my son is a better version of me

i easily break
he rides storms smilingly

i crumble in a crisis
he handles stoically

my emotions play loud on face
he hides it handsomely

i'm doubtful of exploring
he ventures courageously

i speculate on life too much
he bothers not seriously

i am not
my favorite poet
not even third or
fourth in line for the title

the hawk circles
laughing
at such a notion

and i bury my toes
in the dirt
waiting for the mockingbird
to chime in

Some are Water Lilies
Whose roots grow deep in mud
Some are Aloes blooming red
With healing in their bud

Some are Cala Lilies
With blossoms white as snow
Some are florid Orchids
Which in a hothouse grow

Some Lily of the Valley
Exquisite unadorned
Some are Cactus Roses
Be careful of the thorns!

Some are Jack in the Pulpit
A rakish sort of fella
Some are Ladies Slippers
Awaiting Cinderella!

Some are lovely Roses
Which smell so very sweet
Some are Stink Cabbage
With a smell like rotting meat!

Moonflowers and Marigolds
Irises. Magnolia!
So many I can't think of
Many I haven't told ya...

There are Venus Fly Trap
Carnivorous cutie
The Lilaç grow in bushes
known for their great beauty

Daisies are so simple
Violets in there too
Tell me true
Look at leaf and petal folks
what flower type are YOU?




SoulSurvivor aka
Write of Passage aka
Invisible inc
Catherine Jarvis
(C) 3/20/2016

When I'm with friends
I am supposed to be happy
I am supposed to laugh at their jokes
I am supposed to have intellectual discussion
I am supposed to talk about love, lust and life
I do these things but I don't feel them like I should

Warm and fuzzy feelings
A sense of accomplishment for the things I do
All of which is not there
Instead replaced with a sense of numbness
A numbness that spreads from the tips of my toes to my watery eyes
All of which is directed by my unmanned control panel

Sure there are some days that I want to cry
But I'm not sad because of anything
I'm sad because of indifference
Indifference to the pleasure and pain in my life
Indifference toward whether or not the people around me love me
It seems that the only indifference I don't have is indifference to myself

I hate myself for being this way
Looking into the past like a pool of water
Convinced that I can even do anything besides splash it
And when I turn around to look to the future
Finding that I am surrounded by a jail cell with bars and no keys
Trapped forever in a state of perpetual limbo of pathetic self-pity

I find it hard to express myself because when I do
I am told repeatedly that I need to put it aside
Like it's okay that I am feeling it alone
Like it's okay that I feel there are only ever two types of days
Bad days or worse days
Like it's okay that I pray every day that today won't be a worse day

Maybe if I had control it would be okay
Maybe if I treated my failures like no big deal it would be okay
Maybe if I had a motivation or a sense of purpose it would be okay
But I have none of those things
So it's not okay
Nothing is okay and I will never be okay

Saw your words last night
on the social media site
you proclaim such happiness now
yet, you refused to keep your vow
of always being there to love, to help me
that's okay--I'm learning it's better to be free.

I am sitting in a classroom during my freshman year of college
Reading about **** and infidelity
Western literature,
Where Jupiter can **** virgins for sport
Where Hamlet can assault Ophelia
And it's okay because he is pretending to be insane.
I see my assailant's face in Hamlet's
The boy who told me he was sorry six months later
Because he had been dealing with some things in his head
I see my assailant's hands in Zeus's
At seven years old, clearly a ******
But you can use my tongue as a gag
As you cause me to choke on my pleas for peace
You see, throughout the ages
Women have had their tongues used as gags
And as nooses
Like when Maya Angelou writes about taking back her body
We say it is ******
When Maya Angelou writes about ****
We rip her words from school curriculums
When Ovid writes about ****
We say it is literature
When women write **** into the folds of their skin
We call them attention ******
When men pen abuse onto paper
We say it is eloquent
Say it is mythology
Watching a friend get brutally drugged and date ***** is no myth
Burning her ******'s name out of her mouth is no myth
Replaying my own movie of childhood abuse at seven
And assault at sixteen is no myth
We treat women's narratives of violation as stories
Just ask Bill Cosby.
As I am forced to read about my own history for entertainment
As I hear my father say how college girls cry **** to get attention
That they should be more careful
How am I supposed to trust my own memory?
When everything around me tells me
I am lying
How am I supposed to trust my own experience?
My tongue keeps getting stuck inside of itself when I try to tell my story
Because I fear people will not believe me
Maya Angelou writes that she knows why the caged bird sings
But I know what keeps it silent.

Sat  on  a  bench  today.
Taking  in  the  suns  rays.
Surrounded  by  a  host
of  spring  flowers.
So  peaceful.
Hope  it's  here  to  stay.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

loneliness has defined
this old soul.
Bittersweet melody
has tuned my way of
living.

I don't know how much
my heart could stand
the weight and wait
for that simple moment,
that single spark
to feel alive
and stop breathing
the ashen smog of reality.

Hungry for some poetry
Gramps will give you words for free.
My write will not cost you a dime
I will make you laugh, **** and cry.
Don't Let the gas go around the room
Smells like skunk, it smells! Peeeww.
Hungry for a write or speak
Gramps is here, poem of the week.
I may be abnormal, a little odd
That's because I was born a thorn and ****.
But don't dislike me for how I am
We're the same, strange writer man.

I remember you
your whispered half-questions
resembling the thoughts I almost had
on another cloudy day.
Your honest words filled me,
tempted  me into flights of
unexplored consciousness
and step by step I ventured
farther from my own locked doors.
I wandered out alone
into bright, dead-of-day streets
full of my own possibilities
seized by my own fallibilities.
Some days I will meet the gaze
of the demons that haunt this world
but on others
when my self-fed fears are too much
I may need you to walk beside me.
Take my hand.
Your words are my strength.
Your strength is my hope.
My hope is your redemption.
We will save one another.

To many complain
On others
Writes-
How about
Instead
Complaining-
Write-
Instead of maiming
Be polite-
In
Stead of claiming
To be right,
For once take
It your wrong-
Instead of turning abhoring
Into daily trending,
Make poetry beauty
With your poems and song,
Instead of minding everyone elses
Business.
Mind yours,
Instead of back talking-
Close your door.
If your not here to write
Leave this premises-
Instead of using jealously
As anger,
Put down your acts of dennis-
The mennis- instead of making f.e,a,r
Mongering this sites boutique-
Search inside yourself,
Fix the you that is weak.
If claims dont match no names
Hush, to your sleep.
I'm here to write-
Were here to write-
Not fight about your
Bad week.