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Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 8/15/2018

Late moon
takes the baton
- offering to the twilight
a bow in sacrifice:
with glow greeting
star aesthetes
- an orchestra of crickets
- eternal poets,
so that songs of love
inspired by the muses
- they would loudly sing
in the thickets.

Wieslaw Musialowski 10/9/2001
Friends, I am asking for your understanding, because all my translations must be proofread and corrected. Poems are hard to translate (even in free verse translations). The original is rhymed. Regards.
Mark Oct 2019
Barnyard ****, just raised a city born, sort of a chick    
Even gave her the surburban name of Sandra Dee Fonda
A pretty slow blonde critter, some even say, short of a tick      
Bred way-down and far-away, ‘bout 70 miles yonder            
Y’all be knowing dat Hick-Hop thang, is what it‘s all about            
While hootin’ and scootin’, never let ya kissin’ cousin, flake out
Hee Haw, said it all, when we were a pickin’ and a grinnin’
Ask Goober, what’s dat ya doin’ and what’s dat ya diggin’?  
 
Perhaps I may yet die, with my boots still placed upon            
Cowards never really stay around here long enough             
To actually become real cowboy shootin’ stuff, my dear            
I say, ‘Hang ‘em first and try ‘em later on’            
My life was always threatened daily            
That’s why, I went out heavily armed, just like an Israeli      
         
I’ve been invited to the Marty Party, along with Brother Brown
But, I thought killing a man, was my one and only, speciality
Even drafted a business proposition, for this exact locality
Since I’ve had the market cornered, in da middle of downtown
From Cornfield, Alabama to Deadwood, South Dakota            
There’s no import or export taxes, so no **** amount of quota
So, me, you and even that Clay Ellison, will be riding a winner
Even after killin’ that Chunk Kolbert, straight after his dinner  
 
Perhaps I may yet die, with my boots still placed upon
Cowards never really stay around here long enough
To actually become real cowboy shootin’ stuff, my dear            
I say, ‘Hang ‘em first and try ‘em later on’            
My life was always threatened daily            
That’s why, I went out heavily armed, just like an Israeli        
           
They’ll be gettin’ da same amount of ice, as Knoxville            
But the rich will be a gettin’ it, in da summertime            
While the poor will be a gettin’ it, in da wintertime            
If I owned Texas & Hell, I’d rent out Texas & live in Hell            
So, don’t ever think about, hittin’ ya mother with a shovel            
It’ll leave a dull impression on her already fragile mind            
I’m not afraid to die, as a brave man fighting shall            
But I wouldn’t wanna be killed, like a dog unarmed, so please be kind            
           
Perhaps I may yet die, with my boots still placed upon
Cowards never really stay around here long enough
To actually become real cowboy shootin’ stuff, my dear            
I say, ‘Hang ‘em first and try ‘em later on’            
My life was always threatened daily            
That’s why, I went out heavily armed, just like an Israeli            
           
I see a good many enemies around me, who will walk            
But notice mighty few friends, that are willing to talk            
They would then, drink right smart            
They could then, scrap right smart            
But, I didn’t come here to talk, I just came here to hang            
Just a peekin’ through, the hour glass thang  
 
Perhaps I may yet die, with my boots still placed upon
Cowards never really stay around here long enough
To actually become real cowboy shootin’ stuff, my dear            
I say, ‘Hang ‘em first and try ‘em later on’            
My life was always threatened daily            
That’s why, I went out heavily armed, just like an Israeli.
lua Sep 2019
the moon writes its poetry for the sun
the sun writes its songs for the moon
they write for each other
because they know that when they meet
it will last only as long as a chaste kiss.
laura Sep 2019
I've never been a huge socializer,
and that's really all,
that people seem to do at football games.
So, why even go?
Well, now that I'm a member of the marching band,
it looks like I have to.
I mean, last night I never really thought that I'd have fun.
I mean, who wants to just go and scream for 3 hours?
I guess I do.
Last night was amazing.
You get to just be yourself,
and you just forget about everything.
You just realize more and more through the game,
that's it's just about having a blast and playing songs,
to keep the team going.
There we were, waving our instruments,
screaming for our team,
and having the time of our lives.
Now, I know for a fact,
that at the end of the season,
I will do anything to go back,
and do it all again...
Last night was the first varsity football game. As a first year marching member I didn't really know what to expect :)
fray narte Aug 2019
There's something about falling in love with shooting stars and REM dreams and library books and strangers in the train, whose eyes meet yours for a split second. There's something about falling in love with petrichors that last for half an hour, with the songs you hear without knowing the title, with paper boats under the rain and CDs with scratches, with that person you spent a 5 am with in a desolate park, talking about life and sadness and life — what even is the difference, without ever knowing their name.

There's a nameless feeling, probably something between resigned and bittersweet, about falling in love with temporary things. Maybe it's knowing that I've lost some things forever. It's knowing that I should always learn to let go — knowing that they won't ever come back.

And so won't you. Darling, at least, losing them didn't hurt.
Pyrrha Aug 2019
I'm trying so hard not to love him
But listening to all the songs he likes
Is making me fall in love harder and faster
Peyton L Aug 2019
There's a dull drumming
a music to all things
and sometimes it seems like I'm the only one who
can hear the rhythm.
Like how the lights radiate vibrato violins
and the lawnmower outside
sings opera.
Or how the crickets at night,
with their apparent music
chirp a lullaby for the Wild Things.

The Wild Things
aren't strictly monsters
made of hoof and horn,
but sometimes they are children
with the soul of a wild horse
or a mountain lion.
Sometimes they are women
who dreams have never been
stuck in twilight.
Sometimes they are men
who wish for something more.

Sometimes they are creatures
with no body. Just a soul incarnated as a central being.
Sometimes the Wild Things aren't really things at all,
but songs and stories told to babes
who wander too far from their mothers
sometimes they are just animals
ones we can't see nor hear nor smell.
Ones we can only imagine in our wildest,
most fruitful dreams.

The Wild Things,
they don't have one place where they all go,
like the stories foretold.
Instead, they have many safe places
lairs and hideaways and crypts and haunts
all around us. Sometimes,
those places
are within us.

The music of the Wild Things.
Not everyone can hear.
Only other Wild Things can listen to it.
And as such,
I have forgotten my duties as a young woman
on an earth full of human pests
and resumed my life as a Wild Thing
with my hideaway as
underneath the clothes in my closet.
I could build a tunnel down through the ground
and connect my crypt
with those of the other Wild Things
so that we may dance and sing our songs together
in a cave beneath the world.
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