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The stream (all workshops)

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I'm standing here this autumn day
beneath the Carolina sky
On one side it's clear the other gray
One shirt sleeve wet the other dry.

I close my eyes to give them rest
then shiver as warm air turns cold.
open my orbs inflate my chest
then watch some snow flakes scarce and cold.

I shivver then button my old worn coat
and push my cap tight on my dome.
Toss a mental coin then vote: I head off toward home.


1) I’M running away
why read below

Utter poetic poverty
suffer from it poets so many
is the new art
of not commenting
is it limited to poetic
November brevity

2) Mistaken Identity
mistaken Identity
no not really
this is real creativity
mistake not me

wind next to my heart
jokes apart
cliche don't recall
wind and heart to date
none can prostrate

I'm Running Away...

I'm running away
gonna leave the city lights
I'll write about the wind
my mistaken identity lost

I'm following the scent
the smell of the open road
My pages flapping in the breeze
pencil faded from the sunlight

Listen to the music
forgetting who I am
mistaken identity gone
away from the city lights

Don't forget to call me
say my name out loud
Scream into the sky
maybe I'll hear you


We as does the wind
keep circling
as whirl winds
at times very cold
slowly warming till we hasten circling
what the wind
no no no
ourselves all should by now know
circling makes us all glow
we like the Thames Nile and other rivers flow
then off we go to blow
as the wind often whistles
does follow
but loud
not soft
so lie low

The Wet Coast Condition

Temperate forests sometimes do not breed temperate minds.
It's not easy being green with the incessant
pitter-patter, let's get at 'er that soaks the ground deep.

The land receives the great return;
drinks its fill and lets the rest spill where it will.
Gravity the guide for such things as
rivers become waves in the sea.

And amid dreams of bright blue summers
the grey wetness will cleanse or depress,
by choice or condition, no less.

The Abyss

The Abyss is tame
I do not fear the abyss
And it does not fear me
Many times,
We drink whiskey together
And talk about old times
I've watched the abyss bury my friends
Such talent
Such remorse
One day the abyss will come for me
And I will welcome it with open arms

Sometimes I think love is...

I wish for a love like a child wishes for gifts
I long to know what this mysterious feeling is like
will I recognize the scent like a mother's homemade cookies?
will I hear it like someone calling my name?
will I feel it wrap around me and fill me with joy?

Sometimes I think I can taste it when I eat alone at a restaurant
it tastes like the summer sun and lemonade on a scolding day
it tastes like hot cocoa and snuggling by the fire when it's cold
it tastes like sipping tea with your pinky up and giggling with friends

Greener Days

The yellow sunshine does not live here.
The rainy clouds are friends.
trudging through layers of sludge-
We -.-soldier-.- on through the storms.
We shiver and cry ourselves to the bone.
In a sky full of stars we\
The night filled with the howls of wolves
As they descend upon the brave.
Our walls are built thick enough-
Though the cold tries hard to take souls.
Hurricane is the way of the day's mood switch.
I wish for the days of lavender air
And greener grasses.

Owl eyes of Night,
impassive orbs
veiling pins of ebony,
watch under moonless sky.
The air is sharp as a steel dagger;
Lady Macbeth
staggers under her purple shawl,
wielding an air-drawn weapon.

In the Justice of Time she will punish
her well-loved husband and Sire,
squeamish executioner of the King.
When blood of Great Cawdor's veins
flows from corners of her lips,
she'll have loved him as savage Night loves Death.
For the sleeping and the dead are but as pictures.

My Birds of The Weather...

Blue sky, a minute ago
Fleecy-white clouds
Gentle breezes lifting the hawk
Gliding silently out of sight

Sparrows flicking across a grey vista
Brown little bodies, adjusting constantly
Wagging stubby tails and blurred wings
Making secure nests against the Autumn chill

Birds on the wires, huddled close
Flakes of snow tucking heads under wings
Starlings like darts in the crosswinds
Speeding bullets to warm barns and spilled grain


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