Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
The path of true friendship
Is comparable to a Celtic knot.
Friends taking different directions
Traveling their own winding paths
Finding select adventures,
Loves, pains and griefs.
At varying distances and times
One path intersects another.
Stories are told, sympathies felt,
Laughter exchanged
Comforts given.
We never know where our paths lead
Life, however, is easier
With the knowledge in our hearts,
True friends are but a few steps away.

Dan Gray
You never told me your wish
so I do wonder
if I am making it come true

scavenge for your sweet hands
pin them, bite the freckles
off

I do not just want you
inside of me
I want to digest you and

be
what you want.

The blonde rain
little daisies from angels say
you love me, love me not

you love me like a stone
we did not skip
but sheltered in a wooden box

with
plastic holes as skylights.
The cold permeates my bones
Seeping in and branding me
With loneliness and pain.
Teasing me and aggravating me
With your harsh breeze.
I wish he was here
To hold me and block you out
He makes the loneliness fade
If only for a while.
He makes me alive
With bits and pieces of us
Perfectly fit together.
He whom i will always love.

Its raining anger and betrayal
Hard pelting rain drops
That drown the sound of laughter
I am lost and forlorn.
Seeking shelter under the covers.
This bed feels cold without him.
I remember earlier times
When we crawled under the duvet
And cuddled to keep warm.
I miss his arms around me
Bodies fitted as close as possible.

I don't want to leave this room
Unless he is waiting downstairs
With a warm shrug and hug.
This weather was made for this
Him to hold me close.
So that am not alone.
He always excites me
With his arm draped over my shoulder
I long to rest my feet on his laps
And let him play with my toes.
He makes it impossible to be cold
As i shiver in delight.
Timothy Yan, that was his name
I miss him, still, 71 years later
I don't know if he's alive now
Nor, really did I know then in 1942
We were kids, he was 11 and now
would be 82 or 83
I don't know if he'd remember me
But, I remember him
and will forever
He was Canadian
He was my best friend
His family was Japanese
We'd come from Ontario, Burlington
Work brought dad west
So, we settled in a suburb of Vancouver
Tim's family had been here for a few years
There weren't a lot of Japanese in Canada
He was the first one I saw
We didn't have any in Burlington
So as I know
We lived on the same street
Went to the same school
He was Canadian
We played baseball, road hockey
football, we were brothers
blood brothers, we were a team
We moved west in 1938
I met him that fall in school
We were instant friends
The day I saw that St. Louis Cardinal hat
stuck in his pocket, all rolled up
He'd be Stan The Man, I'd be Red Russer
He was Syl Apps, I was Sam LoPresti
I was Turk Broda, he was anyone he wanted to be
We were both Joe Di Maggio
We were brothers
I remember the noise first
Great big Army trucks,
Olive green
All up the street
Not just at the Yan place
The Yokishuris, Wans, and Timmy's Aunt too
Soldiers, loading the trucks
We weren't allowed out to see
Notices had been posted though the door
We could only watch and wonder
They were being moved
They scared the powers that be
Little Japanese families
Many born here
Scared the powers of  King in Ottawa
And they had to be moved
Inland, to the Okanagan Valley
To Camps, in Canada, their country, Camps
Canada was at war
With it's own people
With 11 year old Timothy Yan
Ever since Pearl Harbour
Ottawa got scared
Japanese fishermen in the west
Japanese fighter planes from the east
There had to be spies in British Columbia
Tim Yan was apparently one of them
They were told their property was safe
All their goods in storage
They were lied to
A month after they left
The auctioneers came in
Everything was sold
Everything...
I hope he kept that hat
Dad bought what he could
So did other neighbours
I still have the boxes
Never opened
Waiting for the Yans,
I miss Joe DiMaggio
I didn't understand it then
And I don't now
My teachers couldn't explain it
My minister said it was the best
That didn' t help either
What best?
Who decided what was best?
Best for who?
It wasn't best for me, or Tim
Nobody asked us
He was just gone
I spent years looking for him
He never came back after the war
They were moved further east
They were sent to Japan
He was from Canada
Why would they send him to Japan
He was gonna be the first Japanese big leaguer
I hope he made it
I grew up and became a lawyer
A citizenship lawyer
This was not going to happen on my watch
To anyone again
Not while I was around
I miss him
He went to war
And never fired a shot
He went to war
And never knew why...
All is quiet now at last
In the house of the dead
A trail of tears I follow behind
Remembering loved ones
And times before loss
Joyful remembrances
And sorrowful costs
Remember their strength and undying luster for life
And all the things you did together
And all the things done right
Take them home with you
And just leave the body
Take care and grasp hope
In possibilities endless
Believe in yourself to make them proud
With more moments worth remembering
no proper title actually again
[can't say that working at a funeral home isn't starting to affect my writing now hehehheh
You called me over today.
Said you needed to see me.
I came expecting you to ravage me
plunder and take me against the wall.
Instead you held me
Stroked my hair and talked to me,
Of past, present and future.
You took off my dress
Lay next to me and held me.
Spoke of who you used to be
And who you turned out to be.
You were everything and more
You blew me away.
I ached for your touch
You weren't in a rush
To love me .
You loved me in your own way.
And now,
I can't stop thinking about you
And how you held me.
I said i hadn't even tasted you
And you kissed me ever so gently.
I wanna write new poetry,
but words won't form new verses.
Random phrases cross my mind,
but none bond together to make sense.

Maybe it's the stress of exam week.
Maybe it's my personal problems.
Lack of inspiration or a muse.
I overthink my verses too much.

Why can't I write about fantasy and love,
or maybe about a struggle for inner peace?
Why can't I find a piece of emotion
to let myself go in a sweet melody?

Could it be because she left me?
Could it be the cold weather?
What's the reason I can't rhyme?
Is it that I need more time?

In the end here I sit
typing these words untrue
for I just wrote a poem
when I didn't think I could.
I desperately wanted to upload something today. After a couple failed attempts, this is what I came up with.
In the book Going Solo,
Roald Dahl wrote about a woman
Who refused to eat anything with her bare hands
Instead, everything had to be handled with utensils
Knife in one hand and fork in another
She described the satisfaction of fruit cutting
The inexplicable joy at cleanly cleaving peel from flesh
Skill precise as a surgeon
Cutting it up according to Nature's dotted lines

I tried it on the same fruit
Somehow it just didn't feel right
Too refined, too silent

Unlike the practised deft peeling with bare fingers
Fingernails digging into the fruit, both refusing to compromise
Until eventually, the rind gives way and a cut is made
And from that same opening, tearing outwards
Sounding like strips of velcro are slowly being separated
The uneven globe of translucent orange flesh coming naked
Its pith shielding you from its full bright glory
Pulling it apart by halves, and then quarters, and then tenths
Each crescent shaped carpel in its mouth sized perfection
Sacs accidentally bursting, fingers sticky with juice

That is how an orange ought to be peeled.
Next page