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When I go to bed to sleep after baseball, Gus follows me into the bedroom as he used to follow us.

The Painted Bed: Poems

Most of the time he flops down in the parlor with his head on his paws. Once a week I drive to Tilton to see Dick and Nan. The tune of Dick and me talking seems to console her. You know now whether the soul survives death. Or you don't.

The Painted Bed

We never dared to speak of Paradise. At five A. By eight the air is clear, cool, sunny with the pale yellow light of mid-May. Kearsarge rises huge and distinct, each birch and balsam visible. To the west the waters of Eagle Pond waver and flash through popples just leafing out. Always the weather, writing its book of the world, returns you to me. Ordinary days were best, when we worked over poems in our separate rooms.

I remember watching you gaze out the January window into the garden of snow and ice, your face rapt as you imagined burgundy lilies. Your presence in this house is almost as enormous and painful as your absence. Driving home from Tilton, I remember how you cherished that vista with its center the red door of a farmhouse against green fields. Are you past pity? If you have consciousness now, If something I can call "you" has something like "consciousness," I doubt you remember the last days.

I play them over and over: I lift your wasted body onto the commode, your arms looped around my neck, aiming your bony bottom so that it will not bruise on a rail. Three times today I drove to your grave. Sometimes, coming back home to our circular driveway. Michigan Today News-e is a monthly electronic publication for alumni and friends.

Continue reading Julian Aleks Hope Sep Men and their memory foam beds-. It's a little melancholy. You awaken feelings which pang and pull, A soreness from misuse, feelings full of Memory. And I am too old now to follow them through The way I want to. Ashley Chapman Aug River Thames. These days have ebbed as Love's swell was checked: the waters in some places - all but dammed! Hard thrusts wicked deep cuts given and received are recorded in that great mirror smoked! Let's on the luck o' the dice you 'n' me! London, a city with a rhythm, the Thames, which I sailed upon one Saturday morning - not a soul at this end of this magestic river, this city, in which I have lived for forty years And love - a wonderful woman - and how I desire us to pull at each other as tides do, tugging at each other, two flows running over reeds and muddy shelves searching for each other in the cool green depth.

Beyond the Reef. Bobbing bodies mimic boats on waves and soon delirium penetrates a new country. Once by moonlight, they rubbed sleep from eyes, hugging hurt as they clamored high in ghostly pallor. Some leading the dance, hungered for knowledge, others played shadowy roles. T R S Jul I hate to leave you. Goodnight my lovely deary Living, lively, love I'll kiss your head Good my soul so dearly Lap my life and make me less dead Good God my soul, so nearly Leave a legend of life-built beds Goodbye my only, barely Made a bed of dead straw and heads.

Jordan Rowan Aug A Promise. King Panda Sep I was not sick and needed no convalescence no rebirth or panning view of bloodscape the black gasp of dawn it offered never drew no sickness no hospital beds or starched sheets no goodbye rain or last shot of whiskey it unended when the sickness of the mind rolled in with its fingers shaped like a gun and a trash bag for my jewel give me no sickness I begged and robbers there were three beat me down and left me like a headless buck.

Tammy M Darby Oct The World was falling Apart. The night descended upon the day Inhaling the goodness Smothering Murderous Diseased and dark. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws Section c 3 of the U. Copyright Act, 17 U. S c 3 , Tammy M. Darby Oct. Krish Raj Jul 8. Tears of a caged girl.. I will be free, Papa said. No more tummy growls, Mama said. I won't be sick often, Papa said.

Deep Relaxation: Meditation Music and Love Poems (soft spoken poetry, asmr)

I can dream, Mama said. School I can go, Papa said. Stars I can reach, Mama said. Land of plenty, Papa said, Cats have toys, Mama said. Dogs sleep on beds, Papa said. Inside a cage my tears dried. GoldenAmbitionz Sep Hector Aug Of Flaring Fires. O August 18, How we need another soul to cling to, another body to keep us warm. To rest and trust; to give your soul in confidence: I need this. I need someone to pour myself into.

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ConnectHook Oct Fake News Wets Bed. CNN wets on Russian bedding but Trump bets on Russian wedding, and you're invited to the bridal shower.

Punking the monkery, dig the debunkery; from Rasputin to Putin it's time for some straight shootin'. Hillary looks old and glowers at Donald's rumored golden showers. Our media owes US an explanation for streams of steaming urination, but we are willing to forgive and use their wet diapers as debt wipers. Putin's putas? Wisdom's pearls were pried from Truth's reluctant shell, banishing Hillary straight to hell.

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It's what we want left over from this hag. We now discover beds were dry; it all amounted all those golden tricks recounted to less than a tepid bowl of kasha. Russia laughed from her summer dacha. InfoWars was on it first while Dems spun lies from false to worst, awarding cash for faked dossiers embellished with the CIA's well-trained performing circus-seal.

Related Poems

Mary Gay Kearns Jun The swimmers and paddlers. The ducks and drakes trailing fluffy ducklings So linger daring the hands of bread and biscuits A continuity of return until fat and bloated, stop. Their tail feathers sharing a twitching line march As they swim back to the safety of the reed beds. Love Mary. Zeleyha Mata Nov You used to tell me that beautiful things come from pain and adversity.

Like motherhood, unconditional love, and true stories. As I stood in the middle of a room painted white, Staring at the remains of rolling hills burned to black, I saw you staring back at me. Burnt fields like black panther fur Black like the broken wings of mothers before you Who had hands with scars from cotton seeds And blue veins like uprooted trees Stretching all the way to their tired knees Burnt fields like black panther fur You criticize your aging beauty Speaking in envy of the color gold Like you are a broken bowl in need of kintsugi Yet silver snakes still slither Over the pebbled river beds of your black curls Dripping down the small of your back Until they reach the base of your ivory spine Burnt fields like black panther fur You criticize your aging beauty Because you never thought Cocoa lips and sun spots painted on sculpted clay that never cracks Could ever look as stunning as it does on you You told me that it is better to speak my truth then tell pretty lies.

So I told you mine and you cried, And cried and cried. But look where we are now, Standing beside each other with the same eyes, Just different reflections. Burnt fields like black panther fur Tongue like a sword set ablaze Tempered in pools of milk and honey Blood red sun grazing the tops of your eyelids Still reminiscent of those in old photographs Where you saw the little girl you search for in me Burnt fields like black panther fur I am sorry I made you cry But even when our backs are turned We are still Black birds singing in the dead of night Free Thank you mama for my broken wings.

Inspired by a photograph of a burnt field that I saw in an art gallery. For my mom.

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Brass Knuckles Mike Jun The End of Imagination. In all our haunted houses Are ghosts just wrapped in sheets And the vampires and werewolves Havent been seen in weeks We diagnosed the children Who heard voices in their rooms Now all they do is paint the walls In crayola crayon hues And the monsters under our stairs and beds Seek refuge in our closets As we boiled imagination down To vibrations in quartz deposits. Big Virge Sep No Nines' Mess with heads No friend of Gangster Sects