human tweeting

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This Winter Day

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Words

Watermark

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When I leftYou remainedA watermark Those who know meWho see right through meSee you in me Paul Rogers is a writer, stepdad and punk rock bassist...

When Hurricane Hearts Discuss Retrogrades

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Roguish Mercury went on a wicked mission this round, squared up with Pluto to shine racism in the limelight— Black boy shot at for needing school...

Arisen

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                            Dawn hesitated,                  Behind the clouds                           Clawing, at the                Dark summit scrapple                           And brought to her                Were age quivers                           Of bird shadows                From sun flights. Kristen Marshall is a founding member of Boulder...

Tree in Winter

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You will be here again. Your eyes closed in brightening light from a window, open in winter. Magenta blooms lidded, your forehead held by a shoulder put forward...

Hello

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I watch your skin breathe pain tells us we need a change I think if you were awake you’d be kissing me senseless but you aren’t and...

Going Back to Bed

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Going back to bed is the ultimate adult dream Subject of snooze button thoughts                 Excuses Reasons they may have closed...

Know less, wonder more

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I’ve always had a hard time expressing myself,” says poet Andrea Gibson. It’s hard to believe, especially since Gibson has made a career doing just...

WANDERER

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tea leaves spell out my thursday blues my mother calls it restless mind.  Plastic tulips sit on my nightstand so that at least one thing is timeless  every morning the sun sinks into my chambers invitation...

This Winter Day

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What are WE to one another? If not reminders of our     Continuous connection to Earth     And to the Love inherent in Her Creation. Where...

Landscape, Mid-Consequence

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The oft-oppressive miracles of the combustion engine beckon from whiny highways of a degradation we must call fair An asymmetrical face appears in the exhaust drift between the taillight and...

Small Window

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I discern a tiny space in one of fifteen minutes; two days later, I deduce which one, approach it and peer inside (can’t tell whether it’s bright or dark), hoping to glimpse a poem — or the closest edge of one. Jethro McClellan was born in Boston, moved out West before he turned five, and has called Boulder home for most of his life....

Arguing with Something My Dharma Teacher Said

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There was a bumper sticker in Colorado in the 90’s that said, “Shit Happens” — you remember the one? The next one was a...