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 Jul 2018
Anne Curtin
Ten years ago tonight
we were watching
our mother die.


The bedroom -  with her
beloved blue shutters -
littered with used
medical equipment

her low moans.

Someone inside me
remembers the stench
of cancer

Now  her three daughters
stand in a triangle with
our backs turned -


and no one says a word.
This is a poem my sisters will never see.
 Jun 2017
South by Southwest
Dirt

Block

Wood

Basic definition

Plus space always between

As a boy always inviting

The dogs liked it

Spiders liked it

I liked it

I could see feet come and go

Hear the car doors slam

Someone asking ,Where's Tom run off to ?"

That day ,

The fight inside spilled out

Angry steps  

Yells and screams

Shouts

The sound of fists hitting flesh

Breaking bones

You crumpled to the ground

Vacant eyes staring at me

But you couldn't see

Blood began running

Hands picking you up

I could hear you

Bouncing on the back seat

The door slammed

Another opened

"Slam"

The car roared angrily

Gravel flung everywhere

Dust settled

All's quite

Did I tell you

It's cool under there ?
 Mar 2017
David Noonan
One fleeting chance to catch you between trapezes
Yet my head was bowed, my thoughts immersed
In another dream of another life that i longed to live
A moments lapse careers you to that downward spiral
Through all those safety nets, all those webs we wove
Once so secure borne from our labour, love and toil
Exposed now like a promise of night through a civil dawn
As you fall through each of my declarations of trust
You blow out the candles and knock out the lights
Of celebrations and occasions now shattered like glass

Blackness descending through this never blinking eye
As those moments and time perpetually relive yet resist
The blood still refusing to flow freely through my veins
As i sit and wait for this evening coffee to run cold
That i may embrace the sanctuary of night once more
For I was one that could never dream in the dark
No more than one who could ever make amends
Between those two trapezes that signaled our end
 Mar 2017
Cait Harbs
It's all too much.

I don't know how to say it better
than saying it like that, because -

How do I wrap all the ends
of the universe
into a napkin
and pass it over to you
without spilling something?

How do I scoop the depths
of humanity's depravity
into an ice-cream
that won't melt
down the sides
or crack from the pressure?

How do I tell you
how terribly awful
it must be
to have to argue
with people
about whether
mutilating the genitals
of 5-8 year old children
is right or wrong?

How do I tell you
about the terror that seizes you
when you talk to someone you love
who honestly believes
that pigmentation,
geographical location,
religious affiliation,
****** orientation,
are reasons
to be killed,
beaten,
detained,
condemned?

How do I describe that
sickening feeling
that I feel
when I'm going about
my coffee-cup flavored,
pill-prescribed diet,
acting like the day is normal,
when I know:
people are being bombed,
sleeping on the streets,
set on fire,
beheaded,
******,
dying,
for doing
or being
the same things
I am going to do and be today
right after I finish my latte?

How do I live with that
knowledge
that girls are kidnapped
for going to school;
that four-year-olds
are holding assault rifles
when they should be
holding dolls;
that five-year-olds
are being trained as soldiers
when they should be
playing with toy soldiers;
that children
are giving birth to children;
that every 9 seconds
in the United States,
a woman is beaten
or *****;
that I have an iPhone
that can do a billion things
and there are
food riots in India,
that -

That I could keep writing
until my fingers were whittled
down to bone
and I wouldn't finish
that list?

How do I describe that,
all of that,
except by saying,

it's all too much?
 Jan 2017
David Lewis Paget
We’d been together so long, it seemed
That nothing could tear us apart,
We lived our lives in a world of dreams
And Barbara lived in my heart,
But frost had covered the window pane
And then it began to snow,
As Barbara turned, with a look of pain
And said, ‘It’s best that you go.’

I didn’t know what she meant at first
As I looked up from my book,
“Go where?’ I questioned, but thought again
As she quelled my heart with a look.
‘I said I want you to leave,’ she cried,
And her face was set in stone,
‘We’ve come to the end of the path,’ she sighed,
‘I want to be left alone.’

Then suddenly all confusion reined
I didn’t know what to say,
Whatever had brought this mood on her,
I wished it would go away.
But she was firm, and she packed my things
And ushered me out the door,
I stood there shivering in the cold
To be back on my own once more.

I found a flat and I camped the night
There was barely a stick or chair,
I’d have to buy all the furniture
To make it a home in there.
But I sat and cried in the empty room
As the question came back, ‘Why?’
I’d loved her so and my heart was torn,
I thought I wanted to die.

I went to her with my questions, but
She slammed the door in my face,
Whatever love she had had for me
Had vanished, without a trace.
It hurt so much that she cut me off
With never so much as a sigh,
I called that all that I wanted was
To tell me the reason, why?

The roses had bloomed so late that year
Were still in the garden bed,
We’d always tended the bush with joy,
We both loved the colour red,
So I snipped one off as I left one day,
And planted it under her door,
To let her know that I loved her still
I didn’t know how to say more.

Her brother called in a week or so,
Said she was in hospital,
She’d gone in just for a minor cure
And thought that he’d better tell.
So I caught the bus and I went on down
With a quaking fear in my heart,
She hadn’t said there was something wrong
Before she tore us apart.

The doctor came in his long white coat,
His brow and his face was grim,
I said, ‘Don’t tell me the news is bad,’
He said, ‘I’m out on a limb.
Your wife just passed from the surgery,
But she pulled, from under her clothes,
And asked if I’d pass this on to you,’
In his hand was a red, red rose.

David Lewis Paget
 Nov 2016
Sjr1000
In the time before the distance
there was a woman I dearly loved

Her eyes they
shined while we
stood in a moonlit alcove
making love

She told me of the
bad places she had
come from once before

She said you'll
find my nightmares
will scream from  
the dark to the dawn

She told me
not one could ever hold her
she needed to be free

She said guilt
is what you
give yourself for
doing exactly what you please

I thought about my wife
I thought about my children
I thought about my past
I thought about my future

She said
which misery do you prefer

she said
come on upstairs
I'll meet you there

We were stuck on the street
neither of us
had the key

I looked at her
She looked at me
Neither of us knew
what to believe

She wound up
with the other guy
moved me along so smoothly
I didn't even know how she did it

I ended up
stuck in Reno
in the crummy apartment
by the river
trout fishing every afternoon
my children on the phone

She sang me a nightmare
song
She showed me exactly where I  belonged

If you are out on
the avenue and you
see her there
tell her
after all these years
I probably still
care
At least when the moon and mood
are blue
and I'm thinking about
my past and future too
thinking about my fate
in the time before the distance.
 Oct 2016
The Lunchtime Poet
To my dearest love

now you're in heaven
forever you will run
joyful and carefree
a young girl having fun

always youthful
not growing old
never feeling pain
so I've been told

no more worry
not another sleepless night
you are with God
and all of His might

facing life
without you by my side
is a pain
impossible to hide

when I go to bed
I pray every night
that soon I will die
and go into the light

waiting for eternity
my beautiful bride
soon I'll be there
forever by your side

your beloved husband
 Oct 2016
Rapunzoll
my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.
© copyright

NOTE: i've noticed people sharing this to other sites without having spoken to me about it beforehand, I do not give permission for this and all poems are copyright, keep this in mind.

------------------------------------------------
my mother never actually said this to me, but i figure i'll probably end up saying it one day if i have children.

it's pessimistic yes, but i know there are exceptions. please don't take to heart. it's more a criticism of myself than all poets. :)
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