God’s away on business

Berkeley November 9, 2016 We’ve walled out what we ought’ve walled in Within the city of the defeated, the air tastes like acid rain Night unending is come again A man walks dazed down the avenue, speaking in a loop: “Simon says, eat five hundred bowls of oatmeal Simon says
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Poetry: Earthly dissonance

When your words run dry, Like the parched Colorado, thirsting for Mexico, Fissured lips, seldom a drop to lust at; Bed’s empty. When all it finds are bones, and you yours Find me I’ll be here.   When babes bristle at your touch Estranged — the forest from its soil,
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Consideration: A poem

My words are coated with Cool river water, Not because that is all I know Or have, But because I can.   I scoop up some of the Soothing liquid, Dab a drop onto every syllable That springs forth from between my lips, Hiding scarlet blisters that threaten to burst
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Callous Franchesca Spektor

Poetry: “Callous”

Unswathed by ends I begin to drink in My desperate strolls past beer-battered bums Whose outcast hands, blackened with grime, match mine Which likewise are black with ink from the news That isn’t news when life gets old, and beer Is all that’s left to drink in from it.  
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Dear Dad

Happy Father’s Day, Dad! Hope you don’t mind if the rhyming is bad, I’m just trying to say what I mean, Definitely not Shel Silverstein. I just wanted you to know That while I don’t always show How genuinely appreciative I am For you being the head of the fam,
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Found poem from hometown car decor

Perhaps nothing is as accurate in depicting a group of people as the things they decide to put on their cars. Between bumper stickers, window stickers and license plate frames, one can get a fairly accurate view of who a person truly is. One of our intrepid Cloggers decided to
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The ducks are gone

“Come to the street with/Only your sweet fragrance. Don’t walk into this river/Wearing a robe!” — Rumi   My dreams, the creek runs through them, all the weeks between now and then; April woods flood with September sediment and feet, in all their blistered wanderings, continue.   Now look, the
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This is how water loves: A collection of poems

cerulean lines   i was wind, monsoons on summer days and unexpected hurricanes, breath missing from faded blue veins.   this is how air loves, i said, always trying to leave and hard to keep Zeus never stayed for daylight’s break; my tendency to walk away.   she was fire,
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The state of East Bay poetry

The room’s quiet focus is fixed on her hushed, commanding presence, with a voice that resonates from the scuffed-up floorboards to the well-worn walls. A simmering pot murmurs behind us in the open kitchen. A cat — maybe two — weaves back and forth between the colorful mismatched chairs and
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