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I dream this day

Can dreams o'er take the wake of day

Or sands that shift the beach astray 

The shells of time stand still to say

The day is here now to play.

 

I stroll upon the path and say

The sounds of summer at the bay

This is the time of frolic may

A sound of sea and salty spray.

 

The birds they dance aloft the bay 

And wakes while blues crash in dismay 

The smell of oceans balm is splayed

Upon my face and skin as I lay.

 

I dream of this unfettered play 

On sand and shell and breezy may

I once again do dream on pillow nay

For I'm not there to love this day.

 

 

- Trish 2013 

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A Printed Work of Art

 

His hyacinth head made my sugar-coated stupor spin
Paired and grin with silver-eyed vapor evaporating thin
My sensitive daguerreotype that exposes long dark surfaced angles
Rubbing off thin and fragile with copper spoils and a truth that bangles
in the bottom of my weathered basin that filters out gold and sin.

Acknowledging the things you know to be true takes no time at all
Watching the curve of your arm against sauvignon-blanc fall
And the bartender coming back is in all a blur, focusing in on your words
I'm trying to believe there is something to feel at all while a man with
a brown mug in front of me sees my drink order grow tall.

We bloomed and dinned and moved very slow against the night
Falling in below red mercury stomps, trodden through rain with frozen train
horns in the distance. You spilled the words that one often marks in
solidification in existence. And I couldn't say it back,
two mirrored photographs, taken on the same day. I don't ever want
to stay this way, in your ideal city. What is happening here is a dark
cornered alleyway in a Cherry Hill stay.

Floating on like search lights on a black ocean our patience tested
the true thick coils of devotion. Glowing on and off, slow swirling motion.
I leaned back hard into your car of disaster, waiting for the blinking lights
to appear, to carry me back home from our crystal picnic.
A long lashed downfall of my eye marked the minute when you
button close- the cuff of your sleeve and shifted in your seat to get up and leave.

You are a million faded photographs, a beautiful quiet adventure going nowhere
A transfer of ink to a paper sheet, the lithograph of my theoretic soul
I am engraved, etched and stippled into the surface of your skin but my
doubts of love shall paralyze the work of art within.

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Antiquity / Disconnect

Tracing-paper icons,
      warm absences in carbon
Instilled with surplus hope
      in the atom between here and there

This is a grip; momentary
      image of togertherness uncovered,
  semi-forgotten, beneath decrepitude
     and internalised promises

Ecstatic assertions,
      captured, grow elusive
Semaphored staccato hours
      degrade, composite loss

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how to become a Published Poet

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Here I Dreamt

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