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there was a new guy in the park
among the homeless

He arrived just after the mayor had
eradicated all
the tents and improvised huts

and it was easy to spot him
He was the one who
always had a book in his hand, always
reading

"Check out the new guy," they
said. "An intellectual. Heh, hey buddy,
what you reading that for? Not like
you gonna get a degree that'll take
your *** outta here anytime soon. Haaahahah!"

He was reading his own poems
from a time when
he was young and his dreams were
still alive

Today nothing was alive
but misery itself
INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/bogdan_1_dragos/
The old lady kept coming by
the hospital to assure the medics that it'll be
okay

"He's a true fighter," she said. "I know he'll make it.
He has won the battle with drugs
twice in the past. He'll make it this time as well. I
know it. I feel it. I believe in him."

"Mam," said the doctor. "We found rusty fragments
of broken needles stuck in his arm. Now, since
you're his only relative
I do believe we shall carry out a discussion
involving septic shock. The effects..."

"He'll make it! I know he will! He's a true
fighter and a champion. I believe in him."

he didn't make it
but it was fine apparently. When they showed his
body in the morgue, the old lady
didn't flinch.
Told them that's not her son. That was a dead
body and her son was alive. He'd never
die like that. He was going to make it.
She was sure he was going
to make it.
POEMS ON INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/bogdan_1_dragos/
Where we 1st met: 41.06°N, -74.02°W

Our first kiss: 41.09°N, -73.92°W

Our first date: 41.16°N, -73.97°W

Our first “I love You:” 41.07°N, -74.02°W

Our first carnival: 41.01°N, -74.01°W

Our first vacation: 20.21°N, -87.45W
Sun
She looked at him like he was the sun,
In that she never looked at him,
Except out of frustration.

She complained when he was gone,
But she never looked.

On days he was stronger, she hid from him
On days he was muted, she complained.

She never looked at him until he was leaving,
And in the beauty of the sunset she wondered how,
She'd never seen him before
Found this on Tumblr a while ago, felt I’d share it
there are the ones
that feel it climb up
the shadow towards the light,
hesitation on every rung,
each wave of the arising
      overwhelms  unabated ―
and woe betides those
who are on the run
from a storm's deluge


A rousing ocean breeze
stirs inside the memory
of an unframed seashell
lying on the hearth mantel;
heightened sensitivity
lapping soundlessly,
spindrift plashing
the shoreline
of another world's
feigned peace


Perhaps the muted voice
of guilty pleasures,
hushed by their own
hidden truths
Feeling the unfelt textures
of every stifled vibration
left unbreathed


The naked truth befallen
so cold and lonely
Running in circles,
volatile as all those
     unspoken excitations raging ―
and the whispers of those
who hear not
the voices in the wind


An emotionally enslaved  heart
tarries,  marooned high and dry
in a memory on a distant sand bar
     lain fallow for so long ―
stagnant darkness
of an unsated soul
gathered on the back
of a parched tongue
sullied wordless


Rising up through
a dusty hieroglyph corridor
through an unlocked
labyrinth gate;  vestige echoes
from somewhere left behind
in an incomprehensible
abandoned wake


It's getting harder and harder
   for an insatiable soul to breathe ...
   climbing up a tree trunk―
up within the silence
of the listening tree


  Toes dug into
the rough bark furrows ―
fingers reaching upwards
beyond their deepest known grasp


A shadow stranded
out on a hangin' bough
hearkening without ears that hear:
“perhaps they’ll listen now“  
the wingless bird sings
in psalms that fly away
on tattered feathers
over untamed waters roil


Back to nature’s waning youth,
the bough bends unbroken
to taste the freedom
of the wild absolving seas



Jesse Stillwater
June     2018
Notes:                                                                                                          
a friend sent  a link to a deeply thought provoking modern classic 70's song about Vincent Van Gogh and the complexities of imperfection some of us relate .... i'd listened to the words prior but never heard before now.

  Title is last final lyric line from:  "Vincent" (Starry, Starry night) 1971
Writer(s): DON MCLEAN, ENRICO NASCIMBENI,
ROBERTO VECCHIONI
500 memories, that I can see.
500 memories, that I believed.
500 memories, all of the time.
500 memories, that remind.
500 times,that I have failed.
500 trials, to no avail.
500 moments, lost to the sea.
500 memories, mean that much to me.
500 memories, 500 times,
500 memories, none of them mine.
500 moments of joy, that I’ll never see.
500 reasons, the “joy” of being me.
500 regrets, 500 mistakes.
500 people, lost to time.
500 times, I was forgotten.
500 times, and each one hurt more.
500 memories, is all that I have.
500 memories, and a painful laugh.
500 memories, all of them sad.
500 memories, I hope you’re glad.
500 memories, and a ruined life.
500 memories, all full of strife.
500, hours of stress.
500 moments, was all it took.
500 memories, stuck like a hook.
500 memories, and a painful past.
Today I am finding shade under the leaves of a 🌲 🌲 🌲
                       TREE

these roots I cut dawn a long ago 💀💀💀💀🌳🌳🌳🌳🌴🌴🌴🌲
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