
Some choose a Bellow; Others a *****-Tonk.
Long Sonnet Short, your Music is the Boom
Clean your Pipe well and hope to see you soon.
#underabanner
Victor Marques Nov 2014
Nascimento, vida e existência…

     Nascemos de uma forma sublime que parecendo uma banalidade natural é segundo o meu ponto de vista um milagre em todos os sentidos. Parece que o ventre da mulher foi feito e eleito o local divino para mostrar ao mundo a beleza do nascimento, vida e existência, comprometida com todos aqueles que tiveram o privilégio de um dia nascerem.
Nascemos, vivemos e existimos num planeta que procura respostas que não acha para uma imortalidade pedida a preceito em orações, congressos, ou aglomerações de seres que procuram nesta vida um culto a Deus que parece estar para caprichos e devaneios de tantos seres humanos que existem por existir.
Nascimento é vida e ao mesmo tempo uma existência comprometida com o universo que é gratuito para todos aqueles que conseguem perceber a magnitude da abundância que nos é dada com o nascimento, vida e existência.
     Nascemos nus sem nada para oferecer naquele preciso momento alegria a todos aqueles que parecem esperar um Messias salvador e apaziguador de corações por vezes divididos
e adulterados com vivências da  sua própria vida.
  - Que recompensa teremos nós depois de deixarmos de existir sob esta forma material que parece ser digna e ao mesmo tempo real?
-Será o nascimento o elo principal na vida, na existência e na morte?
- Será que Deus através da beleza e complexidade do nascimento quer mostrar ao homem através da sua existência a possibilidade de aspirar com a morte à ressurreição ou melhor a outra forma espiritual de continuar a existir?
- Será que não será mais fácil e rápida a morte do que o próprio nascimento?
     Nascemos, vivemos e existimos num planeta terra maravilhoso regido com mestria por um sábio infinito e Criador que sempre com precisão consegue dar ao ser humano deleites que irão perdurar na nossa vida até ao dia que depois de nascer, viver e existir morremos para ressuscitar no Amor Sublime de Deus nosso Pai.

Victor Marques
nascimento, vida e existência
city of flips May 2018
please be impatient with me for I am Female, Age 19   Please be impatient with me.  Three quarters woman in a body, a quartered quartet.  The crying viola, off tempo, present but unavailable.  The boys want me. The men, more, more.  The women most of all.  The American Girl dolls on the shelf dusty, witnesses to all my demander’s impatience to take, to own, possess & desire my poses all to pleasure them, wanting  many morsos (small bites).  
Then, when discarded, my body reeks of
con-f u s i o n.  A perfect conjugation,  an imperfect conjunction;  Conning my mind into letting my body be-fused.  

The dolls weep real tears in the city of my mind;  flipping out, they too, are impatient with me, and flip me off for they have no good words to express their utter chagrin.
Umi Apr 2018
The gentle tone of her teaching,
In wonderous melodies, orchestral knowledge from a sweet teacher,
Education set by the awareness of harmonizing, delicate instruments,
Wisdom and foresight, cast by no other judgement but of a conductor,
Whomst hand leads to the ups and downs of the intensity, recognised
Ensembling in the beauty of a sinfonietta, sounds flows uninterrupted
Let the singing pendulum to your mistress's pleasure fall to the bottom, attached to the chipped illusionists mask of anticipation!
To this dance the mascarade does not crack in the shadow of sound,
A wise scholar would not sacrifice one topic relevant to learn to the passing time, to her students unfortune that is, cast in pure grief,
A wise conductor does the same with musical notes, the story flows,
With the moon high in the sky, time stands in her way, questioning her to dance with the devil amongst a distorted, whicked dark,
But resillient to the end, tough and with no distraction taking her focus the director of this event finishes the creation of art, an orchestra
A craftwoman of tempo and elegance always stands out after all, bringing the musical score to life.

~ Umi
w y n n e Jul 2016
1
They said pain is temporary
But I can feel my bones
disintegrating at a rapid pace
the more I think about your goodbyes
you keep sending me.

I can feel my blood
entering the veins to my brain
like a bullet train
the moment you wanted me
out of your life.

I can feel my breathe
reaching an unsteady,  
erratic tempo as my pulse flutters
in my heart
the moment you said
you love someone else.  

It has been 6 months exactly
since the the day you turned around
and never looked back.  

But the pain is still here.  
It's still destroying the **** out of me.
It's as if I would run out of breath
and collapse any moment.

Tell me.

How do you **** a feeling?
You-will-not-lie, -bed-chambers-long,
For I, -am-coming-to-get, YOU!
Clawed-through-the-dirt, -up-the-roots,
I am here, -come-to-get, YOU!
Followed-tree-roots, -that-sweet-smelling-Earth!
Here now! -It's time-to-forget-YOUTH.

HALLOWEEN THIS! HALLOWEEN THAT!
HALLOWEEN THIS! HALLOWEEN THAT!
HALLOWEEN THIS! HALLOWEEN THAT!
Aha Ha Ha Ha,  -The Goblins Attack!!


Grab-you-and-cover-those-murmuring-cries.
Drag-you-away, I have got, YOU!
Hungry-I, watering-mouth-glistening-eyes!
Bundle-of-joy, I have got, YOU!
Jump-down-tunnel-for-you-are-my-prize.
Look-at-you-now, my-sweet-tasty-meat-PIE!

HALLOWEEN THIS! HALLOWEEN THAT!
HALLOWEEN THIS! HALLOWEEN THAT!
HALLOWEEN THIS! HALLOWEEN THAT!
Aha Ha Ha Ha,  -The Goblins Attack!!







Addendum: The name appears to be an amalgamation etymologically of roots from Greek, Sanskrit and Sumerian. If, of course, you choose to translate it that way. I assume Plato to be an authority on the Ancient Greek's tendency to combine the words of multiple mythologies sharing similar characters linguistically. The purpose of the hyphenation is to suggest the tempo and speed of the rhyme's cadence.

Kalikantzaroi
'The Demon's of Earth'
Kalikantzaroi came up through the earth from Hell climbing the Tree of Life's roots escaping for only three days and nights once each year when the Sun appeared to descend in the same place for said time. That period was Christmas and the children who were bad had a choice; leave a present(gifts) on their doorstep or be pulled down by the Goblins.
It is a Greek fairy tale.

The speed of the rhyme is as fast as you can say it with loud pauses for the Halloween stop phrase. It is a metered rhyme.
Walking along,
Stopping to pick the ripened berries
The sweet sour taste entices the senses.

Cars passing quickly
My feet stagger on
Slowly falling into the tempo.
My thoughts wander
My troubles arise.

I reach a split in this mental road
Should I go left?
Should I go right?
Should I just turn around and give up?

I’m at the dead end
Looking over a cliff to the rough water below.
Maybe I should just jump in.
Feel the cold daggers against my skin.

The water draws me in
Welcoming me
Beckoning me.
Telling me to jump.

Should I take this leap into the unknown?
Prepare myself for the worst.
In order appreciate the best.

I need some help,
A lighthouse in the distance
The light giving guidance
Offering peace
Breaking though the night.

Where is my lighthouse?
Is there one?
Or is this the dead end.
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2013
In my real life,
not a poet,
just an astronomer,
an observer of
universes, bodies,
places, faces,
visited, discovered,
named and oft,
best forgot.

I observe:

Some never find true love.
Some never fly first class.
Some of us
never see the
South of France.

Some of us wear
hand-me-down pants,
white lined creases when “let down,”
mocked, we never forgive ourselves
the shame of it.

Some never experience
reckless abandon.

Yet, some of us are
recklessly abandoned,
and never forget,
and never forgive.

Some of us lose
children, husbands,
avanti nel tempo,
before their time,
and
the anger is
forever, palpable,
costly.

Some of us
were raised by
someone else's parents,
and never rest easy,
the abandoned taste
always nearby,
a cruel living, breathing
teasing wasting

Some we can pass over
with ease,
as new tissue grows,
those cuts marked -
emotionally healed.

But the ones that scar,
the ones that visible scar
permanent reddened,
are the
holocaust deniers
that there is a real
promised land of
peace of mind.

Peace of mind -
not even for a second,
foretold but
unrealized,
a biblical myth,
a promised land,
a capitalist paradisal hoax.


Some never feel
public victory,
adulation, adoration,
always wearing the T-shirt labeled
Property of Someone Else.

Most of us remain
unpublished, undiscovered,
unremarked, blanketed,
cloaked in bills to pay;

Living a triumvirate of
heart ache, loneliness, worry,
our normal table fare
consists
of hand to hand
into the mouth
combat MRE's,
we engage,
to survive,
just stay alive.

We are not digitalized,
nonetheless,
we are
but digits,
our faces hidden, and
in no one's heart book
are we recorded,
friended,
yet our viewing habits,
purchases, secret sites
are enumerated, captured.

Some of us live
exclusively
in the real life,
never to escape to the
province of Wifi,
in the landscape
of the electronic mind,
an option for which
we are
untrained.

Perhaps sanctity of separation,
safety of text, email,
avec the ******* intrusion
of tweets are
the real life today,
games are always won,
and what we don't enjoy,
we just delete away

But In My Real Life
getting up is trying,
IMRL,
the trying is trying,
IMRL,
delete buttons don't exist      
in the keyboard
of our brains,
IMRL,
all we have is a
measly twenty six aleph bets
to find new ways to say
that living is striving and
what we feel is
oh so real,
not digital

IMRL,
when I laugh out loud,
the neighbors
beat the walls,
complainants,
registering their feelings
in my face,
in my book,
so to speak.

IMRL,
I got a friend,
maybe two,
all I need,
voices to help soften
the 400 blows of RL.

Their synthesized silence
of their breathing
on the phone
is precious unto me.

IRL,
limp from Friday
night to
Friday
night,
a bottle of Medoc
my weekend reward,
my bedrock cushion
in order to sleep.

After all these years,
gains and losses,
conversations with God,
I look up,
see the risk,
the slightest breeze
is a
hurricane wind.

The shaft,
of the
the sword
hanging above me
the hilt,
swaying in living color,
is no legend.

But what I have is
the ability
and maybe
the responsibility
to let anyone know
that
in my real life
anyone who touches me
with fine and good intent,
a momentary glancing blow
or a gunshot to the ventricle,
is part and parcel of
my real life.

This makes you real too,
savior, and hereby notified,
that you are not
just an observer, but
a poet of me,
an astronomer of my heart,
and namer of
a secret universe
inside of me.


Sept. 1, 2010

_____________________________
US Army jargon: meals ready to eat
nine  years ago I wrote like this.
Arianna Nov 2018
Pizzicato brainwaves
Oscillate across the table,
A nervous duet
For piano and harp.

How close!

Can you feel
The quaking of my heart
Changing tempo:

Prestissimo
Subsiding sweetly to adagio,

Resonating
               Dolce

Reaching
          ­              Affetuoso

Skin to skin
From my fingers,
Inching andante
Into yours...
A follow-up/"Part II" to an older poem. :-)
Always walking that line
Always tempting fate
All these temptations calling me
I attempt to numb pain

Got the temperature rising
Know I can be temperamental
My temper’s ‘bout to unleash
Doing something regretful

A temporary escape
From two to ten on the dial
The temper-tantrum and screams
Like a tempestuous child

Perhaps a temporal shift
Like Anty Em’ on the farm
The tempest carries away
Ship wrecked alone I am gone

My template shows me the way
Temptress I can not escape
Contemptuously I have temperance
Finding tempo ‘til break

A temple shrine I pay tribute
Silently contemplate
Lord please grant me forgiveness
For my wrongs and mistakes
Written - December 25, 2017

All rights reserved.
Baylee Kaye Dec 2018
his eyes
they’re calling me
lost in a grey-blue sea
pray they tell no lies

i fall
before him on my knees
begging pretty please
answer my call

loving you
every single day
when you throw your belt away
is all I do

the sound
of the buckle on the floor
makes me wish for more
of this love so profound

I know
you’ll waste no time
in this paradigm
to set our tempo
d.c.
onlylovepoetry Feb 2018
Parkland: Oh My divine, We Wrestle Over What is Yours



and what is mine

it took days for the after- shock and awe to arrive;

the bizarre tempo reversal, myself, out of order,
is my shame, after the mind’s pretense ennui of “yet another,”
had to slow seep away beneath the
firewall cutting off the pain of my the true self
and the I, of ordinary

how else, to keep the madness away?
it’s disguised in a well tended secured lockbox
chamber labeled, I, all about me,
deep hid in the rear, not too near the true self,
must keep the unseeing functioning, functioning

but bus-ted poet is triggered and the weep welling
in the eyes commencing that makes writing on a cell
on a moving vehicle an annoying frosting
on what is an inconsolable hell

everyone stares unawares that the shock,
is without awe, and the only awe is in awful awful awful awful

we sit at the Friday eve sabbath table to begin our negotiation;
but there is no negotiating though the excuses and the divine’s stumbling, flailing failings are pre-prepared,
we know this battle too well and the outcome as well,
it is mine true self’s to win, have me not
words and stanzas and music suffice
to convict the lord of the hosts, adonai

take all your seventy names in vain to crush the vanity of
omnipotence for your godliness degrades and your instant access to where the good in me resides is cutoff;
under My Contacts
you have been


blocked

we shall meet as always on the Day of Atonement
but this year no repentance to be granted, the pardons shared
with my kind only, none left for the lonely gone-gods,
no longer seek yours for me, there are 17 extra to be given out*

the left foot and the falsehoods join in the denunciation,
though some suggest reprieve and only reproach
for isn’t atonement possible for even gods?  No. not,
for a god who got human kindness installed in all his devices
but then never opened the app

my name was
onlylovepoetry;
but for now, till the culling of the agonies is done,
till the hollows are refilled and the curses fully final expended,
till the sudden eye tearing ceases to render me torn, messed,
you may call me nothing but this:

onlyreproachpoetry

should you come calling
there will be no beseeching,
just the stoic bearing witness of my silence,
my finger-pointing judgement,
and my angels presence

“May the angel Michael be at my right,
and the angel Gabriel be at my left;
and in front of me the angel Uriel,
and behind me the angel Raphael...”
and above me seventeen new protectors
whose names my true self will now memorize,

for now they are mine

~<•>~

2/16/18 4:34pm  ~ 2/17/18  3:34am
JDL Nov 2018
The
Seasons
Life’s rhythm
Ever changing
The days keep the beat
Life’s rhymes and tempo meet
Change the only certainty
A struggle till defeat
Cold replaces heat
Ever changing
Until the

Last
leaf


Falls
faith Oct 2017
i walk to the stage,
i put on my masquerade,
i take the microphone,
and get in the zone.

i start out slow,
because i know,
that when the tempo gets fast,
i can't make it last.

i blend my voice with the song,
hoping that it'll last all night long,
this is bliss,
give me more of this.
Fọlá Mar 4
We touch.
My heart stops.
You come close,
My breath hits a pause.

You taunt, You tease.
The space between us shortens.
We kiss;
Sweet, The taste of your lips.

You nibble, You pinch.
The tension is building up.
The pace quickens,
Frantic, as our clothes come off.

You take the reigns,
Slithering your way on top.

You part the way,
Guiding me in,
My body quivering.

With every ******,
You speed up,
Gently.
Your body gliding along.
Stroking, swiftly.
Moaning,
With every motion.

Sweat dripping,
Every breath; fast, short.
The wind seems to stop.
As if taking a moment to watch.

A few yards left to run;
Our bodies respond,
The tempo picking up.
God, Oh God.
The Deity you start to call.

You grip my body,
Your nails digging into my skin.
For dear life, you hold on.
Squeezing tighter, as the moment comes.

We push our limits,
Hanging on for a little more.
We go deeper,
Our bodies quaking,
Shuddering.

Waves of euphoria crashing.
An explosion of Ecstasy.
All the hard work and effort,
Gone. In a few seconds. . .
"You're cold."

  He said as he took her hands and he couldn't be more right and wrong at the same time. Her gaze simply fell to her feet as she let the silence envelop her. She felt cold, her soul quivering somewhere in the corner of her heart, obscuring its rhythmic beat and creating a swell of off tempo chaos in her veins. Her memory of his whispers were akin to the sudden rush of wind that hit her skin, wet with the storm of tears and caused chills to cascade their way across her body.
  
  But he was wrong, it wasn't she who was cold, it was him who was stealing everything that made her warm. Coaxing her with his silver tongue, murmuring the words he knows she wants to hear, testing his skill and bringing her to the edge of the flimsy fortress she calls defense, to where she's just barely out of his reach, a paper thin wall separating his will from hers, and he nearly giggles in delight when he causes her to tear it down herself, like a spider tearing down its own web.
  
  But of course that isn't enough, not when she's standing there, all walls down, vulnerable and tender, her heart so soft he could cut right through it with just his fingernails, and Hell be ****** itself if he wasn't the slightest bit temped to try because he knows how easily he can, like shoving a pin through a butterfly, simple and smooth, and it'd be so interesting to see her squirm. But instead he's interested in how far he can cause her to do it to herself.  
  
  All he has to do is let a few of his venomous words drip from his teeth, promising he isn't like everyone else (because he isn't of course, no one else would be this thrilled to watch her crumble so slowly ), that he understands, understands that she's so incredibly weak, and that her heart is so big it oozes to the surface of her skin for everyone to see, and it's so **** easy that she must be begging for it, and suddenly he's caught her and he loves it.
  
  She's hanging on every word as if he's holding happiness over her head, but this is boring him, he wants to see what makes her tick, how she is the way she is, so it's time to step up his game. He moves his hand from hers and slides it up her arm, resting ever so gently on her shoulder as his other hand moves to her waist, and as if to further prove his point about how she basically wears her heart as her skin it turns a rosy shade of pink, and sends its pulse so strongly he can feel it. He lets his breath ghost across her susceptible ears and pulls her against him as he gives his orders.

"Strip."
  
And she does.

First go the clothes, but her skin isn't what he's interested in, and he makes it very clear with the expecting look he gives her, so she goes again,tearing skin from muscle one piece as a time. He knows it must be painful, from the tears pouring from her eyes and how the exposed muscle throbs with its raw appearance, and yet the look of concentration on her face just pulls him in more, and yet it still just isn't enough, and finally that red disgusting throbbing ****** mess is pulled away to expose her shining ivory bones. He can't help but marvel in how gracefully they curve, the very core of her frame standing before him, she's completely bare with nothing left to expose, and that gorgeous  pearly figure before him is only more defined by the red  heart that's left behind those ribs, as it pulses and drips and beckons him with each flutter.
  
  It glistens like a slimy rotting apple, and it couldn't be anything more since it belongs to her. But you know what they say, fruit is always the sweetest just before it goes bad, and it's too tempting for him to not take a bite. And he couldn't help but marvel at how warm it was, or the sudden chills dancing down his spine.
S Margot Mar 4
Un respiro.
Un exhalo.
Poco a poco,
el cuerpo
analiza lo pasado.
Apago los ojos,
solo veo blanco.
Blancas las sabanas de la cama desordenada,
durante el momento en que dos almas se reencontraban.
Blanca la tela que el torso cubría,
al caminar sintiendo la arena, por la oscura noche en la que dos corazones cantaban.
Blanco el destello de las estrellas percibidas,
que hacía arriba era lo que veían.
Blanca la mente, ya que fascinada y demente se encuentra.
Empeorando al desvanecerse en aquellas brillantes ventanas de tonos cafés que mesmerizan.
Mariposas blancas aleteando colman
todo aquello que el cuerpo conforma.
Un respiro.
Un exhalo.
Ahora la mente
se encuentra en relajo.
sinto tudo tão inacabado
como se minha alma fosse uma obra
com aquelas paredes de concreto com uma só mão de tinta branca
com os fios das lâmpadas soltos em todos os cômodos de mim
me sinto como a música no carro que sempre mudo antes de acabar
ou como a terceira vez que voltei pra finalizar esse texto
como o último abraço que dei no meu pai e nem levantei da cadeira
o caderno da minha aula de arte moderna
a mensagem que eu comecei a escrever no ponto de ônibus e não deu tempo
o último beijo que eu dei em você e não encostei a língua no céu da tua boca
amanhã já vem e não conclui nada de hoje
se eu morresse eu nem teria vivido
Aj Jul 2018
and now the song is over. it fades into the background as it fades out completely and now it's just me in the spotlight. dancing with my arms and stepping with my legs, i can still feel the rhythm in my veins. i said the music stopped, but don't believe everything you hear, you see, because i believed it too. and for a moment, i stood quiet. i stayed that way until another beat arrived, which happened to be the best beat of all—the ever-slowing tempo of my heartbeat. it was thumping and bumping loudly from where my ribs kept it in place. i didn't want it running away like my feet were or flying into the air like my arms.

i’m keeping it a wild kind of classy and in time with my sweet pulse still bump-bumping away, and i didn't complain as my heart kept going, continuing it's work as the foundation of the slow and reckless melody that my head created for the time being. i won't remember this song tomorrow.

my toes are tapping and my fingers are snapping and my smile shines as i feel a howl coming along. i dance in my lonely with sounds trapped inside my body—these noises were something that i decided to make, and i swing as i feel my newfound freedom uplift me. i reach this high. i dance in circles. i touch the sky. i kiss the atmosphere, hold a star, make a wish.

"i hope this happiness never ends."

and still, it hasn't.
it's a party of the heart.
Deb Jones Jul 12
In the Spring time I take some chalks, charcoal and go to a particular park
One day I heard peals of laughter and turned to see that

A young  boy swinging so high that the chains buckle a little at the height of the arc.  

I am sure he feels that he is ruler of all he  sees.
His toes touching the sky

He seems to float for a beat, and then there’s a stiff **** as he falls
back under the influence of the rusted metal links, back into the steady tempo of forward and back.

I watch him as he chooses  to fly high again, gaining momentum with his legs
I would like to tell him not to go so high  

But I remember when I was young that I would swing until I caught the snap of the swing chains

I remember what a powerful feeling it is. I remember that feeling oh, so well

Instead I quickly drew him on the swing.

Him and all his glory reflected on his face

What a wonderful spring pastime
And what a reminder of childhood
DuBray Jun 2018
To the rain

Washing away

Pain

Listen

To the rain

Magically

Gradually

A slow tempo tune

Listen

The drops

Could fill spoons

For a near

New

Year
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