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 Aug 2018
everly
My therapist said this week
I need to go outside and stop writing poetry for once.

So I went out to my backyard and looked at all the rotted juneberries that have fallen from the neighbors tree onto our concrete garden.
I stared at it for a while
Wondering how many bugs have crawled over it.
And if they knew that these berries would fall only in June.
If they get excited when they bring it to their families.
The thought was fleeting so
I sat on the ground and looked up at the neighbors house across from ours.

Mom told me that since she was little girl
He’d always look in.
Still does.
Plops a chair in the front of the window and just watches,
Not only us of course,
That would be like,
Weird I guess.

It got really hot after a while so
I got near our wilting butterfly tree
And dug a hole slowly thought the dirt
Until I got tired and decided to go inside
And give my neighbor a break of such a sight to see.
not entirely real
 Aug 2018
Nigel Finn
This is how you write a poem;
First; forget everything
You ever learnt about poems,

                                Such knowledge should be reserved
                                For the minds of critics, and
                                Professors in dusty halls

                                                          ­­           Of universities, where
                                                           ­          They are dissected and re-
                                                             ­        Constructed against their will.

Second; embroil yourself in
Love; it is the only thing
That poetry is born from.

                            Even the saddest songs, and
                            Most bitter lines, are fueled
                            By what we once loved. Loss is

                                                            J­­ust a love that has been lost
                                                            ­­And anger; a love scorned. All
                                                            y­­our words will be born this way.

Thirdly; find a quiet spot;
It doesn't matter much where
As long as it brings comfort,

                             Be it an old desk in a
                             Darkened room, or a field of
                             tall Sunflowers or bluebells,

                                                     ­ ­       Or the last place you saw a
                                                             Loved one, before fate swept them
                                                            ­­ Away to distant valleys.

Next you must make a promise to
Yourself to be brutally
Honest. Only the truth must

                              Be written here. There is no
                              Room for flowery words that
                              Must be thought over to much.

                                                          ­­   If it is true it will be
                                                             Beautiful, and your pen strokes
                                                         ­    Will guide you towards greatness.

Finally, you must hold your
Writing implement of choice
As if it were the most loved

                                 Of possesions, or mighty
                                 Of weapons, or a  child's hand.
                                 I cannot tell you which

                                                          ­­ But you will undoubtedly
                                                     ­      Know which when the time comes. It
                                                           Will strike you as obvious.

Upon following these steps
You will have become a
poet. From now on there

                                Is no turning back. It will
                                Consume you, and thoughts will take
                                You by surprise in lover's

                                                        ­­  Embraces, in sudden deaths,
                                                         ­ Bird songs, and the words of of those
                                                          Y­­ou once thought to be strangers.

Each word will be a gift to
The world, whilst remaining un-
doubtedly yours to own.

                                        Use your power wisely.
                                        Remember; without love
                                        Your poems will start to

                                                             ­        Fall into disrepair
                                                       ­              And, without them you will
                                                            ­­         Lose your capacity to care.

I wish you well.
                                    I wish you poetry.
                                                         ­      ­           I wish you love.
I'm planning on giving this one a rewrite, but I rarely get around to doing such things. I'm posting it mostly as a reminder to myself that I set out to do something. There's a good chance it will remain unfinished though.
 Jul 2018
Polar
When life feels suspended by a delicate thread
Change is inevitable
I sometimes feel stifled
Tightly constricted
Like a chrysalis
Struggling against transformation
I oppose the transition
And need more time to adapt
Today
A butterfly tapped against my window
Like change asking to come in
If I can comply with Grace
Maybe I too can transcend
And withstand the butterfly effect
 Jul 2018
Traveler
Pawns, expendable pawns
Black and white squares, we move upon
Dreams, lost in a garden of dreams
Invisible hands guide our teams

Heaven bound angels we turn
Fall to the ground we burn
Run, run to the mountain of lies
Our righteousness is our disguise

Devastation and heartache, our path
The unavoidable crash, karmic wrath
Yet somehow we find love in vain
In one brief moment we leave our stain

Truth revealed in fever dreams
Guilty feelings waking hours bring
What does it mean we ask ourselves
Storing hope upon dusty shelves

In the silence between our laughter
I have heard the voice of stars
Deities banished to wayward heavens
Sentenced to observe us from afar

Behold the whispers that makes us dream
Countless eyes that see everything
Forbidden to touch, to reach and feel
Enviously awaiting with intention revealed
Traveler Tim
 Jul 2018
Polar
He
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.
 Jul 2018
Polar
In the stillness of the dark
I sit,
And outside my window
The night holds many possibilities.
People move within the shadows
Barely visible to the naked eye
Living shadow lives alongside my own.

Do we dream together?
And will love survive death?

I see you
In different times
Living different lives
And myself as a shadow
Living my own shadow life.
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