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    • April Poetry #5

      April 5 is just another day
      in a year already a fourth
      of its life gone. But this day
      has no song, unless you want
      to count the rhythm and noise
      of imperial bombs sent by
      the “shining light on top of
      the hill”, who has always promised
      the grave and the slave. April 5,
      just another day where they
      say all this hor…Read More

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      • I was thinking this morning about that phrase march to the beat of your own drum. But the noise of the world is so loud these days it’s difficult to hear it. Those last lines…damn!

    • Leave a Message at the Tone…

      I can hear my phone buzzing
      on the dresser across the room
      like a fly…dogging my face
      it’s distracting

      as I give myself over
      …in every possible sense…
      to his ferocious ministrations

      his smoky eyes burning holes in my soul
      setting my nerve endings ablaze
      flickers spreading quickly
      a…Read More

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    • Sorry??

      What does the word even mean
      An apology that is supposed to be given when felt
      The word does not erase the feelings
      That absolute absurdity of it

      As a child you were made to say your sorry
      Looking in that same child’s eyes
      There is not an ounce of remorse
      Confusion
      Anger

      Adolescents are no better
      Sorry rolls off the…Read More

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      • A ‘sorry’ like this is nothing more than the ego trip to make whoever said it feel good about themselves and nothing to do with changing what they have done. To be truly sorry, takes action, means changing attitude, behavior, and not doing whatever they have done again. A good poem for day #5 of poetry month, Fia. -Curt

    • April 5th, Ghostships Drift Through the Mind

      On the 5th,
      the myth of the ghostships returns
      adrift,
      unhurried,
      moving with the slow authority
      of things that have forgotten
      what it means to have a destination.

      They glide across the inner horizon,
      full of voids and echoes
      from the beginnings of time,
      carrying the dust of ancient…Read More

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    • THE STORM’S EYES

      Tornado you seek
      The darkness
      I feel weak ..
      The skies in complete blackness
      Your power I’ll see all week.

      Clouds move like spilled ink
      On a grey canvas
      That I left to streak
      Brushing with slugs
      As an artist, you can’t peek.

      My art smears as the storm claims
      Bold dark colors
      Watch how it fades
      I’m happy…Read More

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