Beach or Pool

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By Dianne Moritz

Beach or pool?
You decide.
At least most pools have a slide.

Still …
Nothing beats the splashing tide,
roiling surf, soft ocean breeze,
sunning, napping near the shore,
wading, jogging, and much more.

Yet …
Here’s what some folks just can’t stand:
No escaping all that sand …
Sticking to annoying places:
inside suits, in ears, on faces.

So…
Beach or pool?
No contest!
For beach bums and surfers …
beach is best!

              
“Sometimes I write just for fun, but still dream of collecting my drabble in a book.” – the writer

God Forgot

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By Sallie Crotty

God forgot
to create us
with masks
PPE to bind
our skeletons
as the blood sprays
and sticks
like sap
to our
fingernails, our
knuckles, fists
bound, yet ready
for the punch, the
kill, the weapon
to crack,
to smash the air
framing our eyes
holes
as mirrors of
the planet, the people
clawing their bed covers
pull me out,
we scream
we shudder
as our
fingertips press
the lover
next to us
carved into
our
sacred space

              
“Writing fuels me with joy, energy, and purpose. It’s vital to me.” – the writer

Rust

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By Jace Elson

It starts in the factory
and eats its way out.
toilets in the front yard,
sagging swing-sets in the back.
houses that go for half
that you gotta hose the
Rust
out of.

It starts in the factory,
but it don’t stay there.
broken fences in the back yard,
junkers in the front.
people that leave for better
that learn you can’t leave the
Rust
behind.

It starts in the factory,
and seeps into me.
Town’s in my veins,
Death’s in my bones.
cause the iron that’s in blood,
that’ll
Rust
just like towns.

             
“I write because I’m searching for magic.” – the writer

Forging A Path

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By Bruce Levine

Forging a path
through the wilderness
of the technological age
Stratum unknown
and unresolved
by the uninitiated
Thrust in out of
necessity into dark corners
previously disdained

              
“I write because ideas form and I feel compelled to share them.” – the writer

Pieces

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By Kelley Morris

Broken bodies
Broken glass
Broken hearts
So many pieces to pick up
Although they may not be my own
They clearly lay in front of me
Scattered across the landscape
Of my city
Of my state
Of my country
Yet, love has not disappeared
It continues to weave
In and out of even the darkest days
Mingling with the broken pieces
Mending hearts
Mending lives
Mending souls
Offering flickers of hope
Amid feelings of despair
Showing us how to begin
Picking up the pieces

               
Kelley Morris is most comfortable when sitting at the piano. She loves writing honest, personal reflections of life.

God’s Memories About The Big Bang

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By Ivo Vacca

Of that moment, specifically, my memories are fragmented. Really, it wasn’t the noise, it was more about … the smell …, of creation. Infinite debris of one piece. Sure, If you observe that specific moment, it may seem a disruptive act. I don’t know if it was right or wrong what I did, but from that moment all of you start to believe in me. After all, I just slammed my fist on the table.

              
“I write for work, often for fun. Writing drabbles is the second one.” – the writer

on gratitude

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By Nancy Elliott

early evening blushes
with a deepening streak of pink
sun sinks into the earth
the glow darkens
into inky blue

there
a star comes out
then another
soon the heavens are an endless sweep
a breath

that pulls me
up up up
into the mystery
around me
inside me

i am but another star
as incomprehensibly beautiful as this boundless sky
that holds me
as I yet behold
my heart full with it
full with it
shimmering

              
“The author walks, runs, hikes, looks up at the stars, dreams, loves, wonders, explores, and then words tumble out.” – the writer

Rookflight

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By sarahsouthwest

Suddenly they rise –
we heard no signal,
but they know to go up
together, and twist
and turn in a maelstrom
of black wings
and guttural croaks,
impossibly high,
for no reason
we can see,
except the delight
of flight,
last sight of sun.

              
“I write because I want to make sense of the world, and share that sense with others. I write because it’s easier than meditating. I write because I love reading.” – the writer

Please Love Responsibly

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By Sofia Gamba

You love with the heart
Of an unloved man
Pitied for your part
Never sure if you can.

Claiming uncharted shores
And skies of deepest blue
While opening doors
That you would never walk through.

I don’t understand
Cherished everyday
Why you play the unloved man
When you know a better way.

Now your tears fall
Demanding an apology
That I didn’t call.
Oh, sweet tragedy!

Chin up darling.
You’ll find someone new
As soon as you stop pretending
To be the broken-hearted fool.

               
I write to relax and unravel the knots in my spaghetti brain.

Gamblers

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By Yash Seyedbagheri

Mother and Dad were gamblers. They gambled fortunes, then my older sister Nancy’s collection of Nabokov. They gambled the grand piano, the typewriter Nancy bought me for my fourteenth birthday. They gambled until the house was bare, with asylum-like walls. They finally gambled my sister and me. My sister went with Mr. DiCenzo, Dad’s friend. I went with our Episcopal priest. We pleaded to be kept together, my sister trying to shield me. They refused, tearing us apart, coldly. One night, my sister rescued me. We tried to retrieve all we lost, but stopped. We knew when to fold.

              
“I write to haunt readers and myself. I’m a graduate of Colorado State’s MFA program in fiction, I consider myself a Romantic.” – the writer