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Showing posts from July, 2022

The Dandelion

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The toast burns to  obsidian crumbs as the putrid smell starts to soar interrupting the meditation of my words that I routinely slit my heart to pour. Does it matter if I bleed or not They concluded I am not a writer yet The story of a thousand days and night Not a cent, a dime, a quarter it gets. Yes, I have miserably disappointed the masses But my failure, though, is yet to come For I continue to blow the dandelion Until I choose to be done. A 2nd-grade nipper stands alone a body deformed by torrential pain  the ground beneath has cracked wide open as he flails to breathe and walk again how to feel warm in the arctic of grief when loved ones float far, far away the mother who packed his lunchboxes the father who gave him sobriquets Yes, life has struck him hard indeed But mind you, his defeat is yet to come For he continues to blow the dandelion Until he chooses to be done.  Sifting through  anguish, anger, and despair She stares at the  heap of hands-me-down In the white and  elite

The Fish Head

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" Salmon is the closest I can feel you NOW. Especially when the ground mustard seeds release their pungent aroma wafting through the crisp-about-to-get-tender charcoal skin, in that Proustian moment, I see your polka dot maxi; I smell your Lux body soap, I hear your gold bangles clink, I flinch and turn to see if you are there, then I start to cry. "   Click on The Fish Head  to read the TOP BLOG AWARD winning story.  Image courtesy-Pixabay