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Virtual kisses scattered across cyber-skin
Can feel more real than an actual press of lips,
Each a little pull, an ache, within.
Sensual stories do provoke a rush,
Evocative, delicious, stirring, lush,
But, there is no substitute for strong arms, encircling
a slender waist, there is no online-version of the warm sweet taste
of lips and tongue. Such precious words
Should be whispered, to a trembling, eager heart
Not typed onto a screen, too many miles apart.
_/\ _/
/:\
/::::\
()
------

Love don't hide!

****!

What you think love is ?

••

Love don't cower in no morbid fear !

**** !

Where your love is I can't see it

You ain't tryin very hard to free it

Far as I can tell !

••

Love ain't no Commodity

**** !

Love ain't given for somethin to get !



Is you IT or ain't you ?--now

You can ride the high sky light

You can talk to me somehow

••

Love love love and then

Love love love all over again

••

**** !

Is you IS or ---- AINT ?

I think it's time we be together

Do our best with no complaint
When you fixated on parts of me
You reduced me to those things.
I loved you,
So I swallowed the hurt,
And I swallowed the sad,
And I gave you everything that I had.
I became what you wanted,
I sliced off those body parts
And sent them to you, reluctantly, at first
But a starving dog will beg for a bone;
When I saw that was all that I could hope for
I let you cut me up.
I sent you segments of me.
But the one part that you never asked for
Wept and wept, waiting for your love
Waiting, in vain, crying, in pain.
 Feb 2014 Derek Yohn
Prabhu Iyer
I want to see some old photographs:
older than those on the computer;
Back when moments were precious,
unveil the shrouded busts,
and see the face of my friend
as he was then;

The best of us disappear
into the fields at dusk,
leaving behind memories for us
of colours and of songs.

Tonight, I will
walk by the bund, and onward
to the land beyond the horizon
where they sparkle at night as stars
our friends here, who have
gone to the far beyond.

I am peace. I wave over
every dawn by your shores.
I sing with the grilles and die
unsung like the evening.

I exist. Sometimes
only as a photograph, frozen
in my smile. Sometimes,
smoking my pipe of joy
fiddling by your side; Some
times, I am a memory
enshrined in your heart.
A family friend died recently: very young, cancer. And someone shared a photograph from 2 decades ago - these are my reflections on the poignant moment captured in lens then...
Here’s a locked box of anagram shazam
(Don’t open it
The crazies might come out)
There’s a sealed sack of angsty crank-clanks
Take it, go away
I’m simply not myself today
**! Yes, it’s true
I am sinking sads for you
Letting drinkies drown
My Anger Banger frown
Cryptic? Klik-kwik, and no, no
I was never there
Avaunt, begone, beware
I love words
 Feb 2014 Derek Yohn
Sjr1000
I
Poetry starts
Off in melancholy
Suicide
Preoccupied
With differences and death
Fidelity and failure
I guess all of us
Poets are a little depressed.

We lay down the bricks
One by one
To
Follow our path.
We put on our shoes
Our pants
Our shirt
Cut our hair
Looking into the mirror
Wondering wondering
Whose that stranger there?

Driven by hormonal storms
The door for psychosis
Can open or shut.
Chemo warfare dictates our moods
Immortality fragility
Days which never end
Lovers one after the other
In
Images played
Payed in time
Moving away.

Unconscious
Conscious
Who can say
The body holds
All the keys
Dictates all the way.

II

Then it moves on
To broken hearts
****** insertions
Gentle caress
Every fantasy
Every movie  played
Every Tuesday .

Fantasies and goals
Work that out
Some events and ends
Better ideas
Then realities
Hard to know though
Until it's too late.

Relationships
Commitments
Do I go it alone
Or
Do another do I really know.
Do I hide
Or
Do I show
Who I am and what I know
Is
Love my virtue?

Children
Offspring
Feels like forever
For a short while.
Hope and heart
Heart
And
Heartbreak
Knowing when to intervene
Or let nature take its course.
Do the best we can
And try to heal the rest.

III

Decisions are made
Some genetic
Some environmental
Nature loads the bullets
Nurture pulls the trigger
Nature versus nurture
As old as the hills.

On the periphery
There
Is
Sickness pain psychosis
And just those
For whom
The cultural games
Are far too hard
Too complicated
To master or play.

Bohemians a forgotten caste
Of whom we do reside
Stand outside looking in
Artists
Poets
Drunks
Arguing about the nature of nurture
Trying to find
The portrait
The exact word
The one last drink
Describing all of this.

IV

Into the oven
Alchemy waits
Processing
All
The past and future fates.

Immobile and paralyzed
Until in this suspended state
Begins to generate
The longing to find meaning
And create.
It all blossoms
And becomes possible
And you are riding
A
Different kind of wave
Running
Back and forth
Up at dawn
Putting your boots on
Even
Our sleep and dreams
Go fast
Until the work of our lives is done.

V

In this moment of reflection
Did I do what I intended
To do?
And was it all a waste?
And the final dilemma
Is asked
But never resolved.

Did I live my life with integrity
Or
Did I run and hide
From
My true nature
The phantom captain
Calling from inside?
Or
Do I collapse
Into the despairs
Of what might have been?

It brings to mind
The moment my mother died
As her face formed
Into that wondrous smile
Not only a last gift
For the living
But
A smile left
For a life worth living...
 Feb 2014 Derek Yohn
Raj Arumugam
the other day
seated in his office
I asked my stubborn, mean-looking
bushy-eyebrows editor
if he’d consider two books:
“Short Stories for Real Short People”
and “Truly Tall Tales for Tall People”

and he sat back with that air
(actually, made you think he wanted to release air)
and he said:
“You’ll get shot for titles like that…
'Short Stories for Real Short People'
will directly offend people
who are vertically challenged
And the same people would shoot you
for excluding them by implication
in the epithet 'Tall' –
They’ll sure shoot you for that…
They’re both just politically incorrect”


And I leaned forward
(releasing air myself –
anything he can do, I can do better!)
and I said:
“Sure, it’s not politically correct – but it sure
ain’t psychologically correct, given our times,
to speak of shooting while we are in an office”


I hear the Editor no longer works there
and is now in some publishing house
who are specialists  in books on Accounting
and Engineering
where he knows, for sure, I’m never likely to go
 Feb 2014 Derek Yohn
Raj Arumugam
Pessimists are good lenders -
because they know
I’ll never return what I borrow
and it’s not worth trying to get
me to return anything

Pessimists are honest
because they tell me I’m horrid
and worthless and have no talent –
whereas my wife tells me lies about how
unique and fantastic I am
and how I’m destined
for greatness and fame
the same lies my parents and teachers
and all the sugary people in my life
told me to believe in
and so brought me to grief and megalomania–
better a pessimist than incorrigible liars

Pessimists let me do what I want:
jump the queue, rob them in daylight
steal their cars and take what I like -
because they say, with a helpless shrug:
“That’s human nature – especially people of his kind!”

Pessimists tell me the world will end tomorrow
that I’m destined for hell and I’ll never come to good –
hey, that allows me reason never to try
enjoy life for the moment
and just cruise along and let everybody else
die of stress and work-addiction

*Pessimists I love
for they validate everything I do ;
truly, they were made for me,
for they make my every wrong right…bless ‘em pessimists
Because I need
something
to scream back at my soul.
I enjoy so many different types of music, but more often than not I need something heavy to drown out what I feel.
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