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A Robin's Tune That Soothed the Old Man's Soul – A Poem by Tim S.

Here, where trees and foliage meet;
Where rippled waters glide,
A robin’s joyous tree top song
Has stilled my metered stride.

He serenades his melodies
In songs no man can phrase,
Ensnaring thus my dreary soul
To listen to his praise.

Could it be, his whistling tune
Reflects a sad unrest?
For one departed- from this earth–
Interred in heaven’s nest?

The answer fades, for I must go,
I’m feeling winter’s greet.
The sound of snow upon the ground
Mimics kitten’s feet.

Till spring has come, I’m sure I’ll miss
His ballads through the glen.
But when the white grass turns to green
I’m sure we’ll meet again.

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Contentment – A Poem by Shelley Nutting

I have nothing to do.
No pressing engagement.
A house empty of all,
save the freshly laundered duvet
that invites me
to partake of its
fragrant comfort.
I curl, cat like,
basking in a pool of
liquid warmth that seeps
lazily through the window,
bathing the room
in orange glow.

Oh to spend a life time here,
wrapped in such sweet embrace.

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The Rhino Skin – A Poem by P.K. Deb

I wrapped myself with the rhino-skin,
My boss moved around and looked at my wrapper
As an examiner evaluates the examination paper
And suddenly he jumps on me with the pin
Of abusing words of humiliation even to my parents,
But these were painless and stainless bites of ants
To me as I was protected by the rhino-skin.

At my home, I fastened the loop of the rhino-skin
As it was to be tested again for another round
By my family-boss, my wife with terrific verbal sound
On her every demand and suspect to demean
My dedication to family and aggravate her role,
But I was calm with no retaliation at all
As I had covered myself with the rhino-skin.

Routine wise, I put off my rhino-skin
And reached to my evening destination with common attire
Where I met with my friends — the hunts of satire,
We are instigated by one another to convene
A party where we drank in the name of our bad luck
And wept to washout the bitterness, we had to suck
But at last we could smile and dance as we had no rhino-skin.

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The Lost Cause Of The Progenial Mundane – A Poem by Richard William Kirkpatrick-Thorne

The Lost Son Burned For Hundreds Of Kilometers,
An Only Engine ACross The Spark-Jetting Track,
Silver-Bullet Cometing On InterContinental Iron,
UnDieing Steel Smashing InTo The Thin Air Shields Of Buffoons…

Those Gods Armed With Blowing Horns And UnUberance Universal,
Some Drifting On Prairie Fumes And Trade Winds,
Latching UpOn The Wild Grasses By The EndLess Stretch Of Rail…

Some Of Those Gods Would Find A Method To Siphon The Anchorage
From AnyThing Rolling OnThrough To Stop And ReFuel,
Then Latch OnTo The Speed Like HagFish On Oxen-Carnival Bleeders,
Recedeing In Their Morbid Weenings To Secret BoneYards…

Where All Would DisEmbark From The SoulLess Molting,
Cackleing As Cross-Eyed Ravenous InTo The Circleing Gutted Skys…


They Could Pose Once Again By The Station,
BetWixt The Legs And Feet And Luggage,
Hugging Against What Life May Be In Exposure To Calming Promises,
AWaiting For ShoeLaces To Be ReTied And Ears To Nibble And Coy…

The Buffoons Saw The Lost Son As A Challenge For Blood-Letting,
For Lost Causes To Eat AWay At The Prodigal Drive,
PreTenseion To Swim ASide The Clot From The InGenuity,
Wagering Hoarded TimeShare And Bickering Over First Rights
For The Choice Cuts,
Only To Become Silent As The Engine Could Be Heard…


It Switched The LandScape With A Sudden Cracking Of Seldom-Feared
Thunder,
Tracks Bent Now Straightened… Where Straightened Now Bent,
Hills TransFormed InTo Gullys Swallowing ThemSelves In White-Water,
Bridges Grew InTo DisLocated Forests Only To Settle For Briar-Hearted
Mockerys
To Scratch The Former’s Hand,
And Where Old Air Could Be Trusted… No More… Now Walls Fortified
For Lazy Susans…


It Was Enough To Keep The Gods Guessing…


UnFortunately,
The Buffoons Soon Developed A Trick To Grow InTo Flesh,
Then To Crawl And Not Float,
Then To Walk And Then To Chase,
Then To Stumble When Not Seen… At Times To Tumble, For The Need Of
Sympathy’s Pitch…

All In New Postures,
With New Language And Wearing Silly Buttons Pinned InTo Their
Starch-Stiffs,
They Sought An Easyer Method To Suck InTo Their Guts
That Which The Lost Son Had Sung InTo Deliverance…

A Forgotten Frequency,
With Its Station Never A Station,
Nor Built With Platforms Too Beggar’d For Destinations Not Scheduled,
And Those With Memorys Of It To Be Cursed With Waiting For It To Pull
Them…

Out…

Out From The Roads Where No Tracks Meet,
And No Answers Come To Pass.

More at http://rwkt.blogspot.ca.

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Not for Parents – A Poem by P.K. Deb

At the age of late teen age–
he with his thousands of twin brothers
leaves their paternal village,
sets a journey to unknown destination
hands over their tiny income to parent–
hoping a higher and handsome income
they will earn for their dear parent.

The vehicle- used in their journey,
runs fast as the race of time.
A town stands on their way, stops the vehicle
and checks them box by box with inquisitive eyes,
the face of the town glitters
in the reflection of their
transformation into adulthood.
They receive a higher income
from the blissful town,
Alas! The income is snatched
and pocketed by a stranger
and their parent get a thumb to suck

Again the journey runs for a few hours
until it is stopped by a city–
rich, colossal and handsome.
The same influence of
their enchanting colour and freshness,
the happy city feels good to raise their income
and to be democratic in distribution.
How sad! They and their income
both are shared by many gentlemen–
living in the city while their parent–
the poor villagers get another thumb to suck.

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Shadow Play – A Poem by Shelley Nutting

We have gathered
on the hillside
this Autumn eve,
enjoying the brisk
air that lifts
our spirits,
like kites
soaring and spiralling
in the dying light.

The waning Sun
has carved our
silhouettes
into stick men.
Shadow puppets
performing
an impromptu drama
and
even as we turn
to leave…
we remain

captured

in the artist’s eye
by lens
and whirring shutter.

Immortal image
of shadow
and golden light

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Sentimental Criminal – A Poem by Jaylee Davis

Her guilty fingers
Alcohol that lingers
With a touch as soft as daisies
Her mental strength weak and hazy
A psychotic vixen
Ears that just don’t listen
Now as she sits here and stares in the mirror
The image of her disoriented mind is clearer
She glances down at the knife
Saturated with his blood, they are sure to give her life
But she has no regrets
She takes out her lighter and cigarettes
Inhale the gray clouds
And blow them right through her nose and think about her vows
Till death do us part
They were both dead but one had no heart

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Watching You – A Poem by G. S. Katz

Like to watch you
In the morning
Getting out of bed
Stretching
Nude
Your graceful form
Years of dance classes
The slope of your breasts
Your beautiful neck
The arch of your back
Legs contoured and shaped
It is a thing of beauty
Your grace
And Spirit
Then clothes and coffee
Your special brew
We sip and talk
Then out the door
A quick peck on the lips
You heading North
While I go West
Smiling…

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