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 Aug 2017
martin
In a country churchyard
Near the shade of a yew
That's where I'll be resting
And you’ll be there too

We'll be long past caring
Or fussing over things
We'll be admiring angels
And their gorgeous wings

Just reach out your hand to me
And I will reach out mine
As in life, together again
Forever and all time
My parents are 91 and 92.
I recently took them to their
reserved plot in a country
churchyard .
 Aug 2017
Seema
It is alright, if I am not appreciated today,
I will still do my part as a daughter.
You say you hate me, and push me away,
But you forgot, my life has levelled to a quarter.

I do my best everyday and night,
Just to see you happy and smile.
You energize and flourish my day bright,
A glimpse of you I catch once in awhile.

I don't know if my efforts are going to a waste,
But I've never expected anything back.
For you, I gave up my all and didn't hesitate,
Coz you are the only light I see through the crack.

I love you and will always love you mum...

©sim
The only precious treasure I have :)
 Aug 2017
Seema
She was a beautiful priceless princess
So caring, kind and helpful
Her marriage life went in trouble
But she was very strong and thoughtful

She was a mother of two boys
The new heir of the queens throne
Her marriage came to an end
She started life on her own

Big controversies surrounded her
Soon she found solace in a guy
But her life was cut short by an accident
Her lovable people were left with--WHY?

She was a darling of many nations
My heart still misses her presence
In this world, a true known lady
Whose stories and life spread as essence

No other could match her simple beauty
She was just a moral figure bold shiner
A well known, supportive and loved by all
She was none other than Lady Diana...

©sim
A tribute to the late princess, Lady Diana.
 Aug 2017
Nat Lipstadt
oops

Nat Lipstadt Feb 2015
(Ketoma Rose) I hate owing money & poems
~for Ketoma Rose~

money, far far easier for me
to gift, give, loan it out,
with very generous terms
of no repayment due
indeed, with my luck down,
the less I have,
the easier it is to share...

perfectly sensible to me
living with giving hands
and a
giving mouth

know that I know
that there are
a handful of you,
who read me with affection,
loyalty and a kind tenderness,
I cannot ever repay

so it makes me guilty+crazy,
keeps me up at night,
these obligations that cannot be
repaid without the hard work of
patient poem-waiting for inspiration
that comes so easily
only when it's ready

and this day I am ready
to pay down, pay toward,
please forward, give what
you have taken from me,
the pleasure of stating,
an adoration of thanksgiving,
a joining so profound,
that once found,
cannot be lost

and you dear reader,
can't fully share, or see these
gratitude-tears-I-am-currently-shedding

but voyeuring come along with the
knowing insight that I would want you too...

so you write from where your heart's
rip tides
rip you open and wider,
yet so oft it falls into the tears in
the pockets of only holes and neglect,
and you, ego-weak human
cannot understand
just how that can be...

but there you are,
Ketoma Rose,
by any and all your names,
liking my words,
and I crease wetness
upon my face tracks
wondering who you are,
and more over
the why
of who you are,
this wondering,
an agonizing
guilty pleasure,
a trouble I just
love having...

but bills must be paid,
and now this debt,
finally tiny-tad dented,
and the fact that the interest
upon it,
grows exponentially
is the
best debt
I ever was given
 Aug 2017
Nat Lipstadt
for Harlon Rivers

the river potion,
the river portent,
the river potent

it is all of these and not one

he is bank sided,
observing the false idols,
the image mirrored
in the glass of the river

transfigured molecularly
he becomes something ferried frothily, forcefully

as if a twig
or a small thing of human manufacture,
an object tossed up airborne-repeatedly

his poetry:
the clash of particles at the many junctions
of objects and water, eddies and the currents,
ceaselessly circumnavigating,  
searching revisionary pathways

directed,
but randomized,
prisoner of the flows,
servant to the wind's directives and the
earths magnetic indivisible undulating waves

thinking,
this life,
its unsteady gait, 
the irreverent wavering of drunkenness
resultant from potent potions,
portents of inopportune position

in him,
my own histories, 
my poetic recordings
also become
water borne,
watermarked,
replayed back for me,
for erasure, censure, closure
and rededication

this River
is a tapestry,
a torn map,
drawn on broken shards
of slivered water,
living with all the others

but we,
are the untitled,
we,
are the un-entitled,
and he is the
Rivers

<•>
Oct. 20, 2016

harlon is one of the best poets here
if you are new to his writing, be sure to tell him honestly what you think...

his work can be found under
https://hellopoetry.com/harlon-rivers/  
Uncover him, and discover yourself within

2013
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/444023/dear-mr-harlon-rivers/

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1020738/winter-whispers/

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1913140/in-the-river-of-good-company/

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1855694/the-slow-death-of-a-poet/

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1995383/traces-of-youa-fathers-tribute/

2014
Harlon Rivers:
http://hellopoetry.com/-harlon-rivers/
my personal call sign, Poseidon
Poseidon was very fitting with Harlon River,
due to the symbolic nature of the water in their names.
I have only read few of this gentleman's work,
But I can assure you his work is very much a gift to the audience,
And like Poseidon that gift is fire to humanity.
Dawn of  Lighten

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1833151/a-walk-with-tonya-maria/

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1924604/ode-to-a-brimful-poetwith-a-twist/
and of course<
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1954256/drinkin-mr-coffee-and-cheap-*****/
 Jul 2017
John F McCullagh
His new Blue Suit

He was, at home, most comfortable
in collared shirt and jeans.
Just not the sort to put on airs
Or fancy dress, it seems.
In his later years, especially,
It seemed style had passed him by.
So his new blue suit gave me a start
With the new Red power tie.
The haberdasher had done him proud,
But he wasn’t that sort of man
Still, given the occasion
I knew he’d understand
I asked a moment at the end
Just before the lid was closed
To memorize the face I loved
Lying there is his new clothes.
On this 36th Anniversary
 Jul 2017
Nat Lipstadt
After reading about some tribal warfare in a far away land, I wrote this true story down. Now re-published every year on this day. Seems more appropriate than ever

one July 4th,
many years ago
walking the streets,
of the city of Nice,
situe on the Cote D'azur of France,
on the Mediterranean Sea,
where ships of navies
may safely park their sailors,
sending them ashore for R&R,^
they, leavened to disembark^^

how I came to be there is a
poem for another time

walking the streets,
palm tree resort,
along La Promenade Des Anglais,
coming at me,
Three Sailors,
unmistakably
American

one white,
one black,
one brown from California,
which I believe,
is still part of the USA

how we fell upon each other
in warm embrace,
smiling, bestowing
blessings of grace
not as strangers,
but as fellow signatories
on the Declaration of Independence

brothers,
long lost, reunited,
as if it had been many years,
since we last had our arms entwined,
one family from one far away united place

dialectical differences ignored,
even the wide-eyed 'Bama boy,
totally comprehensible, for on that say,
we spoke a language that
encompassed a single brotherhood,
a common histoire,
all on that
holy day

no tribes in America, no colors,
no religions,
only sisters and brothers-in-arms

I need not choose to believe,
for it is certainty guaranteed,
that should it happen again
twenty years hence,
perhaps with their great grandsons,
my embrace will,
exactly the same be,
for I know it true,
there are
no tribes
in an

American heart
^ Rest and recreation
^^disembarked to be leavened....either ok

written in 2013, but true story that occurred many years prior
how timely for this day and time
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