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 Aug 2018 MicMag
Donall Dempsey
TURN OF THE CENTURY

Bright yellow flower
dazed...standing in a vase

tries to remember

a blueness of sky...lost now
beyond the great window pane.

Tries to remember
a joy of sweet falling rain

lost now on the glass

& yet...the memory of it
persists...pursues it...& yet

tries to remember
the pleasure in being a seed

roots reaching into
a sheer richness of darkness

& its opening into sun

tries...remembers the
playfulness of butterflies

clouds chasing a cloud
winds scattering tiny stars

across the beauty of a night

tries &...remembers
the wonder of a bird’s song

the sun forever
almost just...just...out of reach

the sudden silence
after the storm is gone and...and

flower bows its head.

The new young maid is scolded
for not changing the vase.
 Aug 2018 MicMag
dandelionfine
you apologize
but your angry, loud footprints
stay stained on the floor
(aunt that title niece – ???
in this context pronounced nice)

Well...hm...I really did not wanna
     let the cat out of the bag,
     and souffle, parfeit, forfeit, et cetera face
     book (waving) applause,
no...no...no...,not
     so mooch the fear of a
     dramatic plummet in popularity
     boot rather because

grabbing a tiger by the tail,
     where sharp razor like claws
will disable me to write
     any deplorable contrite ****** clause,
(certainly comes across as more
     dramatic and draws
immediate attention
     versus describing carefully

     reaching into a sack dangling
     feline treat in hand), where faux pas...
hens, this chap did not
     wanna play chicken,
     thus generally he opts
     tabby Tommie (chivalrously ****
sure gunning and figuratively
     ****** hill whipping sluggishly)

     if need be resorting
     to being the dock
tour Frankenstein of hyperbole creating
     an outrageously monstrously
     "FAKE" er...ad hoc
and let the poetic shenanigans rip
     riding on Lone Ranger as ****
key guiding a pretend winged Pegasus

     shouting "Hi-**, Silver" until...lock
jaw sets in forcing me to transition
     into emulation mock
apple pie de core'm
     imaginatively strutting pompously
     with fanfare and a shock
absorber of motley crue depeche mode
     with vanilla ice...SCREAM,
    
     (oh my dog)
     a HUMUNGOUS MOLTEN rock
iz gonna knock me
     upside the head
     (as if any body would notice)
      any difference in ma schlock
key, schmaltzy, and
     scholarly (ha) zany appeal

(yeah..yeah...yeah...
     wishful thinking) doth congeal
well...essentially aye may feel
absolutely awful (methinks I contracted
     gnome mo' money
     knee feverish blues)
actually, ah haint goot any
     handy dandy spongebob

     squarepants squidward clues
how ma zanily uncanny,
     and quirky brain flues
spew out such...
     gibberish, which attempts
     to be ja panned off as
     highly lauded literary endeavor
twitchy versatile rhyme

     without a reason open
     to interpretations, sans
     many words for snow or igloos
Eskimos own (well...mebbe not of late,
     what with global warming),

     ah cold old news
as opposed to deciphering
     these enigmatic wordy rues
a signature trademark of
      my swiftly styled
     harried tailored alphabetic schmooze!
 Aug 2018 MicMag
Mike Hauser
First off my friend
Let me begin
By saying I ain't no poet
Just a fool with a pen

Now with those pleasantries
Out of the way
Let me proceed to say
What I need to say

I've written different poems
On different subjects, different matters
Some soft as a kitten
Others mad as a hatter

Every now and then
I stand on the serious ledge
But more often than not
I fall right off the edge

Like I said before
I'm just a fool with a pen
Drooling from my smile
Cross eyed in my grin

Separating in rhyme
All the boys from the men
Cackling in crazy
From beginning to end

Thanking my lucky stars
Rhyming comes so easy
Like a trip to Venus or Mars
Half baked brain and over queasy

Like I said before
When all of this began
I really ain't no poet
Just a fool with a pen
 Aug 2018 MicMag
Dawn Bunker
Cat got your tongue?
Now wouldn't that hurt!
Let's go for a spin,
and dig up some dirt.
Am I faster then lightning?
Slow as homemade soup?
Is it raining cat's and dog's?
Think I'll fly the coop.
Do we really give a ****
for the price of tea in China?
If the eye is truly black,
then why is it a shina?
Why bore the lad with lectures,
just give him birds and bees.
No need to work for money,
it's growing on the trees.
What's exactly up your sleeve?
Up the creek with no paddle?
If I'm so high upon my horse,
then how do I sit on the saddle?
Thanks, dear friend, for stopping by,
it seems the time just flew!
Think I need to wrap this up,
which leaves me feeling blue.
 Aug 2018 MicMag
Jayantee Khare

A fine play
of the
clay
soft
and sift
moistened
turns malleable
gathered and made
to spin on a slow wheel
formed with shaping hands
baked at a high temperature
comes out a beautiful craft
and both of 'em are ready
an urn from the pottery
and  the  poetry!!


Another shape poem......trying the analogy between poems and vases
 Aug 2018 MicMag
Ciel Noir
Oak
 Aug 2018 MicMag
Ciel Noir
Oak
does a tree care if you cut it down
to make a house
                a hundred books
                a boat
                a crib
                a trebuchet
                a bow and arrow
if you dig it up to build a street
                                          a church
                                          a home
                                          a mall
                                          a wall
                                          a well
                                          a garden
If you burn it to the ground
                                     for fun
                                   for spite
                              by accident
                         to stop the fire
                      to **** the dryad



all it thinks about is Sun
                             and Earth
                             and dirt
                             and rain
                             and bud
                             and root
                             and wood
                             and leaf
                             and acorn
would that there were
more of these thoughts
 Aug 2018 MicMag
Dominique
Honey and lies
Pour from your eyes,
Strip off your skin
And try ours on for size.
If it fits, let it sit,
Let it settle down,
Then wipe off the dirt
And watch us all drown.

Oh, how hard to be trapped underground
Don't make a sound 'cause there's people around
And they don't want to lick our wrists clean
We drink up our syrup
And don't make a scene

Candy canes and you win alone
Sugar glaze and a mind of stone
Sweeter days and you send the rats out
To whittle us down to the bone

Lavender skies
And existing to die
Another world crumbles
And the internet cries
And it fits, doesn't it,
With the human frame?
We learn
We advance
We remain the same.

Oh, how hard to be watching them burn
A crisis returns and the leading man earns
And babies bawl and the gun shots are dire
But we get a thrill from fearing the fire

Candy canes and we choke alone
Sugar glazes and stomachs of stone
Sweeter lies and apathy comes
To whittle us down to the bone.
I'm not really sure what this is
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