Burning at the very gates of Heaven,
The raging flames of Hell engulf
What two wars and the plague
Could never ****.

Brought down by a careless worker
Who must learn to live
With what he’s caused,
While a city falls down to its knees.

Precious Paris, you wept with us
When the Twin Towers fell, so now
We reach out for your trembling hand
In comfort and in sorrow shared.
                            LJM

Cher once said that men were like a dessert
Luxurious but not a necessity

The man I loved was difficult
He was artificial
He never really saw me as a person
I was an item
An accessory
A thing he could wear for five minutes
When he grew tired of me
He would throw me to the side

Cher said
Men should be like Kleenex, soft, strong and disposable.

In my rage I agree with her
He should have been disposable
Yet I couldn't breathe without him
It was like he attached himself to my heart
And when he left he ripped it from my chest
Leaving me hollow

Cher taught me to be independent
Cher taught me to take my strength and love and invest it in something worth more than a man.
Thank god for Cher

Her green eyes are blue
Pools of tears, from some strange force
Just one smile would do

The cygnet scorns the swan
And swims in ever wider circles.
Downstream roars the waterfall
And overhead a falcon swoops.
             ljm

My shelves and desks
they are full of pencils
of varied origins
some unknown

How did they arrive?
I have not been to all
Mysterious Arrivals
from unknown places

But they are here and there
blacks, blues
yellows, reds
even some of indefinable colors

All write well
good pencils
And it's funny
Well, I do not write

We are in a sad state. The fires never wane and the smoke left to choke us, in our sleep, are out of control, suffocating. She was bleeding, wrestling with karma and the boogie man. Both are human, afterall; you can tell by all their naughty vices.

Letting his virtues go astray,

Bob

He speaks the language of flowers
Quietly toiling in his garden
Digging, raking and smoothing soil,
Gently coaxing nature to match his vision.
He knows the bees, spiders, beetles, worms and earwigs
Regarding them as friends.
He follows seasons, moon and stars
As others do people
Enthralled at the changes they bring.
He listens as the birds sing
Watching with joy as
Fledgling take wing.

It’s a short walk from here
to Sneads Ferry Cemetery where
the bored to death are buried -
I go there every now and then
and read to them a poem by Lorca
the fortunate who died so young -
bled beneath an olive tree, a fascist
bullet to the head, no pain, I envy that
his fast demise, no boredom -
or surgeon’s knife to try to slice
away the little flowers of the grave
I would take his bullet any day -
before I’m bored, before the blade
before I claim a plot, or take up space
here in this ******* boring place.