URBAN POETRY ( NO FLOWERS HERE)

open source photo from internet dreamstime.com

You are different, Frances

Burning not like a candle flame

But like a conflagration

Your long, black hair holds witchcraft

Your features, a tabloid

Made up of many races

The sash you wrap around your slender waist

Perks up the earth-hued gown that covers you

You want life,

Want more,

Want to jump before looking.

Those feline eyes,

Must I be drawn into their ring,

Where courage battles death,

Where wounds are icons,

And where your greedy laugh is fed?

Published here by permission.

Gold Mine

By Hannah Miles

I’m not here to babysit,

to babysit my life.

To wait and watch on over it,

as the ticking clock goes by.

My days are not a safety-net

to shield me from past hurt.

I don’t exist to look pristine,

I’m here to gold-mine- in the dirt.

I want to move & groove and leap,

Not linger; static, still.

I want to feel rain on my skin,

I want to drink my fill.

I know it’s going to wound me,

to embrace our damaged world.

But surely souls set fiercely free

Hurt less, than ones kept furled.

The future draped in frightening disguises

There is no map to guide us on our way

Our host,the planet always has surprises

And speculations change from day to day

We feel an obligation we must strive

To make the earth a haven without sorrow

We challenge destiny and keep alive

The dream that we can influence tomorrow

Eva B. Hansen

Eva is regular contributor, check out the archive for more of her work.