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Red Light Special.

Listen to the hum.
The thought of speeding
down a side street
to beat a red light.
The rushing.
The wishing away.
The avoidance.
The fear to face the truth.
The thoughts collected in
the blink of a traffic light.
Recognize your true reflections.

Continue reading Red Light Special.

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Checkmate

There was a time when checkmate was her future.
Then, she pushed a pawn, he advanced a knight.
They meddled with the squares,
black and white before them,
compounding into a lovely shade of gray.
He predicted her moves well in advance.
He may capture her queen, but she’s a goddess still,
taking his bishop deep within her game,
moving towards the grid that’ll change her name,
that makes her cherish the place they collided,
the end they strive to attain, with her on top,
in his face, in the place, on the board,
where even if he leaves her tied up in a corner,
with no moves, insane, she won just the same.

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Overcome

Sometimes, when the weight
of it all enfolds you,
like an overfilled knapsack,
after an eternity,
you push it away,
your bones weary
and mind haggard.
But, you unearth strength,
like a new dawn,
Eos opening the gates
and welcoming the sun,
and there’s an instant ecstasy
juxtaposed with
a plethora of pain,
ancient galaxies can’t stand up
to the collapse of the climax
or the refrain, so you try to refrain,
but instead stagger through
until you are feeling so huge
and new, with the view
of the old you,
standing at the edge
of your own prison
viewing the skewed,
peering and wondering
how long before
you are no longer hungry,
but held even more,
with a lovely afterglow
after the low
of an aching, pummeled soul,
knowing the stellar is ready
to truly unfold.

 

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Photo Credit: Genre Contributor, Rich

IG: @see.rich.shoot

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What is Poetry? – part 3

What is Poetry? – part 3

Poetry doesn’t necessarily rhyme,

it just climbs out of the mind,

out of a recess in time,

obsessed with success

and blind to the cold shoulder it usually finds.

It’s a mess, it’s sublime,

it’s a knife as a prize,

it is life in the eyes,

it is death, of a kind,

it’s leaving something behind,

it’s caressing the past

and the future that lies,

dormant though brooding

ahead.

Who says poetry is dead?

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They said, “Yes to the dress.” I said, “It’s Cool.”

I kept feeling like I wasn’t doing it right! I was walking out of this consignment shop with a gorgeous dress for 1/4 of the budget we put aside and I wasn’t excited like the women I always see on TV. I was happy. Relieved to knock it off of my checklist. Continue reading They said, “Yes to the dress.” I said, “It’s Cool.”