Where Did You Go?-1WiseWoman/A Lion Sleeps in the Heart of the Brave

This moved me to tears. Thank you 1WiseWoman– this touched me deeply.

A Lion Sleeps in the Heart of the Brave

For me,  Christine and Dom

Where did you go?

Little one

With your smile as big as the sun

When did running

Change from game to survival

When did hide and seek

Become staying hidden

You were always first in line

Brave and limitless

Shouting from the top of the pines

Who hurt you?

Little one

Everyone

She says, with eyes on the ground

Where she believes she belongs

Among the dirt and trash

Birthed with the seeds

Of poisonous weeds

Planted deeply in her soft heart

Cursed from the start

She has tired of running

But cannot stay

Not this way

The hurt is rooted

Pain undiluted

And every step is wrong

Remember you were so strong?

Little one

That time has gone

It was taken without permission

By the ones who proclaimed true love

In the shape of fists and shoves

And whispers behind closed doors

Stolen away…

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the names I have called myself….-Dom/ BoldBeat&NipLess

I think Dom at BoldBeat&NipLess is one of the bravest women I know. Much love and respect.

Bold, Beat... &Nipless

Naive… because I trusted you with my entire life… i admired you… and even more did I admire your wife because she was the epitome of perfection…so excuse me for not seeing eye to eye with you… well even if i wanted to see eye to eye i can’t…because you have forced my face into this smelly pillow… so many sick fucks in this world… i really wish you were an expecption… I am naive to think your perfect ladys pussy was enough…. Call me foolish…for dressing in clothes that fit my slinky body…. I should have covered up… I am sorry for asking for it… call me a Slut…..

I used to blame our encounter as a reason for all the sex because I didn’t act like that before… I used to tell myself it didnt matter anymore… call me a whore… for all the self inflicted pain I…

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In the Go Dog Go Tree Top Cafe:Gina/Singledust

A lovely piece by Gina of Singledust about what it means to become a writing community.

Singledust

bty Monday writing at coffee shop

Sitting in a café reading and writing is one of my guilty pleasures. I don’t get a chance to do this often enough. Last Monday morning was the rare occasion I managed it and it was such a lovely time. I will make extra effort to do it again on a regular basis.

But I was alone in that café, and while the solitude made for good writing and reflection having a group of friends to share it with is equally fulfilling to a writer, poet or even just a book lover like me.

I am fortunate that I have another “Café” I can go to without planning to take time off work. It’s a very friendly place filled with warm, talented and inspiring people I am privileged to sit with and have a coffee and chat.

That Café is accessible to anyone who wants…

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the heart asks pleasure – samantha lucero

suddenSam Lucero hits a raw nerve

Sudden Denouement Literary Collective

when you become a parent,
you become less

a p p a r e n t.

until i disappear completely,
i can weep into the liquid face of a mirror
and speculate about who used to dwell in
my iron & carbon skull, before i was
the me that faded.

i held onto me like a movie ticket
in the back of my wallet
the one we all keep
that justbecomes a tomb
like a placeholder in our hearts
for a special day we end up
forgetting.

i’m perfunctory now, roiling,
knocked up byrainstorms
and lightning writhing down like a noose
on his red beard, drinking snake oil

maybe theworld’s a cat’s eye and i am shattered faith
my shoulders a hewn epitaph of hopes
am i lucid dreaming, i never fell asleep.
these days, i lie down in a trance
and never wake up.


[ Samantha Lucero is the…

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manchester-Lois E. Linkens

A powerful, reverent response to this week’s events in Manchester by Lois E. Linkens

lois e. linkens

http://media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/e0/e2/55/e0e255d0f276598c119475025bfacfb2.jpg

there is a perpetual silence
that ring will out
in the final ignition
of the fires of hell.
and oh,
my human heart longs
to make you
take assurance
that your homemade, homespun cowardice
and dining-table death machine
will not create the heat
that you desire;
that fire belongs to the night
and yours will now be infinite.
my hating, human heart
wants to hope
that the service given you
by the last of your life
would be worth the tears;
it aches to hope
that a godless expanse
would be all that would welcome
the last fragments of your soul.
but who am i,
who am i to condemn
when the mind of the devoted
runs so wild and afraid?
can my belief and my doctrine
so outweigh the sacrifice and solitude
of the sacred pages –
i am helpless to comfort,
helpless to confront.
screaming down an empty…

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Album of the Week – Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds – Skeleton Tree and a Response Poem – “When the Bough Breaks”-S Francis of SailorPoet

S Francis of SailorPoet with a personal and reverent piece on loss of a child.

sailorpoet

This will be difficult to write. I deliberately choose to stay away from politics and the personal in my writing for reasons that are important to me. Today, I want dip my toe into both. Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds has accompanied me on my travels, and Nick took me back to a time of great sorrow when my fourth child and second daughter was lost mid-pregnancy to Fifth Disease and was stillborn. A story I recently told my son about my dad uncovered that grief never completes. My parents lost a son, I am the fifth, not the fourth in my family, as most think. Many years before I surprised the world, my parents buried a son. When Dad came down to Maryland to comfort me, he walked through the front door and over to me, looked into my eyes through his own tears and wrapped me in…

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Gestalt-OldePunk/RamJet Poetry

OldePunk of RamJet Poetry takes no prisoners

RamJet Poetry

Gestalt

Grasping convolutions

anything will do really

corrugated steel rictus

pulls at corners

a shadow play

in ritual dusk

down another

glass of slow derision

at the nearest

watering hole

wondering how and why

I am unholy

reconcile I’m alone

with the pictures

we both inhabit

I could not hold

the fire

so now I choke

on smoke

and bathe in ashes

my breath stinks

of rebellion

my words are heavy

and low, lo

unto tomorrow

riveting the compunction

to depart the now

the how and when of it

matter little

respond to extinguish

the embers

of my love, of

your ruin

I absolve myself

of any wrongdoing

It’s stern

your reflection

I return

to the objection

and babe

it’s all gone down

it’s all your fault

it’s not the noun

it’s not this town

the fade of gestalt

that I caught

standing outside

looking in at

your origins

I am…

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Summer with Burroughs-House of Heart

Holly of House of Heart had her WordPress account hacked and all of her previous posts, comments and followers were lost. Holly is a lovely human being and a fabulous writer– please show her some love while she builds a new site.

House of Heart

Remember the

summer we were

obsessed with

Burroughs?

Anything familiar,

like the sound of

far off thunder

close enough to subdue

the mad-paced hours.

Something  inciting,

like the  strike of

lightning,

the odor of combustion

ready to ignite.

Everything electric

that made us come alive.

Our hearts caught between

whale song and sigh,

spontaneous thunder

with intermittent quiet,

sporadic as a summer storm.

Summer with Burroughs

Leonid Afremov  “Rains Rustle”

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To the skies from a hillside no.2-Howl Davies

Howl Davies renders me speechless

The Sounds Inside

We set the horizon ablaze,
and watched the sky creak and tremble,
as we observed from the comfort of sanctuary,
imbedded in the hillside, the blank-slate canvas
we hoped to form is all
but ruin, we meant well, we did, we did,

we didn’t mean for the ventricle to
collapse, we didn’t mean for the empyrean
to cripple, deflated, exhausted, bricks and mortar
falling from heaven like wildfire,
I don’t know what you were looking for, and
I don’t know what happens now,

we’ve all but torn the atmosphere from its hinges,
and the seas, the mountains, the forests all buckle,
pleading ‘no more’,
‘no more’,
but we can’t stop,
not till we remember why we started this,

why we turned hell inside out,
why we let the devils, the revolutionaries, the objectors spill out,
pouring forth from the gaping mouth of the underbelly,
the women who claimed themselves saints,
artists…

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