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Liziantus-MarantusOffline

    • Sensory Memories

      “why are you so addicted to popcorn?”

      because on Saturday evenings…
      when I was small…
      (too young to know of more exciting things…
      like theaters and urban adventures)
      there was a table that became an arena

      where board games and Uno took over
      and we gathered as a family…
      no chores…
      otherwise idle…Read More

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      4 Comments
      • Aw, I can smell the corn popping from here – a really atmospheric poem.

        • Thank you 😊 I make popcorn every week, never recapture those moments but it brings back the memories

      • Willow, I make the popcorn the same way your grandmother did, 3 quart pot, melt the butter and mix. But I must confess, the popcorn goes in a big bowl and I eat it all from there. Thanks for sharing the popcorn….er… I mean the poem. ;0) -Curt

        • There were a minimum of a dozen of us at that table. There would have been no room for a big bowl. I’ve never seen a bowl the size she used for the popcorn since then. I use an air popper but yes, it goes in a bowl and it’s all mine too. 😊

    • Conditioned

      Back aches
      Feet throbs
      Vision strain
      Headache driving one insane

      We came up with the saying “the tough get it done”

      I’m done…
      We as a society, on the whole
      Are charcoaled steak
      Extra well, with no tenderness in sight

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      • It does feel that way, done, charcoaled. But after last Saturday, I saw hope for many reasons beyond the numbers. But it will take more than a one and done approach. It will take sustained resistance, nonviolent activity, a refusal to obey the flames of abuse, and in our millions to stop the “grilling”.

      • Your poem rings so true, Fia,. Let’s hope that, one day, Society rediscovers tenderness, love, and caring about each other rather than all the squalid hatred, the foul judgement that has no place.

    • Fireflies Over the Somme
      She led me to a lonely forest glade, where fireflies flew and faeries might have played,
      The brooding sky was blood red, pure delight, the half-light glowed as dusk turned into night,
      We lay among white lilies in the mist, she winked and beat her wings before she kissed,
      Then whispered sweetest nothings in my ear, the…Read More

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    • April 4th, the Compass Forgets Its Duty

      The 4th takes my north,
      reduces my compass
      to a mere spasm of air
      shivering through the half‑open window
      on the left side of the house.

      It doesn’t steal direction violently.
      No, April 4th is far too elegant for that.
      It simply rearranges the wind,
      tilts the light,
      and suddenly every cer…Read More

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    • editin out the madman

      I catch him
      at the tip of my tongue
      right when he starts pushin thru
      jam him back down
      hand over my mouth
      til the noise dies off
      and what comes out
      sounds like the me
      they said could stay

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      2 Comments
      • Sometimes though, staying is not what is needed?? Sometimes…. wait, my madman is loose, damn. Is this why I never get invited to any parties!!?? Sorry TwoFiftyThree, next time I’ll make sure the madman is left at home. Enjoyed reading your poem!! -Curt

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