ALL RESPONSES |
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Veins weave, cross tendons and bones
head to the narrows of my wrists
(soft as nightfall, soft as shadow)
beating their steady beat
then sink below my skin
carrying every thought that
delights me, through me.
A poem is nothing
more than a breath
exhaled, all thoughts
that lead to a thought
nothing more
than my finger
tracing the outline of you
the space you inhabit
the skin you wear
and wants only this
to know your heart still beats,
that if my hand were pressed
against your chest now
I would feel it quicken.
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i need not search
for the girls of summer,
need not write to them
beneath a bright september
moon, rustles of dark
turning maple leaves
voices pitched, laughter
tussling with organ music
from the county fair
ferris wheel lightly blue
red yellow orange smooth
hair tumbling smoother
skin smoothest hands
fumbling footsteps tip
toeing to quieter avenues,
bathing in midnight orange
yellow blue red
i need not search
for the girls of summer
i observe them beneath moon
shine flooding my street
if one looks in on me tonight,
she will surely darken me
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It's difficult to remember things you don't want to
after you've worked for half a lifetime to forget them,
thinking that was the only way, and drinking a tunnel
through a mountain of pain would somehow strike gold.
This might make a good country song, if anyone
really cared about anyone else's troubles but
their own, and we all know they don't, because
everybody has been hurt, so it's just part of life.
You cry at chick-flicks and and pop ballads, but if
the person sitting in the cube next to you for the
last ten years is going through a divorce, just be
glad she doesn't know you're the other woman.
It's enough to make a painter give up painting, or
to become a poet, because it's hard, yes it's hard,
to face a world that's always black and white, or
to see anything but red in a blue cocktail lounge.
It's OK to laugh now, at the chances people take just
to maintain an aura that's been running on fumes since
Artur had his leg amputated in Marseilles, it's OK,
as long as we can all have a good laugh together. |
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He walked with a limp
that he didn't have yesterday.
A scar graced his left cheek
where stubble barely existed.
He was pretty sure a couple
good chewing teeth had fallen out.
At one time, man,
he coulda gotten any chick he wanted.
You think he went to college for nothin'?
Now, his wallet was way more important
than his major or his GPA or the
Greek letters over his front door;
Phi Gamma Zed Bullshitta.
He pulled a piece of paper from
the back pocket of his Khakis,
ripped off his name and address at the top
and the phone number and email info on the bottom,
and then stopped in front of a black-painted telephone pole.
There'd once been other messages here,
but some cleaning crew must've recently come through.
Pulling the red marker from his shirt pocket,
he scrawled out a message
(it was benign, but it made him feel better to say it).
Then he spit the wad of gum in his mouth
into his hand and separated it into fourths--
one for each corner--
and pressed the note onto the black-painted pole.
That'd show 'em.
Certain people ought to know he was pissed off, after all.
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I do not hate you,
not since I grew up.
And that was just a short while ago.
When a little child
I hated no one.
I had not been taught to do so,
but time had its way,
worked its toll,
because I saw
others
do so.
And I saw
what caused them to do so.
They hated
not because
others were just plain hatable
but mostly because they
were different.
It takes more time to see
others are no more different
than you are.
It takes time for a plant
to grow as I
and hate grew, but
it takes a moment,
an epiphany to cause
a blossom to open
overnight
or even more quickly,
like a poem.
A curious plant is hate,
because it stays hidden
until it blossoms, and you
can see how ugly it is.
Aren't you glad to have
an epiphany? To find forgiving,
when it blossoms, to find
acceptance and understanding
do not smell.
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