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Getting ready to go fishing, he'd make up a song. Making lunch; he'd make up a song. And once, he was making coffee, and I vaguely remember it. I remember him looking at me and smiling and then he sang: "I love coffee," he'd sing and I'd echo with what he'd sing. I love you dad. Even all of your weird embarrassing songs.

Don't Drink the Bathwater

Peter Garrett May An ode written this morning during coffee euphoria. Not Lauren Mar I never amounted to much anyway. I often let my feet burn in the running bath water just to feel something besides a building wall of anxiety in my chest. I often dreamt about you. I could've handled my tears if it weren't for the coffee shop you two were admiring in my dreams.

Jack Jenkins Sep Delightful Taste. Jeff Gaines Mar Coffee With A Cardinal. Cardinal Oh, Cardinal You great scarlet bird. You hop along my porch rail But you don't say a word. Defiant So Defiant Of nature's camouflage. There is no way to hide Your bright red entourage.

Orange Bright Orange. Your sharp pointy beak. Gathers the worms and the seeds All the meals that you seek. Feed Feed her. This mate that you court. Such a noble young man You dance and cavort. Sing Sing sweet You and your friends I'll love your songs every morning 'Til winter comes 'round again.

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Babies Your babies I'll meet them come next year. When in the Fall, they'll alight on my porch And bring my morning's cheer. Cardinal Oh, Cardinal I'm so glad you're here, you see. I knew your parents and now you have come Singing just for me. I live pretty far out in the country. The birds here are really awesome. I love to go out late at night and listen to the Barred Owl or spend an afternoon sitting in our back meadow to watch the breeding pair of Peregrine Falcons that have a nest in one of our Methuselah oaks. But every morning as the sun rises and I have my coffee on the back porch Their songs begin with the very first crack of light.

They seem to have gotten used to me, as they now land on my porch rail, pretty close to me. They sing and court mates and sometimes, I swear, they just kinda bop around on the railing and watch ME! And you arrived without me, without my name, my voice or my hands that tremble and write. To see your birth I was born, I believed, because before I saw you my ear and my tongue Lived far away, because they were of a sea and because they were of a wind and because they were of a fire That only coexisted in dreams, where the god is more ferocious than your silence.

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Now I have your sound embossed upon the womb of your mother, who never would have birthed you. Let the Virgen conceive, who needed no male to give History millions of dead. Let the Blind conceive, who have no need for sight and forsake the life of the soul and the body. Let the beasts conceive, who howl, bray and enjoy being in heat. Not of the Heavens nor the Earth, I found you like a god when he said: I wish to see myself in the eyes of another, an other… And thus, he came upon himself.

To see your birth I was born, I hoped, my child, and I was just born with the day on which you arrive.

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And I have arrived to watch you bloom: I am a dying bee poisoned by another flower, So different from the honey in the honeycomb where it grew up and which it served with its vegetable psychosis. My hive disintegrates: The time to migrate and to melt other waxes in other hands has arrived. You are a sun-named fairy and your burning wings create the wind that dries this ink, Material like my blood.

And it is your name that my veins shall first see Upon my skin, like a fistula running from my tongue to my hands. This poem is a tattoo that freezes my joy, because it dictates that I cannot blink. Because I hold this terror that you may go when I take gaze from you and dawn will not arrive. And I must wait for you once more through another night of thousands of dark and icy stars. Was I born to see your birth?

I wished to believe so! And I was just born with the fading day. Because I was born to see how you alight upon the stone of my name… And you take flight. Que conciban las Ciegas que no necesitan de vista y destejen la vida del alma y el cuerpo. Que conciban las bestias que gimen, rebuznan y gozan del celo.

Mi colmena se deshace: Llega el tiempo de migrar y de fundir en otras manos otras ceras. Eres hada de nombre solar y tus alas ardientes inventan el viento que seca estas tintas, Materiales similares a mi sangre. Porque tengo este terror de que te vayas cuando deje de mirarte y no amanezca. Y deba esperarte de nuevo otra noche de miles de estrellas oscuras y heladas. She studied journalism and early childhood education. She worked in the national newspaper La Republica as a writer an editor where she published articles and columns about multiple topics.

She collaborated with articles in the cultural supplement of said newspaper. She also worked in different alternative newspapers and magazines. She was director of the onboard international magazine Join Us. They never thought that I was one of those who lets herself go in the mud to slurp her grief resigned; untamed grass trying staunchly to hide her rags.

A woman that from time to time holds orgies with death and continues to defy its pupils. They thought that I never rose above the razor of absence, of heartbreak and its betrayals; and that mending myself in my cloisters — with some Renaissance-style scribbles — I would be able to dispel agony, gorge that tries to extinguish the weariness of my steps. Es suficiente tener que morir anticipada entre el murmullo retorcido de los malditos maxilares que excorian con sus bocas de zarza el quicio de mi espalda.

Claudia Prado was born in Argentina and currently lives in Jersey City. She is the author of El interior de la ballena , which received the 3er Prize from the Fondo nacional de las Artes; Aprendemos de los padres; and Viajar de noche. At present, she facilitates Spanish-language creative writing workshops for numerous immigrant organizations in New York and is a current fellow at Culture Push. She says her sister gets furious if she hears that someone likes the country.

So they like the country? Screw them! Screw them like that year the cows mooed from hunger all night like the chicken whose throat was slit before its time, like us like dad, Angel and me using sticks as levers to get the animals up screw them like those sticks like those sore arms, like the dry tongues of the cows and the dead grass like the mules lugging the water and those years of work that were lost. It was the night dying of thirst. Dice que su hermana se enfurece si escucha que a alguien le gusta el campo. Dice que entiende el enojo de su hermana pero que ella era muy chica.

Could you sit down and play the piano while I watch you and taste a Merlot of ? Time is unavoidable, it slides by those petroleum lined ceilings. All night is a hidden highway a winding tunnel. Here the eyes and the hours drown. Last night a moon burst and its bright pieces filled with sounds these lost spaces between the carpet and the wet concrete.

Play the piano… When you arrived you had a pencil between your fingers and the desire to fill pages and pages, and many more white, grid pages. You wanted a book full of metaphors, you dreamed your head against the Brooklyn Bridge and you loved a vision of Crane through the glass. A heartbeat intoxicating your memory, discerning the intimate relationship between your steps and the phases of the moon, or the faded eyes of some woman hidden behind her veil made curtains.

Kiss the finger that feeds on the hybrid tulips and remember me. A monster beats, beats and twists its serpent body to the Hudson. Un monstruo late, late y enrosca su cuerpo de sierpe hacia el Hudson. Azahara Palomeque El Sur, is a Spanish poet. Palomeque holds a Ph. She lives in exile since Everyone so dead and with blushing faces reaching the shore, off to one side, looking at everything, waiting for the bus at the corner of their eye. Burial mounds so healthy like embroidered sheets, returning to cesareans, to the ripping, leafing part by part through the myth of petals, spring at the bus stop, motionless, for the angel to descend.

So otherworldly that the future had passed. Babies so ashen collecting leaves, dryly contemplating mirrors with an idea of an offshoot — such scion — women and men like sprigs, fields of fossils. Tan otro mundo que ya fue futuro. Her poetry has been translated into six languages. She has been invited to national and international poetry festivals and recitals. She is currently a Spanish senior academic professional in the Department of Romance Languages, at the University of Georgia.

Esa loca sombra de tu costilla. Christina M. Her poetry has appeared on gallery walls in The Ekphrastic Poster Show, on car magnets for The Living Poetry Project, and in various literary journals. She also serves as Editor-in-chief for the international literary journal The Nassau Review at Nassau Community College where she teaches writing, and she is the founder of the Long Island poetry circuit Poets In Nassau. The little sigh living inside an eardrum.

From every soft surface patchouli oil or PineSol. Wet leathery soles running uphill in rain. Calves still sore still burning after the incline. Fuzzy sweater no holes: the orange pink yarn strand-by-strand knitted into an itch-heavy-corded for winter snow; a dirt-snow mud-thinned caked into hems of denim. That frost bite scar waxy when light catches. Light from the lamp from the roadside sale from the long drive from the thumbtack on the map from the free weekend from the beginning when jobs and time and money and time and friends and time did not matter.

The quills have worked their way down to fascia muscle bone marrow cell. Ana Vidal Egea , is a published and an award winning author. She holds a Ph. She currently works as a communications director for a large public college in New York City.

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  5. Keisha regularly teaches English courses across The City University of New York, and also leads writing workshops for non-profits and other organizations. Born in He writes in Kurdish and Arabic. A selection of his poems have been published in more than an international poetic anthology. I rest my head on the rock of the oblivion! I do not care if I never wake up My Two children are whispering in joy and happiness as if they were two lovers and this is the most Important! Sargon Bolus had passed away in Berlin alone as he always alone, Totter in the brink of death as if he was a drunken Angel he was sick!

    Ageel Ali had passed away in a sidewalk, as if he was formed to be the crown of all the homeless. Mahmoud Albreekan was killed by a knife of a thief, he was a lighthouse guiding the pirates to his penniless pocket. My two children are eating French fries with mayonnaise. And this is the most important. I do not care if I will be put to death in my birthday like my brother Delshad Meruwani the strange angel of Kurdistan! More importantly, my two babies are okay! And I write simple farewell love poems Inspired by the flirtation of the waitresses and the beautiful young girls, passing in front of the cafe.

    Cities are similar Death is a wanderer dog, prowling along the skylines! My children are rolling a ball -like planet, and seem fantastic This is the most important.

    Bed-time Poems for Children

    My two children smiling in theirs sleep, dreaming, perhaps about birds or butterflies this is the most important. Death is the departure of the soul, I lost my soul a long time ago in the forests of the oblivion. Why should I care now! Silvia Goldman is from Uruguay and has lived in the United States since Her poems have been included in various journals and anthologies.

    Seamus Scanlon is a Galway born author based in New York. It was produced in Japan in to full houses. My uncle Jack slept late into the afternoon Lying like a stunned bear in his street clothes Staccato snoring through his broken nose. He played cards all night in Killaser Cigarette smoke anointing the room Bottles of beer staining the card table Broken black angel men hunkered down Waging life against the odds of resurrection.

    He drove in the middle of the road The high beams picking out the tall swaying rushes And black sods of turf laid out to be wind dried. Careening against the high wind break bushes on either side. Then breaking hard Gravel and pebbles spraying out in elliptical arcs.

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    He liked to make an entrance. I moved into the room The smell of cigarette smoke made me gag I pulled my t-shirt over my nose. The luminescent dials on the bedside clock — 5 am. Dawn was close. Death was close for someone too. Under his pillow I searched quietly with my fingertips. Then pulled his burnished Luger pistol out slowly. Theatrical director and professional actress, she has won three national awards for best director , and At my childhood, twice: at on a Sunday morning, when my sister was born and on a Thursday at noon, when my brother was born.

    And as the poet said: the song sounded different in the morning, in the evening and at night. At my adolescence, another Sunday at in the afternoon, when my father died. And the harsh and dry solitude appeared through my window. At maturity, I arrived several times: one Monday at in the afternoon when they diagnosed my illness, one Thursday at in the evening when my son was born, one Saturday at 6 in the evening when his father left the house…. And the deaf and opaque solitude leaned on my door frame.

    I arrived at old age, on a Tuesday, at 9 in the darkest of nights, -or one Thursday morning, very early that I no longer remember- when I learned that you had died. And the hard and deaf solitude sat on one of my armchairs. And I was a half-naked woman in a hotel room, before a sandwich that looked at me suspiciously. And I arrived at my old age again, on a Sunday -ill fated Sundays- at 6 in the morning when I took a plane to never come back. One by one the four seasons of this life endlessly short, parted without me and left me behind, without giving me time to follow them.

    Wind of the dawn, bless and protect the women who walk in pieces, running away from whoever disfigured them with acid or cut them in two with a machete. A la vida, a las A mi infancia, dos veces: a las Y fui una mujer semidesnuda en un cuarto de hotel, ante un emparedado que me miraba desconfiado. Carolina Pihelgas was born in Tallinn, Estonia in She studied anthropology of religion in University of Tartu. Currently she lives in Tartu, Estonia. Little Sisyphus gathers up stones and plays with them.

    Streets, houses, cars. A gentle glow in his hair, a breeze. Smaller stones can be stacked upon bigger ones, making a tower. Then, he knocks it all down and laughs. Some girls do. The one with the long hair. Sisyphus finds an especially pretty stone, delicately pink with light stripes. He keeps it, sticks it in his pocket, shows it to no one.

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    And the two grow up together. See, kellel on pikad juuksed. Koos kasvavadki nad suureks. Calles, casas, autos. La que tiene el pelo largo. Los dos van a crecer y hacerse grandes juntos. The equivocal rituals through the time circle Sliding at an angular displacement of That moment in which time occurs at a certain time.

    Instante en que el tiempo ocurre a una hora determinada.

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    We have to consider that kids do not want to miss out on anything. They also tend to perceive sleep as a chore rather than the luxury that it is. Yes, this is true. Parents often perceive that their child is not tired when they reach this peak. Instead their child may be overtired. Setting bedtimes before this peak is best. A common misconception is that children need less sleep than they actually do. Many children are not getting the sleep they need, and it is our job as parents to make sure that children receive not only the quantity of sleep that they require, but quality sleep as well.

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