Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 Aug 2017 betterdays
Nuha Fariha
Some days my bones weigh heavy and I
Can hear creaking down the back of my
Spine it sounds like my grandmother's
Chair in the middle of the night when
She sits in an empty room and knits
A spool of thread jumbled forgotten
Slowly unraveling this body of mine

Some days my bones weigh heavy from
The lives I am not living and from the life
That I am and my chest constricts my
Heart thumps as fast as the hummingbirds
Wings and my ears fill with the sound of  
waves crashing on some distant shoreline
washing dried remains of a moored whale

Today I am carrying my bones forward
Pressing out the air bubbles between
The ligaments and presenting them to
You in a porcelain case bound with a
Scarlet ribbon darker than my blood
So you can wash them with a new light
Colors, have ways of making us soar,
or fall.......they make us buoy...
they, too, can divide and isolate...
long ago,  a magazine
was colored and identified for a reason.....
also,
a kind of blue-sy music, upon which i groove,
...was named for the same reason...
.............a magazine..... a music genre,
became instruments...and parts of
dark and golden moments.......recalled
and enjoyed, every now and then...they're
painted.......registered in people's minds....

life is a magazine of stories, of  poetry...
life is a jukebox...filled with soundtracks
life is an album...a collection of smiles
...of colorful images and emotions
reddish brown at first...turning yellow brown,
with tinges of taupe.......mottled through the years,
turning...into fading shades  of sepia...

i refuse my late summer moments on earth
............to be done in Grisaille,
painted, only in tones of grey and dark green...
...it is written...one day, life would be hued with
subdued colors...the blues, silvers and grays,
...........will be cold as winter...

but, until then,
i'd rather be consumed with liveliness
i would adorn my days with peach and lilac
blossoms, hang fuschia pink pennants
on my wall....to brighten my disposition,
i'd practice...play the guitar once again,
i'll wear my ruffled, dappled-purple skirt,
and yellow converse sneakers when i walk on
the pavement....under blue skies that enhance
greens, and gold...colors that breathe existence
transforming weariness to courage...

wherever...whenever, however possible,
i speak, whisper to  God words of gratitude,
and endless thanksgiving...i  pray for strength.    
and acceptance........prepare myself...when,
.....i, too...would face my own moments,
...............of fading sepia.

Sally

Copyright August 6, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
***Sepia is a dye, deep brown in colour, like the colour of very old photographs.

***Grisaille-- is a technique in which a painting is rendered solely in tones of gray, sepia, or dark green.
  *
***Sepia--a magazine for African-Americans which existed from 1947 to 1983.

***In the late 1940s and early 1950s, R & B (rhythm and blues) music was called race music or sepia music.
 Aug 2017 betterdays
Seema
My heart is humming a song
While sorting the things that went wrong
He was part of my unworded song
And I kept going on for long
Now, the storm has started within
Drops of tears cast as rain
My face, blank...like it's always been
While my heart sang in rhythmic vain
My lips won't utter a word out
Thou my wounded soul gave a silent shout
The stubborn mind played my ego beats
Pushing me a few steps down
Remembering all the missful treats
Of how lifes been a ridiculous clown
Once was a fragranced flower bloom
Now, am a paper cut flower, laying in my room
Hoping to hear from him, one last time
To ****** my feelings again and accept his crime
But wrong was I, he worded my song
And sang it right all the way long
He kissed my hand and romantically apologized
For all the wrongs, he finally realized
Our love is strong, till to date
Wedding bells on, just few days is a wait...

©sim
This is a fictional daydream write.
 Aug 2017 betterdays
wordvango
one of my dark secrets
I have this fascination with
the dark poets of rock the dead ones
the ones who blew their minds out
Peter Green
the crazy diamond the
Pearl
Jim Morrison
of course Jimi
I feel connected to van Gogh who died never
selling a painting
an angst a dark sided dream I
wake up to
with visions at times and words caught around my ears
with painted landscapes, I can't touch
so baby
I just wanted to say I am
touched
 Aug 2017 betterdays
Emma Cooper
I love the way you throw your hand out the window when you drive;
Careless and free,
feeling the rush of wind pass through the space between your fingers,
the earth’s breath kissing your knuckles.

I love the way you go barefoot when we walk through the woods.
People passing by throw strange glances your way,
and you tell them they’d understand,
if only they took their shoes off too.
They do not know the softness of pine needles under bare toes.
They have no connection with the ground under their feet,
it does not speak to them how it does to you.

I love the way you sing with your eyes closed,
focused on the sound of the drums, the sound of that ancient heartbeat.
The language sliding off your tongue a victorious cry
that we are still here, and we haven’t forgotten.
They may have tried to pry it from our lips,
but songs fly up from your lungs, like sparks from a fire
that is still burning strong.

I love the way you laugh, throwing your head back,
letting loose your joy into the air,
pollinating the space nearby with your hard-earned light.
The world may be a dark place,
but you cast that brilliance wherever you can,
and it gets a little brighter.

-Emma Cooper
Rapidly the girl speaks  in convoluted riddles,

Seems like  bent to push him in to a puddle,

Intrigued he sets out tightly tying his girdle,

Being the type who always wants to be in the saddle.

Wanted to unravel the true intent, concealed,

He did go about it in right earnest, the next moment.

Watching her blue eyes for any sign of betrayal.

One serious doubt, persisted all the while.

Which one of them is naive here, him or her?

He could sense she poking fun of him, now and then.

In some way, does it to him send, a clue, clear?

Now, he gets it, in a flash, who is at fault here.

The moon shine, abruptly wanes , can't last for ever.

Coming from under the shadows, the sun shines brighter.

"Ay, there is the rub" he heard him tell himself!

When they, the duo swooned were already busy canoodling!
 Aug 2017 betterdays
Jackie Mead
My dad Joe, was a gift from heaven, put on this earth to love only one woman.

To have their children and love them true, each day with my dad was one in which you grew.

He loved and cherished each one of us three, Philip, Jacqueline & Christopher - with Hilda, his love, by his side the family was complete.

Riding a bike, driving a car, hiking up cliffs, hitting a ball, roller skating, skate boarding, travelling far, our Dad was always there to catch us lest we should fall.

Sunday trips to the beach or river, climbing Kit Hill, trips to Morwelham Quay, treks on Dartmoor, ice cream treats, and Callard & Bowser toffee
.
Swimming, body surfing, Phil learning to drive on the beach, French cricket played on the shore, all of these outings gave us fond memories we still adore.

Traveling with Chris and Mum on sunny days, staying in B&B's while they were away, Chris long jumping into the pit with Dad by his side was as good as it could get.

Dad gave us each the tools to live our lives, independently, confident and worldly wise.

He gave to me a love of the three P's -  people, politics, and poetry.

To my brothers, he gave a love of all sports but mostly his beloved Cricket along with Rugby and Athletics.

When each of us married he was there by our sides, smiling with pride, accepting our partners into the fold.
To us all he advised don't do as I say or as you are told; seek out what or who makes you happy until you grow old.

As our families expanded and grew he became a Grandad, first Michael came then Simon, Jason, Robert, Sophie, Danny, Sammy, Lola, and Jonah, he encouraged them in all that they did whether sports, drawing, dancing, work choices - 9 Grandchildren kept him busy as you can imagine.

Then later in life as  Great Grandchildren were added Tansy, Alfie & Roman, life remained busy.

My Dad was one in a million of that I am sure, I feel his presence every day, when out walking I feel he's not far away.

When I'm playing with the grandchildren I know he's there too, smiling with pride in everything they do.

When the family get together he's never forgotten and all of his grandchildren have their own stories to share; of Grandad and his sense of humour, his love, support, and care.

We miss you, Joe ***
First anniversary of my dad's death next Wednesday, he had a long and happy life and gave us such happy childhood memories, he was our rock until he needed us and then we were his rock.
I miss him every day and can't believe that he hasn't been here to meet his great grandchild number 3 Roman, he is a fighter and his great grandad would have been so proud of him
 Jul 2017 betterdays
Joel M Frye
A trickle of time
melts its way down
a mountain of perhaps.
Other trickles
from others' potentials
merge and mingle;
become a stream
which grows as it gathers.
Soon, soon,
time no longer
is guided by stone
but carves it,
carves unwilling rock
into fissures.
Earth itself is rent
by what might have been;
time gathers the debris
and carries it downstream,
deep and slow and wide.
The canyon it cut
is deep and wide as well,
and twists and turns
with branches and dead ends.
Our lives are but a shout into the void,
echoes which carry and fade
along canyon walls,
unless and until
an ear downstream
might hear them.
Perhaps they will;
perhaps not.
The river and canyon both
are fickle;
hold their secrets close.
The only potential
once here

is to shout
until no voice is left.
Thanks to an old friend, Harry Weyer, who sent pictures of the Grand Canyon.  His pictures took me with him.  

Pray I might be faithful to my own words.
Next page