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  May 2017 Hannah Jones
Megan Sherman
I went with haste - to chapel of Peace,
Pity - prayer - hid in my Heart,
Fluent in tongues - of Love,
Words - magic darts,

Filled with seraphim - singing,
Filled with light of the Lord,
Golden, singing cherubim - fly,
Irresistible - to adore.
  May 2017 Hannah Jones
nivek
Flabber-me -ghasted
and spelling mistakes
go to make up
one hell-uv-a-day.
Hannah Jones May 2017
I had a dream once
You were driving, your last love in the front seat.
I sat in the middle.
Your hair looked different.
Suddenly you met across the armrests
and I had to watch as you kissed passionately,
speeding down the interstate,
totally engrossed in her lips.
I woke up:
chest pounding,
face flushed,
heartbroken.
But it wasn't real.

I had a dream once
We were in a room with a congregation
They began to pray for a fallen Knight
who passed away two years ago.
I bowed my head.
Suddenly I felt your hand on mine.
Your head was low,
you didn't look at me,
but you grasped me like a lifeline.
I placed my hand on top of yours,
and you covered that one as well,
more relaxed but still distraught.
We held each other.
We prayed together.
I woke up:
chest pounding,
face flushed,
heart swelling.
But it wasn't real.
Written whilst getting over an unrequited love. Based on two dreams I've had about the same man, who recently got the haircut described in the first stanza. Needless to say, I pray the rest of that dream doesn't come true.
In summer in the country
the married buzzards wheel and flow
on languid wings,
surveilling every inch of the earth below
for unwary prey.

The sun tracks dawn to night
over heat scorched land,
ripening the grains and drying the hay,
whilst in dense city living,
the park tree-leaves rustle
in summer symphony and
sandlot infants scream and play,
their mothers watching every move,
no suntime siesta now and here.

And in dense packed city blocks
mi casa es non su casa,
open windows leak sound,
and the smell of someone’s mother’s cooking
is treif at another table.
In grander houses the front lawns
now water-lack died-back brown,
evidence of greener days gone past,
wait for the fall's forgiving.

And yet and still
in the mellow evenings
neighbors talk to neighbors
friendly asides,
jokes,
politesses,
the leavenings
that let us live together
till the cool comes
and the windows and the doors shut.
We too hibernate till spring.
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