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Degrees

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10 degrees of separation 

builds with expected deviation, 

upon this small revelation,

that life isn’t in rotation.

 

What would you have me do 

in life’s requisite IOUs?

Do you have a remote clue 

about what continues, 

or what’s issued?

 

8 degrees of limitation 

satisfies my temptations, 

into bland salutations, 

and bold libations. 

 

Why do we build these walls 

that tower to 80 feet tall? 

Can we see words all 

begging one to call, 

or at least try to recall?

 

degrees to understand 

why we can’t make a stand, 

that most don’t comprehend, 

and I would recommend. 

 

Is there forgotten time 

of your lurid designs 

that relished in decline?

Would you be so inclined 

to relinquish paradigms? 

 

4 degrees to sublimate 

or begin to hesitate, 

while your life stagnates, 

in moments of constant waits. 

 

Will you build your life anew, 

instead of pausing and not continue? 

Do you see closer you get 

shouldn’t cause any regret, 

or at least wanton upset? 

 

2 degrees from utmost bliss –  

would I be so remiss, 

to ask for another kiss? 

What would you miss? 

 

T.M. Prada 

Copyright © 2016

 

This

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This movement in time,
if I were so inclined,
is an exploration
without post or concentration.
 
This rally through existence,
a gradual continuance,
is an extravagance
into moments at a given glance.
 
This dreaming of another life,
an mitigated lesson in strife,
is an unregarded equivalent,
of a limitless coefficient.
 
This sensation is right,
even in my dimming sight,
is an unregulated supplicant,
when I’m tethered to hesitant.
 
This is a life unfolded,
with tainted hopes wielded,
as an unwanted artist heralded,
in infinite choices suspended.
 
This is it; this is that.
This is me in any hat.
Would you give, so I exact
the will of the poet intact?
 
T.M. Prada
Copyright © 2015 

Whispered Memories

St Louis River, Forbes, MN June 1989

 

The image comes from time vaguely, 
a moment evoked almost sagely. 
I remember it on lifted sighs 
from moments of days gone by. 
Currents through time ripple away, 
building vibrations in words you say. 
Could there be an altered course 
that conducts waves by no force? 
Remembering lost day dreams 
in removed whispered memories, 
I hope for a chance that screams. 
Find those whispered memories. 
Breezes drift in fragmented time 
something of my mind’s design. 
Would you erect better intentions 
the appetite for certain destruction? 
Memorialize my name in proper tenses 
beyond what’s felt with all your senses. 
Silent terms flutter in between 
passages that hide from the scene. 
Reminisce on those impressions 
in stolen whispered memories. 
Create a world of imagination 
that retrieves whispered memories. 
T.M. Prada 
Copyright © 2015 
Whispered Memories

Doubt

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Melodious momentum 
doesn’t always arrive 
in time of doubt and trust. 
I knew I couldn’t strive 
in moments of inspiration… 
and disappointment. 
Doubt has a way of moving about, 
when humans are on the way out, 
kicking and building all the while 
into expressions of pain with a smile. 
In moments of doubt my heart breaks , 
while pain takes on a life; 
it builds with and without any ease, 
until it’s no longer contrived, 
or created of aspiration… 
and anointment. 
T.M. Prada
Copyright © 2015 
Doubt

Perilous Ports

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Brigands and sailors alike 
hide and frolic on the side. 
Ships docked and moored, 
bring in the boom; 
give me some room 
in this perilous port. 
The web post tunes the tech 
who’s hopping on the internet. 
One could use PC or Apple 
going smoother than a Snapple. 
Hope your firewall is stronger 
while perilous ports ping longer. 
My mind takes me on the side 
which differs, but coincides. 
The side of ship refers
as like you’re describing rivers. 
Begin the song you understand 
when the perilous port misses sands. 
Remove at once this perilous port 
that attaches the IV of sorts. 
A stream which flows into bodies 
that breaks the sickness monotony, 
it contains the important fluids 
bringing life through ports to it. 
T.M. Prada 
Copyright © 2015 
Perilous Ports

Burnt

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Skin bubbles with heat,
an allergic response, 
which annoys the hairs, 
beating follicles in happenstance. 
Sunlight resists in between 
the moments of summer stances. 
Burnt. Burnt. Burnt. 
Bread crinkles in dryness 
toasting between coils and plates. 
A moment longer in wryness 
it turns charcoal, now a distaste. 
The electricity crackles softly 
while smoke fills listlessly. 
Burnt. Burnt. Burnt. 
Energy is growing dim sadly, 
nearing critical departure point. 
Oozing out of my pores daily, 
I move hoping to recover and anoints 
my soul for this moment, 
while realizing the exhaustion is here to stay. 
Burnt out. Burnt out. 
T.M. Prada 
Copyright © 2015 
Burnt

A Little Reality

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Blinking back destiny with a little reality, 
could you understand painful sanity 
when it welds with my life, really? 
Bouncing through my uncertainty 
I see just a little relativity. 
Waking in this life just a bit late. 
Is there a moment you can relate? 
My baby fills her life with song 
needing the sense, wanting to belong, 
and patiently seeing her plight wrong. 
I’m thinking of a little reality. 
Would you believe it insanity, 
or should I renounce that quality? 
Flipping through the pages of duality 
I center on my paused electricity. 
Building my movement through quiet 
another quotation may cause riots. 
My muted journey transfers through rhythm, 
a sentence or line in a forgotten hymn. 
Can’t I just say that I win?
T.M. Prada 
Copyright © 2015 
A Little Reality
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