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The Game

 

This mystery will not go unsolved,

will not destroy what has yet to be born.

With so much at stake we all must rise

and save us all from an enemy within.

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And yet, mystery is a part of life

Not in itself a destructive force.

It’s the power of collective thought

Seeking out the imagined, the real

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The clues of this conundrum tell a story

of a contest that we cannot hope to win.

No longer playing by the rules we have memorized

we must evolve and learn a new game.

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To reach inside yourself, and confront your fear

Is often easiest when approached as if a game;

Life’s ultimate challenge is yourself – always

The enemy without far easier than that within.

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The enemy within will never leave you totally

Confronting outside enemies at day, they hide

But as it’s time to sleep, you reach inside, and find

The ugly monsters that the daylight can’t abide

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Yet by dawn’s light be brave enough to slam the door

Shut on night’s turmoil, on words and foes alike.

Consciously, if only for an hour, or thirteen,

Be lucid enough to declare peace with the unsolved.

 “Peace hath her victories no less renowned than war.”

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Doves Of Peace

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A collaborative Twitter poem by @jdubqca @afcoory @MyVogonPoetry @vivchook @Brudberg @Permabloom

 

 

 

 

 

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NOTES ON FLYING

The stray seagull flew low, five miles out at sea,

and he flew proud among a small flock of pigeons.

Looking up, I couldn’t tell if he was disoriented

or if he was comfortable not being on his own.

The birds’ insignificance and my own, engulfed my

mind there underneath a dazzling blue semi-sphere.

The ocean, beguiling in its tranquillity, beckoned

me to come stroll across its bridge of rippled glass.

As the ferry powered toward its island destination,

I wondered whether the seagull’s aerial adventure

Was a maiden voyage or part of normal routine

much like many of the passengers aboard this vessel.

The urge to go…where does that come from? Is it

An escape, or a homing in? A departure, or a return?

Does vertigo cause disorientation and influence the destination?

Or does disorientation merely cause the departure?

As I watched him, surrounded, I sensed our fellowship;

two souls gliding, carried, buoyed by other forces.

Aren’t all our journeys just part of a greater circle?

And we all still matter. Yet we all still don’t.

The seagull had not whispered any audible secrets,

But it had spoken to me just the same.

The island may isolate me but I would never be

alone as long as I looked upward and embraced life.

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A Lone Seagull Comes Into View

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A collaborative Twitter poem by:

@MyVogonPoetry @Permabloom @Vivchook @afcoory @Jdubqca @Troublegummer

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Collaborative Twitter Poem by

@JDubqca @Permabloom @MyVogonPoetry @Vivchook @Troublegummer @afcoory

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Image: Pencil drawing of girl’s head for his painting ‘The Mill’ by Edward Coley Burne-Jones 1870

ASSORTED
Remember the dreams I’ve stacked up,
my roll of meticulously assorted Life Savers?
They look back all stale and faded when I peek in
from torn wrapping; yet whole still.
There is no question we shouldn’t dream again
or find reasons for bringing us back together.
I especially remember the deep dark chocolate
and how it made the weekend whole.
I recall you saying Dark is best – because it’s bitter,
yet sweet. You said it’s like life, and dreams –
not always easy, but worth trying.
The sugar-coated confection of our love
once filled life with flavor.
Lingering sweetly on the tongue and frozen in time.
But rigid stacks of memories
the sweetness cannot yet disguise,
holes of emptiness I once ignored.
Passion infuses reality; colours imperfections.
Augments and yet deludes us.
We use our memories of our dreams for sustenance,
A gentle demolition with each taste,
So we are compelled.

Twitter Collaborative Poem by poets –

@jdubqca @MyVogonPoetry @Permabloom @vivchook @Troublegummer @afcoory

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Image: Man Ray

Has time rewritten every line?

 

TIME REWRITTEN
It had been so long since someone
mentioned the movie
I never saw. I remembered then,
I’d read the book; Powerful.
But alive, on a screen? Could I?
In the dark the words come to life.
The audience becomes part of the narrative.
As the couple begins their celluloid courtship
we all fall in love a little bit too.
Remembering our own early times –
the excitement, so giddy, and consuming,
with a future hued in rose.
Innocence and hope- owned in childhood
but lost with age, my dreamings
ripped and rearranged and projected
through other eyes.
My dreamings a mosaic foreign to me,
its tesserae still recognizable
as mine. Repudiate?
Rip all up, reassemble, reclaim?

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