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 May 2018
Tony Luxton
They call it still life. All
as still as death. Perhaps
the painter's hand was also stilled
in contemplation, rapt, fulfilled.

Glum fish, lolling pheasants,
bread and cheese, garlic, cherries,
apples, oranges, lemons,
but it's the light that pleases.

Ravelling, revealing vision,
casting shadows, changing shapes,
glinting glasses, devilling detail,
the time warp of the stopped clock.
 Apr 2018
Adele
The tip of this pen
where the ink drips
has been sketching words
of your face,
the smile, the soft touch of your hand,
the words you whispered
that made my day


also the drip made a mess
when I sat frozen
trying not to draw
the tears you gave
and the promises that never came

but I finished a masterpiece.
 Apr 2018
Adele
men wept in the drought of dark chasm
queue to damnation
the irresponsibility of the authority
in the trades of recession
selling apples a day
kept the people away
sailing across the Atlantic
trying to find ways
entering a new land,
portals don’t welcome new immigrants

He should have stayed in Brooklyn
but what was the difference
slums of Limerick
Hoovervilles or shantytowns

There were no jobs
million voiceless throng
hidden in the record
There must be crime

Starvation and disease
lack of medical facility
yet alcoholism
and wiping shillings
was famous in the pub

Future, pay heed
to the dark horrors
of the past
that brought light
to this present
the flag of history stays with the present. It has always been here and it is important to wave them in significance in remembering what we have today.
My parallel would not be you
Voice/soul/essence of soil
That I sink my feet into eagerly
For its coolness
Against the stones littered tarmac

A strange sight; behold!
Straying far from home ; a luxury unaffordable
Not worth the ruin, not right the game
Chance gambles a shame to the sweetness
You exhale; my heart wanes

Candy forever out of reach; my lips quiver
Succulence so overwhelming I stagger; err
Before remembering its not my place to destroy
What has yet to be tarnished by his demons

Let it slip slip away
My dreams they await
A haven to gaze and delight
Diluted goods never felt better.
3 Am rambles
 Apr 2018
Melissa S
Some days I do not
want to wake up
the day just seems darker somehow
There is no particular reason
I am feeling down
I just am...

I have been trying to come up
with some explanation and cannot
maybe I am just tired
maybe I am PMSing
maybe I just need to get some

Whatever the reason
It is not like I can just snap
my fingers and get it over it
Like some people close
to me have suggested

What I really need
is someone to pull me
into their computer out there
and hug me and don't let me go
I want to stay for a bit with you
until I am not feeling so blue
 Apr 2018
r
I visualize you
who I will never know,
Constant Stranger
I call you, I imagine
you when I write
and to think, you
will never know me
like the few who
I am close to, those
who say: I don't
understand what you
are talking about,
but I know what you
mean...you know
there is no other poet
on earth like me
and I know there is
no other poem in the uni-
verse just like you
and every two folks
have there own way
of loving, the poet
and the poem know
what they like, like
the kind that takes us
into different and strange
countries until we realize
at midnight, we are alone,
you and I, Constant Stranger,
anonymous mates whose love
can never be consummated.
This poem speaks of love between the poet and the poem not yet written, but wanted in the way we find ourselves wanting that anonymous, perfect lover somewhere out there in the uni-
verse.  Or something like that.  You may not understand what I'm saying, but I hope you know what I mean, Constant Strangers, poets and poems all, friends in our uni-verse, write me that perfect pome.
 Apr 2018
Nat Lipstadt
~one more for the r man~

almost Monday
and its weighty five day oppressive lead poisoning on the horizon,
is but a thirsty thirty six minutes away from its fortified Sumter, first shot to be fired at midnight, how we love to mark the commencement of hostilities and killing

but I am already wounded, a casualty of having spent evening with pleading, pleasing timer eating, reading of your work,
r

the sounds of inestimable admiration and infectious jealousy
make this old man eager to discard a lifetimes work and
begin fresh, but only as a copyist of you,
r

I know you’re thinking "what in the hell is he blubbering about?"

so I willingly will my confessional offering in the dark of the
holy bedroom; for you make me eat my words, and
spit them out as wastage, in dumbfounding humility

god you and yours, make me frail and blessed that I stumbled
upon your abbreviations of the human life,
r

shut up and accept my three r’s
reading ‘riting and rising
up to sing hymns of praise
for a man with a historical perspective and
whose few occasionals
are carved in the granite bench
of what makes my life
worthy of load bearing;

more than bearable,
all are soul-enlightened by
baring our humility, our admiration

11:24pm 4/15/18
nyc
read the poet r;
and
https://artsofthought.com/2018/04/17/inside-a-poets-mind-an-interview-with-poet-and-archeologist-rick-r-richardson/
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