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  Jul 7 Deb Jones
If there is one thing I have learned on my travels,
it is that
the currency of eternity is the fingerprints you leave on the fabric.

The slow imprint of a million miles walked. Set free your timid heart and
leave behind an outline of an essence.

An amorphous mold that denies the shape of the world around it.
Be a surprise.
Let them label you a miracle or a sickness.

In time they will come to realize
the edge of the world is a place to dance.
Reach forward, and gift sound to silence.
  Jun 11 Deb Jones
Denis Barter
I’ve a coat with many pockets,
that’s special in its ways,
Although young when I first donned it,
still fits me well these days.
With a host of special reasons
for wearing it today,
It's  gifted to my chidren,
when I reach my final day.

It’s got pockets full of memories
and others full of dreams,
from my ninety years of living,
with more to come it seems.
there’s a pocket for the future,
into which I hope to add,
all the moments I’ll enjoy,
be they jubilant or sad.

Should I feel downhearted:
an occasion that is rare,
I’ll recall a favoured happening:
or a moment I can share
with anyone that’s listening,
that has befriended me.
With a moment that I treasure,
I deem a priceless memory.

When friends have come together,
a common human trait,
we’ll reminisce on our early years,
and how we faced ill Fate,
We talk of our successes
and times of yesterday,
as for achieving the impossible?
We’ll brag the livelong day.

But there is a pocket hidden,
it’s one embedded deep.
Within it, lie my broken dreams:,
that have hurt me rather deep.
They rest with irksome memories:
that make me sad and blue.
as do my angry thoughts,
that I'll not disclose to you.

There’s memories that are cheerful:
there’s others that are sad.
Whilst others make me wistful,
for the better times I’ve had.
When I think the world’s against me,
I’m alone and feeling bored,
I’ll rummage through my pockets,
for the memories I have stored.

In its pockets by the number,
there’s many treasured dreams.
Amongst memories I cherish,
there’s a host of madcap schemes.
Despite pockets overflowing,
and others fully filled,
there’s plenty more to fill,
before my life is stilled.

Yes, my coat of many pockets,
is a cherished one I wear.
Though somewhat worn and tattered,
about it I really care.
It may not look inviting,
when hanging on a hook,
but Memories therein stored,
invite your second look.

Rhymer. August 10th, 2020.
Justa little thought I've had as the year progresses and life gets a tad tougher due to the pandemic.
  Jun 11 Deb Jones
Eugene Osowski
To Be One in Thought  
With a Woman of Madness


She threw small handfuls
Of old popcorn in the air,

Watching the birds flutter briefly
Before they descended on the food;

Then she pretended to scold them,

As if they were the most
Favored of her children
Or the most charming
Of available demons.

She noticed me watching her one day,
And grinned, assuming that I was

One with her in thought.

“These sons-of-*******

Are hungry,” she said.
Deb Jones Jun 10
Put a little sass in your hips
Taste of Tequila on your lips
Oh la-la! The Cha Cha Cha!
Slide together. Slide together.

Turn when you see the whites of his eyes
The small amused grin
Oh, this feels like a sin

Oh, la-la! The Cha Cha Cha!
Slide together. Slide together.

He holds your hands way up high.
While you turn
The heat of his hands on your waist…
Oh, how they burn

Like the ballerina in your first jewelry box.
Do you remember her?
Weren’t we all so self important then?

Oh, la-la! The Cha Cha Cha!
Slide together. Slide together

And dip.
Deb Jones May 31
My friend is dying
Without any other symptoms
She went into kidney failure
Two days ago.
She started hospice today
She is 51 years old.

The truth about tragedies?
It brings some people together
While driving others apart
It feels like a tide of inevitability

Which type are you?

I mourn alone
Rather than lose control
in front of others.
This is not by choice
But by nature.

Which do you do?

I comfort others
It tears at my heart
When they hurt
Most of my tears
Are for their pain

Which is worse for you?

But the deepest wounds
I suffer
Are the ones that could
Have been prevented.
Those wounds cause me to cry
Silent tears
Or a sudden sob escapes me.

Do you feel the same?

I have guided loved ones
To die with dignity
Reassured them as they stared
Into my eyes with fear
They take parts of me with them
I give them this willingly

Do we sacrifice enough?

Sometimes those missing parts
Leave holes that leak
Into my very psyche
My soul, mind and spirit.
And that’s ok.
Because otherwise it would
Mean I didn’t love them enough
And I do. I do.  

Do you feel the same?

The following is my favorite mantra
Lokah Samastha Sukhino Bahvantu
It is a blessing to everyone in the world.
For peace and love to unify us.

How do you channel your pain?

Not only is the mantra sentiment beautiful but the sing-song sound of the mantra is very soothing to my soul.
I wrote this last year. I couldn’t find if I posted it. If I did I am sorry for wasting your time
  May 31 Deb Jones
Eugene Osowski
Having Wandered the Waterfront
Of a Small Southern Town,

I Came to Believe
That I Am the Poetry,
Elicited by the Ringing of Town Bells


The old town bells are ringing like a paean to the bay,
And I am standing on the steps above the little cay

That slips beneath the fishing pier
And drops into the deep,

To which my mind has wandered
In its loves so long asleep

They ring from out a tower in a park some blocks away,
And in their staid recital, I am pleased to hear them play

I sense in them an unshed tear
That they were meant to wake;

And in a swell of sentiment,
My heart begins to break

They seem as if a thing I dreamed that moved me long ago
Whose purpose then I could not guess and value did not know

They bid me down a path too fair,
A way too dear to dare,

For I am old and cannot risk
The beauty that is there

Yet I will share a thought with you that I fear to advance;
It is that though I have but love, I live love’s full expanse

I am the portrait and the poem,
The song that begs a tear –

The essence of a sentiment
That gives me meaning here

I am God’s fragile masterpiece, his imagery, and art,
The faithful hand that sculpts His form in every tender heart

I am the waking of the mind,
The writing of the tome;

The looking back upon the bay,
As I am going home

Nostalgia is more than a sigh I gather from the past;
It is the pith of my dear soul and all it has amassed

Through each decision, joy, and pain
That I in wonder hear

Upon the sounding of the bells,
When God to me is near

I pass the tower on my way, and silently it stands,
And I am mulling how its clock is round with moving hands

I hear the bells within myself;
I hear the bells that chime

Within my writing of these lines,
Your reading of the rhyme.
Written on Behalf of God's Many Humble Scribes
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