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Different Distances



Eyes sparkling in dancing moonlight, 
my heart breaks, sinking from time away. 
Tear drops tease at corners and squeezed tight. 
Would you speak the words you need to say? 
Years echo different distances 
when strings pull taunt, tugging and pulling. 
Time sings of different distances, 
when love long gone, comes on suggesting. 
Roads traveled hard, long reminiscing 
in time not sweet, painfully enjoyed. 
Wheels and heels wear thin, steps now limping 
into oblivious heeds, annoyed. 
Miles stretch in different distances, 
throughout the places of our short lives. 
Leagues sink for different distances 
where depths create sickness that arrives. 
Tear down the walls building distances, 
constructions of within frightened minds. 
Would you show me true circumstances 
that desires truly, honest designs? 
T.M. Prada 
Copyright © 2014

Parallel Planes



Dreams from other realities 
exist fueling inside desires. 
Joy wills pale sensitivities 
into moments simply required. 
Parallel planes lift utmost ties 
when satisfaction once denied. 
Parallel planes sift sample buys 
with bulk quantities unified. 
Drift pleasantries unrequited 
stirring fantasies now between. 
Do those saplings growing righted 
examine dawnings splitting seams? 
Parallel planes shears elation 
of the dreamer’s sworn qualities. 
Parallel planes float on stations 
cueing stellar equalities. 
Notice calming remembrances 
toe the line of coincidence. 
Sincerity’s dalliances 
fills parallel plane’s Earth senses. 
T.M. Prada 
Copyright © 2014

Tripping Through Time



Pause for a moment, if you will; 
cease simultaneous motion. 
Look beyond this train-stopping trills, 
like instantaneous notions. 
Stumbling and tripping through time, 
thunder sounds, while bright lightning shines. 
Sliding on streams, tripping through time, 
my thetas float along resigned. 
Relax into your truth of self, 
a cessation, acting alone. 
Realize your respite is shelved, 
suspended in place, floating stones. 
Falling forward, tripping through time, 
conscience replaces movement’s mind. 
Spilling over, tripping through time, 
poetry’s rhythm moves design. 
Awaken anew amid worlds; 
appreciate simple silence. 
Step aligned words before dull swords; 
it isn’t a prison sentence. 
T.M. Prada
Copyright © 2014


Terri Summer 1979c

Here’s a topic many people don’t like: Truth. As a young child my father drilled into my head how truth was above all important when dealing with others. This is ironic since we live in a world full of liars and people who make their money off telling lies. So when I was about 8 years old and something bad happened to me, I ran to my father and told the truth. He believed me when nobody wanted to and we took a trip to the police station to make things right.
When I was between 10 and 13 I began writing stories, many times from dreams and daydreams. I do admit the stories were more exciting than my life and a form of escapism inside daydreams. At times when I interacted with others I was amidst these daydreams and told the stories as if reality. When I was 14, something awoke and changed me. It was like a switch turned on in a dark room. Suddenly I could paint and draw without any lessons. Those stories died away while the art played itself out and my reality of truth and honor took hold. It was very important to me. 
Because of that short period, people formed the false conclusions that I was on drugs, stupid, or both. They couldn’t be more wrong. At that time, only a few dared to ask me what the truth was. As years went by, truth became more and more important to me. I know the difference between fantasy and reality. It’s hard to pull yourself out of the inviting frame of mind. Many people wouldn’t even begin to venture where that frame of mind takes you.
This is the frame of mind I call active daydreaming. I use it to write poetry and prose. I use it in creating characters in my stories. I use to create works of arts and crafts. I use it to create new recipes. I know how to waltz back and forth between states of mind, which has become harder since I’ve had breast cancer. It’s a return to innocence. It’s inviting and tantalizing, as an escape the same way drugs and alcohol is to a junkie, except it’s natural and self-induced. 
When I was born, the cord wrapped tightly about my throat, strangling me so that I came out blue. My dad almost punched the doctor, because his baby sister was born the same way 10 years earlier. Doctors knew how to prevent the oxygen deprivation to babies in that way but the doctor wasn’t paying attention. My father loved me so much. He told me every so often about how his boss at Boeing’s had come to see me and offered to adopt me, but because of his bond wouldn’t even imagine of letting me go. I was planned. This is truth and love. Truth must exist with love; it’s hand-in-hand. It forms into trust. As long as there is communication, truth, love, trust, and honor can live on. 
Now think about that for a while. I came to this conclusion when I was 14. How long did it take you? Have you gotten back there yet or do you think it’s hooey? Don’t waste your life telling yourself that your truth must be everyone else’s truth or vice-versa. Discover your own truth. Live in it, dwell in it as long as possible, return to an innocent frame of mind, and ask yourself, “Are you happy.” You might surprise yourself. 
Thanks for reading. 

Biased Blues



Speaking loudly among the din 
more at a loss where to begin, 
my mind gasps for enlightenment 
as a means for entertainment. 
Education unrequited 
these biased blues much delighted. 
Philosophy’s broken tokens 
use biased blues in words spoken. 
Medias speak lies to masses 
without reference in classes. 
Moments slip, history repeats, 
while twisting facts in data tweets. 
Revisionist stories pretend 
that biased blues time now suspends. 
Remember 60 years have gone 
since biased blues birthed and begun. 
Propaganda echoes tonight 
while truth dwindles and stands right by. 
Look now and see my biased blues, 
which withers my dreams in dark rules. 
T.M. Prada
Copyright © 2014


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Small people exhibiting small minds 
of supposed glamor on rewind. 
Highschool classes pretending blank charms 
whispering lies and doing the harm. 
Forming clicks of stunted, closed-off norms, 
I pictured them with tails and cow-horns. 
Those clicks died a deserved painful death, 
way past their own fields of social depth. 
Keyboards sounding the typer’s intent, 
a momentary stroke of content. 
Technology adjusts bits and bytes, 
repeating rhythms somewhat contrite. 
Clicks amplify, circuit cues streaming, 
while the memory’s all but screaming. 
Click the switch on the picture boxes, 
snapshots form in color schemed padlocks. 
We met by chance on a Friday night, 
the meeting everything but slight. 
Our eyes met across a crowded room, 
friendship started and our love soon bloomed. 
We clicked at once, when we chanced to meet, 
talking excited, connected deep. 
Clicking through life with our own laughter, 
isn’t love and joy what we’re after? 
T.M. Prada
Copyright © 2014

Smiling Eyes



Echoes spill in the distance building roars; 
the silence forgotten forevermore. 
When would the time revisit long-lost cues, 
in between tears and weeping for rescues? 
Is there a need for traveled destiny, 
waiting for moments of eternity? 
Show me glimpses of your kind, smiling, eyes, 
of another love I won’t sympathize. 
Let me bathe in your charming, smiling, eyes; 
this emulation lives, I realize. 
Taste air currents in the rains to become 
that saddens the positive, shining, ones. 
Would you whisper and endear your heart towards 
adventures beckoning from other shores? 
Does the need longing for pure innocence
bend the will with a kiss of enchantment? 
Capture me now within your smiling, eyes 
since life exists for your embracing, sighs. 
End this torment inside your smiling eyes, 
a moment ceases and begins to die. 
Smell the earth beaten from the surf’s moisture 
nothing exists beyond this last venture. 
Will you stand as a solid reminder 
of irony’s sad, lonely, designer? 
And is madness a motioning linger 
for the love of long-dead necromancers? 
T.M. Prada
Copyright © 2014
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