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Poems On Love, Loss, And The Meaning Of Life

The delicate cobwebbed stockings are scarred with stitches.
Fresh tears like flesh wounds gape at kneecap and heel from
a day of pounding pavement, ready in soup kitchen queues.
They are 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 luxurious of silk, her final pair.
Each night time she attempts to restore the injury, to weave them
into wearability. Runs are scratched into silk, the place they’ll
spread 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 coloration of stone, her pores and skin cracked and
leathery as outdated shoes. In the morning, she crosses legs sheathed
with spiderwebs, arranging her skirt to hide the latest darning.

By Jessica Goody
100% Remy Human Ombre Bodywave Hair Weave 3 Bundles Black To Purple Ombre Hair Extensions 300gElla: Of Infinite Possibilites

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

By Jacqueline Seewald
The Saver

At present I thought I would clean out the trunk,
And throw away a few of that worn-out junk,
The little red overalls, worn at the knee,
The raggedy sweater, used by my three,
The pale old jacket that Kenny wore
The primary time he went along with his Dad to the store,
The myriad anklets, many unmatched,
And several wee shirts, patched and unpatched,
The gown that is too small for Betty to wear,
The ribbon that by no means would stay in her hair,
Paul’s baby cap his outdated woolen bunting,
Small worn things for which I might been looking,
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 Fool Gladly

The years have flown since we first wed—
your hair’s now gray, mine’s left my head.
Our achy our bodies groan and creak,
but holding you still makes me weak
with pleasure. Maybe I don’t inform
you often—how you ring my bell!
It’s true my memory’s antique,
but 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,
but holding you continue to makes me weak.

By Barbara Blanks

My spouse is in a panic,
She found a gray hair as we speak.
She asked if I’ll still love her
When she’s gone utterly gray.

I advised her not to fret
And she shouldn’t look so unhappy.
I’ve beloved her via three colors
And yet one more can’t 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 around the younger lovers night was closing down,
The moonlight hanging like halos above their heads,
And if the world had been to lace front wig for sale finish in mid-kiss,
If the threatened bombs were to make good their guarantees,
These two would die without tears and trembling.
I turn away ultimately and drink my Charbonnet.

By Salvatore Buttaci

How can we

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

A sock. A belt. A worn, wool sweater
scratchy and rough against my cheek.
A drawer stuffed with receipts.

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

I cherished you then. I miss you now.

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