Only four of us today
We can have some tea and don't have to pay

Poems are ready to display
Who will start to read today

Poems on love, poems on war
Poems on strangers at the door

Minds are working oh so fast
From the first poem to the last

We put them up on a screen
Where all our poems can be seen

Maybe there is something you're afraid to say
Or someone you're afraid to love
Or somewhere you're afraid to go
It's gonna hurt
It's gonna hurt because it matters

                                       - Jhon Green

Blistering hot the other day
Humid heavy air
I prayed to the heavens
For more pleasant weather
And I thank the Lord
For making it cooler
And more bearable
Praise the Lord
You answered my prayers

Everywhere I go
Everybody wants to know
"Where's the lady"
They all ask
I answer, hiding behind a mask
Of smiles and laughs,
And say to them:
"She's gone, she won't be back again;
I don't care"
And shrug my shoulders.
But now my life is so much colder
I walk alone, the crowded streets
And tell my tale to friends I meet
Then I turn, walk on with the truth
With tear-filled eyes
I think of you

He calls and
I do not answer
so it becomes
a red missed
call, a blot
of scarlet
like I’ve tried
to stick a
plaster on
a bleeding
knee too early.
He is probably
angry, like
the woman
opposite me,
tapping her
foot to the
vapid music
of the train.
I take out
my diary
and strike silver
through today.
It is over.
The day has
slid into
the envelope
of night.

I feel at home in the liminal        in the space inbetween,
between past, future, reality       fantasy, this, that.  
In the liminal, the past and         future lap around me,
demanding waves that climb      high and share their spray.
The salt water clings to my          hair, stiffens it like straw
and I stay, ungrowing in              the liminal.
I live between thresholds             on the threshold
and sometimes the tension          tugs and tears and rips
my fingernails, my hair                my skin.
Thresholds are supposed             to hurt, to push, to compel
but it’s where I rest and               make my home.

The liminal does not rip me apart as it should.

It’s hollow in the liminal             a void that digs my insides
out. It’s a cave in there                 walls of apathy and dread.
My mind grows in on                   itself and I live in it,
where it plays in the                    liminal.
It cannot survive                          beyond the threshold
so I stay in the house                   where the windows are
clear and the doors                      are unlocked. Nothing is
keeping me in but                        myself.
I feel at home in                            the liminal, where the tensions
hurt and erode                              but it’s safe here,
or safe enough                               in the space inbetween.

I fear the sea and the tides so I stay on the shore.
It hurts but not as much as it should.