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  Jul 2015 Joe Adomavicia
Sjr1000
I
remembered you,
you
remembered
me,
I believed in you,
You believed in me,
We were both sea creatures
traveling
uncommon seas.

We had taken to that
unconscious ocean
to see in the sea,
What we could see.

It's been a strange journey
of that there is no doubt.

Where everyone walks with
their insides in,
We travel these seas
with our
insides out,
We don't know any other
way to be
when you're swimming through
these
uncommon seas.

It's often a desert
out there,
But inside here
all kinds of musty
characters
drudged up from
anxious memory
inhabitants of this sea -
Sponge Bob Square Pants
has
nothing on you or me,
We are all travelers
in this uncommon sea.

Our bathing suits left far behind,
the temperature sometimes
too hot
too cold
depending on our state of mind,
There's strife
confrontation
character assination
often
uncommon seas
are far from placid.

The joy of traveling
though
you and me,
Sea creatures
feeling
the longing,
Finally belonging,
Where somewhere
and
sometimes
out of the blue,
A Beluga whale
speaks
your
name
so
perfectly
and
swims alongside
you and me
in
uncommon seas.
The symbol for the unconscious in dreams has been known to be the ocean.
  Jul 2015 Joe Adomavicia
Sjr1000
I've lost my mind,
when I awoke
this
night,
It wasn't there to find.

The last time I used it,
We were playing
"tenuous tides"
Move in
Move out
We couldn't decide.

I've looked for it
everywhere
under the couch,
behind the stove,
out in the shed,
in the cat's bowl,
I even looked in all the drawers
where we used to store
the important scores.

I went down the block
putting up
"Lost"
posters
on every telephone pole.

Now I sit on this porch,
waiting patiently
for my phone to sing,
watching hummingbirds
******* or fighting
hard to figure out
anything.

waiting and waiting
for my mind
on its little
legs
to come down the lane,
running on home
to
me.
  Jul 2015 Joe Adomavicia
SE Reimer
~

someone told me once,
poets are a dime a dozen;
yes, "we've chosen a craft
that a pittance pays"
and are most oft
recognized only
by the ashes
of the pages,
the words
we leave behind.

yet, i say write,
write today
like your life
depends on it...

for most of us
it doesn't,

but for all of us
our epilogue
just might!

so write!
~

post script.

quote from a previous a couple of years back.  
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/479369/the-wordsmiths-ballad/
  Jul 2015 Joe Adomavicia
Nat Lipstadt
~~~



Postface: This Thing Called Poetry

postface - a brief explanatory comment or note at the end of a book
or other piece of writing.
~~~

more and more will come,
'tis the nature of,
'tis the burden of,
this compulsion,
this undeniable, irresistible,
emotional chain,
a synapse from
connecting ganglions of nerves,
what we call poetry

each poem
a winnowing,
a narrowing,
the landslide of a moment,
a perspective erected,
a momentary monument
intended and left out overnight
for perpetuity's sake

a finished poem is
a broken telescope,
stuck on a single view,
a broken kaleidoscope,
forever flash frozen
upon a
permanent fruited plain,
a still life salad

walk a few footfalls
to the sandy beach,
humbling,
this vastness,
this billionth universe of
trillions of grains,
each a microscopic starship,
each a poem uncovered, exposed,
weathered and worn,
living among friends

a few taps onto this tablet,
table scraps,
leavings of chalk marks
of poetry,
same,
grains,
metaphoric, meteoric,
a billionth
of something both
dead and living

yet,
still and always,
a simple postface
still required,
a must have,
a necessary
a 'the end' official

sign your name,
your truest signature,
emblem
not of ownership,
but of completion,
here I was done
here I wax spent

sign my work,
so I know this grain came from
my weathered and worn
work, still living
and will be so known,
long after this body's form
as week is but
a few grains of sand

~~~

July 2, 2015
*NML
~~~<«»>~~~

a
spilt
second
where
the
spirit's
spark
meets
conciousnes­s
and
our
pens
scribe

eternity


soulsurvivor
(c) 7/9/2015
time is very relative


~~~<«»>~~~
  Jul 2015 Joe Adomavicia
SE Reimer
~

today a friend
reminded me,
a quote by
Elbert Hubbard,
"love grows by giving.
the love we give away
is the only love we keep.
the only way to retain love
is to give it away."


indeed,
so let it be
write the inscription
let my epitaph read,
"lived fully...
gave plenty
loved gently
died empty."


~

*and let the post script read...

"yes, his whisky ran dry
as he lived so he died."
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