To live in a space among the stars
I'd have to get binoculars
To see the dentist on the moon
And find the next Uber at noon.
To live in a space among the stars
I'd have to float to school in cars.
Instead of pools, we'd just have craters.
There'd be astral birds and mars-gators.

To live in a space between Neptune,
Instead of bicycles we'd have scoons.
They'd kick up dust as we glide by.
In place of cake, we'd have moon pie.
To live in a space by Mercury
We'd have astroids instead of trees,
And 'stead of rain its comet showers,
Northern Lights would be our power.

To live in a space between the stars
Beyond our sun and next to Mars
Betwix an astroid running by
Around the galaxy called Guy
Over a constellation new
That houses cutlery and spoons
Around the axis, over dale,
All while dodging Pluto's tail.
To live in space would be amazing!

I am 19 years old today.
Crazy.
I'm a bit nostalgic because woahh, I'm old.
And there's a twinge of sadness because 
COVID has prevented the gathering settings
that I love.
But,
it's okay.
Because I'm here.
I'm still here.
Still living,
breathing,
laughing,
loving,
appreciating 
gratuitously welcoming
every scrape and bruise
and tear and fear
and heart palpitation
and breath sounds –
because
I am alive. 
Still.
I made it a whole year.
A full rotation.
And I should simply be grateful
because not many people can
say this with as much gratitude
and love, and pride, and courage, and inner strength.
Some can't say it at all.
And I can.
And I will say it.
I'm so happy to be living right now.
I haven't found my purpose
But I'm not purpose-less.
And I am here and contributing to Earth
and Sky

Its fingers were hot
and cold and
sweet and dark.
All at the same time.

Sleeeeep. 

It whispered in her ear.
Her petals shivered.
Its breath ran slowly
down
her stem and
tickled a leaf.
Its cold hands poked her forehead
And a root snapped.

Sleeeeep.

It said again.
Another petal shivered,
drooped,
almost ready to fall.
But not
quite yet.
It pressed its thumb 
into the petal's palm.
The sweet crisp smell of burnt summer
stung and froze
another root.
The flower swayed
and
snapped back into place.

Resssssst.

It pushed back her hair
and kissed her cheeck
and the touch was so cold
and yet –
so solidifying.
Powerful.
Another root began 
to freeze, gently,
as if being put down for a soft nap.
As the wind spun a slow circle around her,

So this fly kept bugging me today.
It swirled around my head and zoomed near my eye.
I swatted it away and it retreated.
Then it reappeared by my left elbow.
It would spiral up my elbow to the flower on my shirt,
maybe recognizing it was a pretty red,
before ringing circles around my head again.
Again, I swatted it away.
Again, it retreated.
Then it came back.
How it caught up to my brisk pace I wouldn't know,
but it buzzed near me again,
and whizzed its way to my ear,
where it probably checked itself out in my cheap silver earrings.
A gift. Cheap quality, but a special gift nonetheless.
And I swatted it again, annoyed,
and when it flew to my other ear,
I ducked and swatted it more vigorously. 
Almost knocked my sunglasses on the floor.
I was fed up with the fat black fly,
who seemed to have it out for me as I walked down the street,

Group Poem by Treblemaker, GreyBean, Stargirl, Yellow Sweater, The Lone Cat, El, infinitelyinfinite3, Geri K, amaryllis, Wag it off

In replacement of blue candy there's a sunrise on the hill.
My fingers drip with golden honey,
sugar plums cloud my melancholy thoughts ...
On my lips,
words of sugar and cinnamon blossom
as I sit cross-legged
in the raucous silence of the moment.

Yet while the quiet sings to me,
I despise its saccharine temper.
It seems to bellow with cruel lemon drops
though its voice is soft as down feathers
and my hands, unable to close my ears, are stuck to the grass
by viscid syrup as bitter as lies.

I bend, I break, I fall
and prepare to start anew.

New,
like vegetables from compost.
New,
like the burning and bleeding of the dawn into a fresh sky.
New,
like a freshly picked lemon just cut in half,

By my sister
 

She was always wrapped in cinnamon.
Her aroma was a mixture of brown and gold oak
stacked together like firewood,
as was her house on the side of the mountain
made from a similar material, 
perhaps christened with it. 
Her hair rained cinnamon dust
and her hands were smeared with dough.
The house always smelled of cinnamon too.
We'd smell it four houses over on our walk there. 
She'd take out a laughably small pot,
add three cinnamon sticks,
and let it boil.
That's how we were always greeted.
Instead of spraying perfume around the house, or Febreze,
she'd boil cinnamon sticks.
Our breath carried the earthy sweetness of the cinnamon, too,
as we'd help her make cinnamon buns.
We'd secretly lick the sugar,
licking our fingers before squashing them
into the small white china bowl
and then sticking our fingers,
now crystalized with cinnamon sugar,
onto our tongues.

I've crossed into the spirit world
I've found that it looks strange.
Everything that I was told
Its really not the same.
Where is the trumpet fanfare?
The golden bridge to cross?
The hovel I had slid down
I practically got lost.
I've crossed into the spirit land
But clouds aren't by my feet,
Why do I walk through ashes
To a steady drumming beat?
Where are the lyres strumming tunes
And spirits decked in gold?
The figures here are gray and bent
Their melting screaming souls.
And the honeydew? The grand reward?
The pots of gold and jewels?
Where art thou twelve disciples?
For here I be with fools!
Angered by just punishments 
They cry on molten rock,
This spirit world is strange I say,
... its smoke and red, and hot. 
Where are the crowns of olive leaves
To thank me for my work?
You gave me, ah alas, a rose
Its thrones my finger poke. 

Waving my goodbye out the windows of the 
Gray Coach bus for the last time 
Was so hard. 
It was hard to admit I was 
Really going to miss that place 
Something about the fact that’s it’s so final
Made it thrice as difficult. 
The idea that I’d never experience 
That 250 acres of woods farms and mountains 
With the same class
Struck a minorly major chord. 
Last lunch, 
Last dinner, 
Last breakfast. 
Last time seeing that adorable dog
Who finally, let me pet him. 
Last time experiencing 
That Glen Brook thrill 
Of jumping into waterfalls 
And hiking up tick infested woods
And poking at the fire pit. 
It was silly to cry over the fact 
That’s it’s over. 
Crying would do nothing to bring more 
Trips into being. 
But crying was all I had left. 
It was the only way to express my gratitude 
And appreciation 
And attachment 

My neighbors got a karaoke machine.
It spews bright orange and blue patterns around their fences,
our fences.
And there's a disco ball
whose glitter is filtering through their windows,
our windows.
I wouldn't mind so much
if the karaoke machine was quiet,
so perhaps the next town over couldn't hear it.
And I wouldn't mind so much
if the neon lights stayed inside their yard,
and perhaps if their voices were more
in key,
any key, really.
It'd be nice if Aunt Marcy hit a note for once
because she's hitting notes I've never heard of before.
Their tone sounds more like robot cat baboons
that were dunked in water and then given a megaphone.
The machine itself is so unassuming,
a plain white square,
a little larger than a boot box.
So can someone tell me HOW that tiny techno box
produces the agonies that are a Friday Night Karaoke Party?