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A Report of a Fictional Tragedy

A collapse of columns
around the theatre today
caused the roof to cave in
from unwarranted stress
in the balconies,
pressing down 
with a thousand-watcher-weight.

Ninety dead- more injured;
a small shoe was found,
and a playbill,
which had been folded
into an airplane.

Police records report: the director
had no idea 
that attendance would be so high,
and wishes now,
that they’d spent less time
hanging up posters around town.

Open funerals will be had
within the month;
the building’s chief architect
will attend every one.

The play was a small piece
in which a character sighs,
“oh this grandeur - life”;
the playwright has been notified;
she expressed condolences.

In total, 
actors: four,
stagehands: three,
director: one,
mourners: three raised (two raised three).

The seats were stained
with rubble,
and the idea of a moment
flitted through the isles,
floated away,
to hide in the torn curtains.

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Sunny Side Up

Crumbling up
A piece of paper
I muttered         
All we are is colored vapor

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The Birds Still Sing

 

earlier this morning than other mornings

I woke to rain peppering window panes

water filling street storm drains

dark sky upon a dark world, spilling

birdsong inspired, my soul thrilling

 rain will fall; yet, the birds still sing

 

this eerie dawn, ghostly resurrection

petulant deluge, drenching, dank, and gray

a somber intone for the day

as if my thoughts weren’t dark enough

nasty bits of swirling stuff

rain will fall; yet, the, birds still sing

 

the thought occurred “how can that be”

precariously perched in some oak tree

unspared foul weather, unlike me

yet sing with joy, rapturously

 

while the rain still droned and birdsong choired

from a bank of thoughts obscured in fog

one thought into clear view slogged

how wretched, I, to grouse and mewl

of life unfair, unkind, oft cruel

rain will fall; yet, the birds still sing

 

I’m warm and loved - suburban “nest” is dry

the jalopy starts each day on cue

my old shoes don’t shine, but they will do

if tomorrow comes, it’s a brand new day

these clouds may part; the sun may play

yes, rain will fall; yet, the birds still sing

 

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The Song of the Lonely

The Song of the Lonely

And my heart beats with silence

like nothing was ever there

dust is where my hair should be 

and nobody even cares

-

there are lockets filled with dirt

yet nobody even sees the hurt

and they hide from the pain 

buried in the butterfly’s wings

yet they still insert their flames

bringing another bitter song to shame

-

here is why the crows cry alone

pretending they once had a home

their claws are desperate greedy hands

that weighed them down as they’ve flown

and their feathers are on their own

just searching for a place to land

-

and this is the song of the lost and lonesome

those with hearts full of coal and ashes

for the one’s with tear stained collar bones

and the poor souls still waiting all alone

to go back to their rotting home

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Black Eyes

Her eyes were as black as a caves interior, just like the darkness I found myself staring into them wondering what they contained.

Her eyes were as black as 3 am, just like the night sky I found myself gazing into them, admiring their beauty and that twinkle that I dare call a star 

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row, row, row your boat

There is still time and while there is
I will do this oddsome thing. I think,
between the tick, before the tock
are tiny hidden secret ports
and tiny secret little boats
and I will voyage far from now
traverse space time continuum
and search the secret galaxies
of this manifold universe
for a secret little trope -
a comprehensive comprehension.
There may be much that`s overlooked
between the tick, before the tock
when anything might happen
To embark on a dimensional sea
of wondrous possibility,
I row secretly, a tiny boat 
 

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a week's worth

I wish I could tell you which ones are important.
I know you’d say the same, if you could.
It’s cyclic, and it doesn’t really matter,
but it doesn’t stop the sensation, all the same.
Repetition is our creature of habit,
not the source, but the product.
We paint the ceiling with metaphors and French songs,
or Moon River from the balcony, a couple generations back.
We’re absolved of love or whatever
cynicism we use to disregard our absolution. 

It’s cold, and everything is frozen over
but it feels like spring in regards to days past:
You’re lifting up from yourself
and flying away, one body still on the ground,
the other, five feet up and looking down at the same thing you are.
And it doesn’t matter which one is you.
And which one is not.
We can’t all choose significance;
Such is the sense in negation.

 

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the sky and its white dress

my love I am your sky and you are my clouds

when you hover around me

you make me look pretty in white

but when you are not around

I feel so blue … … .

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Canvas...

I can chalk on a sidewalk
The most beautiful mosaic
I can whittle a tree
Into an intricate clock
I can paint a most
Serene scene
I can draw
A moving image
I can mold
The most exquisite vase,
But when it comes
To the canvas
Of your body
I don't know
What else 
I could possibly do
To make
You any more beautiful,
With curves
Challenging nature
I've never lost my cool
At seeing such shapes
Not like how they fit on you,
Your beauty is unsettling
Were I a toddler sorting
Different shaped rods
Your eyes for stars
All your curves for spheres
I could keep going but you must understand
We fit together
Better than K'nex and Duplo,
In body heart and mind...
APAD13 -077

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Fantasy

Sitting here throughout the days

I close my eyes to see your face

That crooked smile and those wicked eyes

An imagination; my own mind's lies.

But should I blame myself for this fantasy

Of love, and care and company?