Outside the town past the railroad
where the white mustard grows
A killdeer calls over a woman’s wails
And dusk retreats its way to night
In darkness the place is visited
by an entourage of boys black like ravens
carrying a limp grief to sew
they spend the dark hours crying
it into the ground and leave
the soil swollen marked by its barrenness
walking with the rising sun on dawning
sadness the boys make their way
back to town and through its center
to the house…
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Above the clouds is the space for restless minds,
And after each beat of their wings, you kiss me.
Pearls fall from our mouths when we breathe.
But the day you left was not yesterday –
The ice-cream-scoop hollow in the back of my throat remains,
Or so I tell myself, to exist.
In my fingertips, there is a fire.
Has it never scorched you, lying in your bare skin between my knees?
You smile, and in the corners of your mouth rests every wanton promise.
The air carries a scent of lemon;
The soap you used in my apartment sits heavy in my mind.
Wherever I walk, the grass turns to ash and drifts away.
Only in the rain, now, is there a hand against my cheek,
When ripples still lace together across the surface of the lake
And from the stars, I turn my face to the side.…
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i)
it looks, at first,
like a place we’ve been before,
that stray silence
where things unravel
and we begin,
shaky breaths and cautious
hands negotiating space,
souls spilling onto the floor,
making the carpet moist.
ii)
we move to the rhythm of
each other delicately,
careful to avoid eye-contact.
we convince ourselves
a glimpse of the unknown
would be the last thing
to save a life. go on
closing your eyes, darling,
walk into bright rooms with
the blindfold on.…
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Along the path I stop and smile,
to sit awhile among the trees,
and see the air and ground agree,
no argument beneath the sky,
is why I stop to sit awhile,
Along the path I feel the shade,
to fade into a distant glow,
and show just what the day has sown,
warnings of a peppered sky,
is why I stop to sit awhile,
Along the path I stay to dream,
believing I have ransomed grace,
alone to face the night’s embrace,
sheltered under sunless sky,
is why I stop to sit awhile,
Along the path is respite calm,
leisured on the days unrest,
investing in the silence kept,
muted stars in quiet skies,
is why I stop to sit awhile,
Along the path I talk to God,
applauding what He’s given me,
in meanings of the truth we seek,
solemn whispers to the sky,
is why I stop to sit awhile,
– Dan Lucas
Author’s Note: People have a tendency to have stronger reactions when taken out of their comfort zone.…
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While buying groceries
at HEB. Sometimes I stand
and stare too long at
all the chocolate,
so many choices,
the Reese’s Pieces,
peanut butter package stained
with blood, shaking
hand reaching.
This continuous climb
into Everest explosions
after that mortar
landed, each IED
that implodes another
memory. Each mortar
fragment that cuts into
Alicia. Sharpened shrapnel
slices flesh. Jagged pieces
of her, fragments
of me breaking
a decade later. Another
memory slips on loose
rocks, falls further
into desert sand
below, unravels and disappears.
I hike higher, reaching
closer to the Reese’s,
but dig deeper into
my own sand grave.
– James Deitz
Author’s Note: 22 veterans commit suicide everyday (VA 2016). 22 EVERYDAY. Hopefully, through awareness, support, and poetry, this tragic statistic will decrease.…
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I could not sleep in the hotel next to steppes.
The star of hope revealed the midnight
I heard sounds behind the wall.
I knocked on the wall for the first time.
Someone said: Be a dreamer!
I knocked on the wall for the second time.
The gentle voice said: Be a red romantic!
I knocked on the yellow wall for the third time.
The mysterious door opened in the wall.
And the blue Erl-king appeared.
He was romantic and dreamy – a gentleman
I spoke to him.
As a bird, the Erl-king took me on wings,
so that i could look at different walls.
The first wall, black, was the Berlin Wall.
I saw the ghosts of people who fell here.
They were drunken of the poetry of hope.…
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In her dream
she dips her fingers,
languid, in the river
that flows, liquid silver,
by the window
of the fourth floor
without entering the decorative
wrought iron that adorns
the sky.
She understands,
the ineffable,
the improbable and the inexplicable
nature of this moment
and she smiles, mischievous smile,
at the radiant people
who lazily pass
armed with oars
and bathing suits
striped by the sun.
With delight
she contemplates the lucky
parade, joyful multitude
and she remembers
another encounter
with friends
on a train with broken
floorboards
through which wild
flowers exploded jubilant.
And, upon waking,
she discovers
Rome painted
by the daily beauty
of bread and circus.
– Amy Nocton…
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