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 Jun 10 st64
Arna
“Some people come from nowhere and become family.”
It’s not always blood that builds a bond — sometimes it’s shared laughs, silent support, and showing up when it matters.
 Jun 10 st64
Steve Souza
I wrote four words today.
Just four.

I bleed my hours into them.
Each syllable
I
weigh.

Like lifting stones from a dry riverbed,
turning each
over
and
over,
until one feels just right
in my hand.

Carefully
carving,
studying
and playing
with each one:
  Which catches the light just right?
  Which plays well with the others?
  What are you trying to tell me?

But mostly,
I discard.

Four words.

All my labor for the day--
Just four words.

It was a good day.
(Part of the 'Four Words' collection. The other work is called 'I Read Four Words Today')
 Jun 10 st64
Jamie
Library
 Jun 10 st64
Jamie
a girl with books
wobbling as she tries to balance them
she cant be older than seven

A boy in the adult mystery section
repeating to himself
"I need a boys book not a girls book"

A mother with her two children
following her like ducklings
leaving havoc as they pass

A girl and her mom
reading aloud
in the middle of the cooking isle
I love the library
 Jun 10 st64
eleanor prince
what do you do when...

the edge is being pushed hard
a swollen dam shows its cracks
a river surges to the sandbags
that must never break banks
for boundaries were set  
in solidarity's cement

and the grey matter burns
in uniformed words- stretched
seeing the assailant's oratory
preaching from the podium
in a soliloquy of conceit

you stare at the frames-
pictures sharp recycle
as you smell the lies
that 'you'll breathe
your very last
if you tell'

but how do you defy
you forgot how to cry
you were barely fifteen

what do you do when...

he stands tall, pulls rank
signs off on your life

some days cramp cold-
while seconds drag past
when the faces around you
greet the beast with their smile
and you alone see way beyond
society's accolades, gold medals
may glint, but pull off those tags
to the masked deeds he hides

and the burden remains
compressing your chest
as his body had pressed
bursting into your door
as your broken self fell
to choke as you tore
in his crushing roar

silenced across
the boss's desk
as your candle
flame smokes
as the fissured
walls break

unseen...
 Jun 10 st64
Frenchie
Narcissa
 Jun 10 st64
Frenchie
Oh how beautiful your petals,
how lush your blossom.
Such a tall strong stalk
and wandering tendrils of roots.

No lack of sustenance,
could wilt or wither thy pressence.
The face of your flower demanding the attention of the suns.

Yet beneath your supple color lies
such toxicity known to the few.
You sow the seeds among
neighboring gentle flowers.

Planting their self doubt while
poisoning their colors.
They wilt and die at your feet.
Oh Narcissa, how divine.
 Jun 10 st64
Evan Stephens
When the yellow/green face
of this furnace valley is smudged
with summer's first rain runs

I dream about dad again:
7 years since that hospital bed
in Georgetown where he turned

to wax and I turned to water.
In the dream I was so small,
he took me to his old '80s office,

the tan portable in the field where
everything was cheap wood panels,
thin mouse-brown temp carpet.

He sat me down by his blackboard,
jotted with number theory,
& left to retrieve a book he needed.

I sat among the dry sun and dust
until I realized I was an adult now.
Eventually a man came to the door,

& said "why are you still here?
Your dad died years ago,
& we need the room."
 Jun 10 st64
Anais Vionet
right
 Jun 10 st64
Anais Vionet
We move through the night,
though the streets seem empty,
we look left and right,
electric vehicles are stealthy.

As we exercise stepwise, sunrise happens.
and black night fades its cover.
Like phoresy, painted, pieces of heaven,
the day opens with primary colors—
reds that delight, oranges that tease
and peacocking yellows that leaven.

As the counterfeit rainbow enchants and rouses,
streetlights waver and douse,
lights flicker on in houses,
and the earth blossoms active in borrowed hues.

Morning twinkles with its particular, angular light,
as we enter the still still lobby.
They’ve already set out the coffee!
With a sip, I feel the morning's started right.
.
.
Songs for this:
Day Tripper by MonaLisa Twins
Our Day Will Come by Amy Winehouse
 Jun 8 st64
Scarlet McCall
Locked into place.
Orwell’s boot on our face.
The human tragedy.
The human disgrace.
We slept with the enemy;
accepted his embrace.
“Aren’t things better now?”
they say; and it can’t be denied–
some things are better.
But is the difference so wide?
“Isn’t it enough, what I do for you?
Do I have to be perfect, too?”
No one is perfect. And I have gratitude.
But I’m waiting, still waiting
for one thing from you:
Admit what’s been done,
by your kind (and yes, you)
Don’t pretend to be blind.
Admit what we gave.
And what you received.
Admit what you took.
And how we weren’t believed.
When you bear this witness,
When you testify
We’ll be friends forever,
You and I.
Most men aren't sexist pigs. The problem is that they won't admit other men are.
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