poetryrepairs #196 14.01:003
AUGUSTIN MEDINA : Fire Was Never Enough
ANDREA M. FORBING-MAGLIONE : Malina
JAN THEUNINCK : Tyne Cot
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AUGUSTIN MEDINA
Fire Was Never Enough
Fire was never enough In the days we made love in the snow Bare bottom bathed in the moonlight Limbs sinking through the airy crystals A measured iambic rhythm As befits a poet lover. They say love is more fashionable in the warmth But no fashion for us My lover was cold as ice A natural in our bed of snow Our talk would fill the frigid night Icy nothings in our breaths' vapors It was a glorious time And then Society lured us into its polite fabric No more love in the virgin snow I often wonder where she is today And how she remembers those times Most of all I wonder why She would always insist Fire is never enough.
poetryrepairs #196 14.01:003
All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge

poetry repairs your heart
even as it splits it open.
VIRGINIA WOOLF
The Art of Reading



ANDREA M. FORBING-MAGLIONE
Malina
Watching the neon green dress under the black light, my mind is stuck in the polyester fibers. The contrast between fluorescent fabric and sienna skin is stark, mesmerizing my nose takes refuge in the heavy rose-scented body spray. I stick another dollar into the welcoming chasm that is her breast and I get what I came here for. I don't know where she goes home to, nor do I care I don't ask her about her children or the weather or sports I'm spared the idle chitchat of that sort She doesn't pretend to listen or cook me dinner or wash my clothes. She doesn't give me a new tie every year for my birthday, nor does she know how it feels when I come inside her. I don't even know her name nor does she know mine. She doesn't want me to do anything for her. No expectations creep from beneath the amber of her eyes I find no disappointment dwelling there. Her thick dark hair tickles my chin. I welcome her warm flesh fresh from the tanning bed-- still warm to the touch. Doesn't she know that those UV Rays might kill her someday?
poetryrepairs #196 14.01:003
I have many things to write unto you but
I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian

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JAN THEUNINCK
Tyne Cot
when you left for the front you were living heroes and now you're on top of the hill where only poppies blow..........
Poetry endangers the established order
of the soul - Plato

REPAIR: resort, frequent or habitual going; concourse or confluence of people at or in a place; making one's way; to go, betake oneself, to arrive; return to a place; to dwell; to recover, heal, or cure; to renew; to fix to original condition.
-- Oxford English Dictionary

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poetryrepairs #196 14.01:003
AUGUSTIN MEDINA : Fire Was Never Enough
ANDREA M. FORBING-MAGLIONE : Malina
JAN THEUNINCK : Tyne Cot
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