I Breathe Heavy (Was It a Sigh?) | A Poem by Anuradha Fonseka

Imagination you fed me
Blind images I drank
And breathed your words
I lived unreal

All gone now, I see well
I breathe air and move myself
With real food and

I carry on my life
You are past, let’s hope so
We are done, not you and
I anymore

For your good and mine own
For the sake of reality I let you go
I breathe heavy (was it a sigh?)
Yet I promise I’ll pen no more
No more of you or us
I breathe heavy (was it a sigh?)

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The Ingratiating Pain | A Poem by Ananya Dhawan

In the midst of the storm
he stopped,
drank in realizations
then strode on.

The whirlwind
jarred his senses,
tore his soul
hammered his mind,
gnawed at his thoughts.
His mind froze,
his form quivered
he shrunk and shivered
with the ingratiating pain.

It won him over
He caught the plague
that palled him
and suffering that he was,
he succumbed to the distress.

Though his thoughts awakened
his chaotic self
refused to budge
pulling him back
bit by bit
wanting to swallow him
to drown him
into the fog,
into the fire,
into the pool of blunt ichor.

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My New Life | A Poem by Naduni

Holding you in my arms
Saw the world for the first time
The warmth of the sun
Is not unfamiliar
It is this warm yellow
Vision, unfamiliar
Breathing heavily
Like a big, grown up man
Reclining on my breasts
Big and tender
Full of love for you
The bloody bundle
Has turned to an angel
A guardian angel
On whom will I rely from today on
My new strength, my new courage and my new life
I hear your breath and I can see it
Yes, see it
The 25 year long blindness
We climbed the hill together and
Are at the top
We see the sun walking up from his home
We together will change this world
If not we will have a cozy world of our own

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Twilight and Desire | A Poem by G.S. Katz

Many of you have read me
Erotic speak as I call it
I wasn’t shy
Can hardly believe some of my entries
Hardcore, in your face, to your knees
Kind of writing
But something has happened
While my desires haven’t waned
My needs are crossing over
To a sexual twilight
I always feared this day
But my fears are unfounded
There is new beauty and passion
in my heart
That isn’t graphic
as much as it is appreciative
of your lovely ways
and well meaning spirit
This is a new kind of lust
I’m still working through it
Trying to comprehend my old and new
I’ll keep you posted
The light is illuminating my path
I’m in a garden of your heart
It’s warm and satisfying…

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To Surreal, With Love | A Poem by Ralph Monday

To Surreal, With Love
Sheree North died aged 72,
one of the last in a long line of Fox blondes
stretching from Sonja Henie, Alice Faye,
Betty Grable, June Haver to Jayne Mansfield
and Marilyn Monroe.

North, hired by 20th Century-Fox, the intention:
making her the next Monroe, height and measurements
she almost matched exactly.

She told an interviewer in 1983, “same reaction when producers
hear my name, the blonde who was to
have taken over from Marilyn Monroe.”

February 1954, the 21-year-old dancer signed with Fox
[who had] problems with the unreliable Monroe.
The following year, North featured on the cover of
Life magazine, lead in How To Be Very, Very Popular,
a part which Monroe turned down.

It was a lively launch to her career. Paired with the
38-year-old Betty Grable (in her last screen role), North
seemed fresh,energetic, in number “Shake, Rattle and Roll,”
publicized as “the first rock’n’roll dance on the screen!”

Erasure Poem
Source: Bergan, Ronald. “Sheree North.” The Guardian. Friday 18 November

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Robin Williams – Open Statement | A Poem by G.S. Katz

Maybe he didn’t want to be a funny man
Maybe his whole life was making others laugh
While he died inside

Maybe he saw it as a mission he couldn’t
turn his back on
Was his mania his humor or the other way around ?

Maybe a lot of things

I will always remember him for Good Will Hunting
and Moscow on the Hudson and other dramatic roles

His humor made me uncomfortable though funny he was

Maybe it was to much work to be funny and the expectation thereof

He was a great person, not just good

That’s what we should miss…

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No Paper This Morning | A Poem by Donal Mahoney

Most days the newspaper hits
the lawn by four in the morning
but it’s six already and I don’t see it.

I’ll have to pull on my pants
and go out to see if it’s hiding
in my wife’s flowers and bushes.

She keeps adding more plants
to the jungle she’s created out there
with parrots and macaws on the way.

But instead of going out
I tell her it’s a nice morning
and suggest she check on her roses.

In this heat, they may need water.
And while she’s out there I suggest
she scan the garden for the paper

in case it’s held hostage by the foliage.
After coffee she sails out the door
and returns with no paper but brings

an armful of roses, a bouquet
I welcome more than the poison ivy
I find every day in the paper.

Visit Donal at  http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.

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