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Poems On Love, Loss, And The Which means Of Life

The delicate cobwebbed stockings are scarred with stitches.
Recent tears like flesh wounds gape at kneecap and heel from
a day of pounding pavement, waiting in soup kitchen queues.
They’re soaked in the tin washtub, rinsed of the day’s grime
of sweat and silt and hung to dry, fluttering on the clothesline
or draped over a chair. The fading luxury of silk, her last pair.
Every evening she makes an attempt to repair the damage, to weave them
into wearability. Runs are scratched into silk, the place they may
unfold like the routes and rivers on a cartographer’s map. She
bathes her blistered, callused feet. Her bare legs are smudged
and soiled, her toenails the shade of stone, her skin cracked and
leathery as previous footwear. Within the morning, she crosses legs sheathed
with spiderwebs, arranging her skirt to cover the most recent darning.

By Jessica Goody
100g Straight Brazilian Remy Hair #8 Light BrownElla: Of Infinite Possibilites

Wide-eyed in wonder,
Ella beholds the world.
“How outdated are you ”
her grandfather asks.
She holds up five fingers.
Ella traces her grandfather’s mosaic of wrinkles,
touching his face with those self same 5 fingers.
Seeing tears kind in her darkish, dark eyes,
he asks: “Why so unhappy ”
“Because you might be shrinking.”
“But I’m not unhappy,” Grandfather replies.
“Why not ”
“Because you are growing.”

By Jacqueline Seewald
The Saver

Today I assumed I would clean out the trunk,
And throw away a few of that worn-out junk,
The little pink overalls, worn on the frizzy hair tips and tricks knee,
The raggedy sweater, utilized by my three,
The light previous jacket that Kenny wore
The primary time he went along with his Dad to the store,
The myriad anklets, many unmatched,
And a number of other wee shirts, patched and unpatched,
The gown that is too small for Betty to wear,
The ribbon that by no means would keep in her hair,
Paul’s child cap his old woolen bunting,
Small worn things for which I might been hunting,
Oh, I sorted out a lot of worn-out junk,
Then I tenderly packed it all back in the trunk.

By Kathleen Wastlund
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She Suffers This Idiot Gladly

The years have flown since we first wed—
your hair’s now gray, mine’s left my head.
Our achy bodies groan and creak,
however holding you still makes me weak
with pleasure. Perhaps I don’t inform
you often—how you ring my bell!
It’s true my memory’s antique,
however holding you continue to makes me weak.
You make me blaze within your flame—
I love you, pricey old what’s-your-identify.
I’m flummoxed by feminine mystique,
however holding you continue to makes me weak.
The years have flown since we first wed,
however holding you still makes me weak.

By Barbara Blanks

My wife is in a panic,
She discovered a grey hair at present.
She asked if I’ll still love her
When she’s gone utterly gray.

I advised her not to worry
And she should not look so sad.
I’ve liked her by way of three colours
And another cannot be so unhealthy.

By R. Wayne Edwards

From the window of the Albergo Fiorentino
I watched the 2 embrace on the Arno River Bridge,
A postcard greeting to the lonely, a lesson in what
Love can do to vary a loveless world.
All across the younger lovers night time was closing down,
The moonlight hanging like halos above their heads,
And if the world were to finish in mid-kiss,
If the threatened bombs have been to make good their promises,
These two would die with out tears and trembling.
I flip away eventually and drink my Charbonnet.

By Salvatore Buttaci

How can we

A scent. A smile. A slice of lemon cake
frosted and far too candy.
It was your favourite.
A voice. A hand in mine. Time.

A sock. A belt. A worn, wool sweater
scratchy and rough towards my cheek.
A drawer full of receipts.

Your silver pick-up parked by the garage
where you last left it and me
that day the ambulance drove you away
and forgot to convey you home.

I loved you then. I miss you now.

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