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 Sep 2016 jane taylor
Graff1980
I believe that the world is blind
Must be ******* blind
Because the horror images
Are so easy to find
You can see the sick disgusting
Blood and gore
Results of war
So ******* better be blind

I belief that the world is deaf
Must be ******* deaf
Because the voices are there
Strangers crying
Brothers plying better poetic wares
Screaming out you better beware
Poetically, comedicly, musically
You have got to be kidding me
When you say you do not hear

I believe this world is *******
Must be ******* *******
Change is overdue
And we cannot undue
The climate calamity
The span of our inhumanity
How the pain spreads
Like bubonic plague
While you walk
Your blue bonnet *** away
Oblivious

I believe in you
Has to be you
You have to choose
Because I can’t do it for you
Perhaps you can see beyond me
Look beyond my fatalism
My sad and painful cynicism
You can’t be worse then I once believed
Maybe you can be better
 Sep 2016 jane taylor
Autumn Rose
The brown leaves
that shiver on the
bare branches greet
the last rays of gold
as the sun goes down.
A melody rises over
that velvet, shade of
fading green.
Bells of the indifferent
wind chime, for I am led
to a miracle of ancient
mother.
How beautiful...
A rose that grows waywardly
from within autumn's woods.
Spirits delighted to see the
rose that will not die, her red
petals shame my lips while
drooped sisters weep bitterly.
And in my garden, exquisite
fragrance,
Old memories,so sweet,
despite the thorns.
Illusions of the happiness of
the asleep and the dead...
Yesterday evening as i was walking through the forest, i saw a gorgeous red rose in front of an old abandoned house that still has not drooped...
 Sep 2016 jane taylor
mickaela
The spark you said you saw
(Within me)
Is smothered, smudged and smeared
On your sheets
The sheer shadows are shaded
And I bleed
Bitter black, bleak
Ink

The spark you saw has swam
In their sea
Of sweet, swollen, stolen
Beauty
(Their art is all I hope mine to be)
Brave, Beautiful, Brilliant

Ink

If my spark could be
A raging flame
If my flame could be
Beautiful pain
You’d read my dread
And understand
The sparks (Infernos)
in my head

Sprouting from my hands
When I wrote this poem, I was feeling very inadequate. No matter what talent you have, there seems to always be someone who is better than you at it. Despite the suggestion of writing in the poem, I wrote this with drawing in mind. I always inevitably fall into jealousy whenever I see an artpiece that I prefer over mine. Why can't I draw like that? HOW did they do this? Will I ever draw like this?
Then the wise one within me speaks a little louder:
"Maybe. Maybe not. Who cares? Why do I want to have someone else's style anyway? Why should I envy anyone? Why bitter jealousy, and not admiration? Why inadequacy, and not inspiration? And I KNOW that those same persons have felt inadequate before."

Thanks for reading <3
 Sep 2016 jane taylor
mickaela
Cradled,
in the warm comfort of her love,
her baby smiles.

She smiles too
and something under her heart's stony grave
shifts.

Precious,
yet more priceless than her own life,
she'd sacrifice everything.

For this child
is now everything to her
eyes

"He looks like his daddy"
Those ugly words.
Symbols of a hated life.
Hated by her mother.
And her too.


She'll live it for her baby.
She'd go to hell for her baby.
She wants heaven for her baby.


"He looks like his daddy"
Ugly, ugly words.
Nothing but bitter, rotten,

lies.

Precious,
she smiles at the world in her hands,
in her arms,
She never had something so good before.
So ugly, like his daddy.


She turns from the eyes.
His eyes.
So harsh on her shivering, sweaty skin.
******* her to the bone.
That smile.
Drool dripping from the lips.
Of that chasm of knives
And lies.


"Yes, daddy loves you"

A dog on her body.
Invading her system.
Her skeleton tied.
To his bed.
And her life.


"He looks like his daddy".
His daddy, her daddy.
Her son, his son, her brother.
His mother, her mother, his life, her life, his smile his smile his smile.
His smile.

Not his smile.

Precious. Priceless. Her world. Her life.
Not him.
Never him.

She smiles.
I watched 'Precious' for the first time a while back. That is all.
Wait, no, not all. For all the precious girls out there, I want you to know that you are called precious, beautiful and important for a reason. Never forget.
Thanks for reading <3
 Sep 2016 jane taylor
Joel M Frye
why a poet?
because a poet
hears the words
which sing the
purest harmonies
because a poet
paints their portraits
in pastels
of phrases
because a poet
dances their agonies
into leaps of faith
and pirouettes
of passion
because a poet
sees
the beauty
in the commonplace
and captures
the moment
in a snapshot
of ink and white
because a bloodless world
cuts itself
a thousand times

and the poet bleeds
For my friends here and around the world on World Poetry Day.
Only four of us today
We can have some tea and don't have to pay

Poems are ready to display
Who will start to read today

Poems on love, poems on war
Poems on strangers at the door

Minds are working oh so fast
From the first poem to the last

We put them up on a screen
Where all our poems can be seen
 Sep 2016 jane taylor
Doug Potter
It is hard to say father;
the thought of you stumbles through me when I see
a Gerber baby food jar or a wooden pop crate.
Once you came to mind when I saw a Polish flag
on TV; that is humorous because
the only Pole I know is a pale man at the gym
whose left eye is shaped like a rotten pear.
Do you still burn your fingers when you
fall asleep smoking in a recliner?  I hope
you still do not trim your fingernails while
sitting on the toilet stool; that seems so un-American.
Today is your eighty-fourth birthday;
I hope wherever you are you do not think of me.
"Lost in a thought.
Will it be tonight's dream?
A day dream has no images,
it's just a stare in the air.
The mind wonders of all past places.
Things of so much importance as
your thought races.
Will you visit me while i sleep, possibly
1:26 AM?
It's also tomorrow's date.
The day of your Birthday once again.
My thought, and dream will be complete, only
if you come to me, blowing out your candles on
the cake full of sweets."
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