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"Urban Gypsies" by Gail Mahr

10/27/2023

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Picture
"Bleak Days" (Image Courtesy of Wylddane Productions, LLC)
They live in a car.  They
sleep in the back seat, on an old
blanket printed with Indian horses and arrowheads.
Their alarm clock is the night shift leaving
the Ford plant.
Mornings, she washes with water
from the radiator, cooks an egg
on the dull black metal of the hood,
and sets the dishes to soak in the trunk.
He reads last week's paper while
the news blazes on the radio.
"Hey, guess who died?" He calls out the window
to her.  But she is busy looking at
fabric samples; she would like to re-cover
​the seats someday.
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"Melt" by Gail Mahr

10/14/2023

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Picture
"March Thaw" (Image Courtesy of Wylddane Productions, LLC)
The icebridge weds the riverbanks,
Windwaves frozen,
still, polished pewter desert,
Thawing begins, aborts,
renews, leaving  heal dent and leaf shadow.

Below, the water swifts obscured,
sliding along the ice-crust's belly,
music behind dark, thick glass.

When patches of open water appear
the ice first pretends not to notice its loss.
It lingers, grasps the shore,
opens its heart to rushing death.

~Gail Mahr
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"Blocked Again"  by Gail Mahr

10/5/2023

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Picture
"Vague Days" (Image Courtesy of Wylddane Productions, LLc)
So, you think you're a poet.
A pencil follow you everywhere
like an unwanted foundling dog.
Bits of paper from shredded 
poems spin to the floor
every time you stand.
You sit staring at the
river, bearing down, straining
to deliver a better word for "flow."
Metaphors elude you like
handsome strangers on
crowded foreign streets;
you wander to that place in
your mind that knows how to
parallel park, and remembers the green
glass cowboy boot you won at
the county fair, but find 
nothing useful.
A thin blanket of pain unfolds
above your eyebrows.
You sigh, put your
pencil down and wait.

~Gail Mahr
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"Trying to Sleep in a Sailboat" by Gail Mahr

10/1/2023

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Picture
"Monterey Bay" (Image Courtesy of Wylddane Productions, LLC)
Tucked into a birth that fits only
a little looser than a shoe,
"Pitch" and "roll" suddenly have meaning.
The sealake inhales,
we thrust forward and yearn
against the anchors gravity,
While windwaves wag us side to side.
We stalk sleep
attended by ancient groaning wood,
an uneasy lullaby.

In morning's sparkle
We crawl blinking from below,
driving dreams away with cups of coffee,
And carve the water with with dinghy's oars
to island shore,
There sand underfoot
​Feels strangely too still.
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