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 Jan 2013 Ann
Sofia Emma
Jack
 Jan 2013 Ann
Sofia Emma
He would
sit in the kitchen
singing opera,
or songs in Yiddish.
And every time I would pay them a visit,
he would try to slip a twenty
into my purse
and I would always argue with him
telling him
to keep his money.
He would bring me into the kitchen
and tell me long and boring stories about his trip
to Israel
when he was a boy of only twenty.
"Not much older than you are right now!"
he would say.
And he would talk for over an hour,
and I would squirm in boredom, and make an excuse
to get out of there and go do something else
like watch tv, or text a friend.
When I was seven years old,
not too long after my parents' divorce,
on a mild spring day he sat with me on his apartment balcony
and read me twenty-six picture books,
and followed every sentence with his finger
so I
could learn to read as fast as he did one day.
And later
I fell asleep in his lap, and he didn't move for
hours.
Just to let me sleep.
The day he lay dying in the hospital in
a coma,
I spent eleven consecutive hours by his side
crying.
The day he lay dying in the hospital in
a coma,
I called my then boyfriend and asked him to come keep me company by his side,
and he told me he couldn't because
he was busy with some friend, over at his house,
getting high.
I never forgave him, because he was not even nearly as important
as the most important father figure I've ever had dying of kidney failure when he still had
so much more
to live for.
Now that he's gone, and his name is forever tattooed on my arm, and his memory
forever tattooed in my heart,
I long for his long boring stories just so I can hear his voice again,
even though it annoyed me two years ago.
I want him to slip another twenty into my purse
and pretend I didn't notice,
and later
slip it back into his enormous box of perfectly organized pills.
The things I should have done
when
he
was
still
alive.
I just read a poem on here about someone's memory of their Grandfather whistling. It inspired me to write this.
 Jan 2013 Ann
BarelyABard
If you close your eyes in a loud night the the entire universe is open to however you wish to interpret. Our perception of this fragment is a blueprint or a painting in progress of ourselves; whichever your prefer it to be.
I opened my eyes in the night and looked out across the barren trees. Winter always seems like a sad and lonely coma for nature when green rarely exists and grey is the king on a silent throne.
The trees have fingers though and you can see them reaching for the heavens when the leaves have fallen into nothing.  They reach towards the sky in longing and patience and the stars are easier to see. The fading light from the long dead in the sky stretch out across time and space to try and reach the momentarily dead hands of earth and hold on tight.
It was beautiful and the drums behind my eyes pounded in tune with the orchestra of strings on the wind.
 Jan 2013 Ann
J. D. Salinger
John Keats
John Keats
John
Please put your scarf on.
 Jan 2013 Ann
Richard Jones
My wife, a psychiatrist, sleeps
through my reading and writing in bed,
the half-whispered lines,
manuscripts piled between us,

but in the deep part of night
when her beeper sounds
she bolts awake to return the page
of a patient afraid he'll **** himself.

She sits in her robe in the kitchen,
listening to the anguished voice
on the phone. She becomes
the vessel that contains his fear,

someone he can trust to tell
things I would tell to a poem.
 Jan 2013 Ann
Micah
another gasp
raspy voices and coughs
scoffs and laughs
and the time that passed
here we are again
we knew, or
maybe just you
maybe i was just blind
hindsight and minds might
turn out the light
love, lust, and secrets
regrets and rust
there is no trust in us
we knew, or
maybe just i
maybe a lie
i’ll show you how to spell good-bye
but i’ll miss you tonight
but not for attention
retention, retained,
exasperated and sprained
i tried
but what for?
sometimes the effort isn’t enough
we knew, or
maybe just you
maybe a fix, but
not mine
affixed and fine
but not really
 Jan 2013 Ann
Jene'e Patitucci
The man of my dreams
looks and talks and thinks just like you
he has your eyes
and your hands
and your mouth
and your mind
he holds me just like you did
and he makes me feel as beautiful
and he makes me just as happy
he is just as smart and talented and witty
and he admires Henry Miller
and he likes his coffee black
and he smokes those Marlboro No. 27s
and he plays the most beautiful music I've ever heard

The man of my dreams
looks and talks and thinks just like you
except
he loves me back
© 2013 Jene'e Patitucci
 Jan 2013 Ann
David
Amber Ember
 Jan 2013 Ann
David
That amber ember
Makes me want to stay in this room,
But I have to go, because it's
The smell of your perfume
A whisper through the trees,
A sigh from my bruised
And ****** please.
The holes in my shoes
Are from miles of trying to get away
From you.
But you're just a long-distance ghost,
The one, my only, the woman I loved most.
 Jan 2013 Ann
Darbi Alise Howe
I do not claim to know much
Though I'm told each day is a lesson
Yet every hour seems
To layer question upon question
I find it sadly strange
That by a truce I'm worn thin
My heart finds itself confused
With nothing left to win
That night I walked away
One thing I should have said-
You were nothing more
Than a warm body in my bed

Maybe then I wouldn’t
Have to watch your hands entwine
With the silk palms of another
While I stare emptily at mine.
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