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  Aug 18 hiraeth
I spilled some blood on the bathroom floor, mama,
But I swear it was an accident.
See, my hand slipped across porcelain, mama;
My skin tore like satin.

The paint flowed like a river then, mama,
And colored me a crimson sunset.
Oh, but it made such a mess, mama,
And I know messes make you upset.

So close your eyes, mama,
'Cause you're weeping red and the tears might stain.
Red for your lost love and red for scarlet fire,
and red for the young rose cut from the briar.

Maybe now I could be poetry, mama
The type you wrote about in your younger days.
Golden sun swallowed in carmine, mama
With its last rays dying in a blaze.
Trigger warning: self harm/suicide implied.
Copyright © 2019 Aranza V. Soto Torres. All rights reserved.
  Aug 18 hiraeth
the bones of a poem
ride on the storm
that bellows through
wood-fired red skies
and they rattle all night
but with dawn's light
i release them
as butterflies
  Jun 4 hiraeth
The hubris of Man, to think we matter,
that our acts or life have any worth
I proclaim it rotten like so much mirth
The poor get poorer, the rats grow fatter
so spread not your lies, for I know better
The Void left our values a still-birth
We're cells further growing this cancer's girth
climbing higher on a failing ladder

Thus let us burn, we don't deserve a knife
let roam the terrors I dream of nightly,
open Pandora's box now, loosen its clasp
Let the End come now, there's no after-life
it'd change nothing, most just stare on blankly
And talk not of Love, it's out of my grasp
Spat this out onto my phone's memo on the bus about a year ago. Haven't written a full new sonnet in 15 months. Fear of blank paper or some ****.
  May 26 hiraeth
Nat Lipstadt
August 20th, 2011

Pink and white hothouse lilies
parfume the atmosphere
of our summer retreat,
the shelter upon our island redoubt.

Their scent, a scentry,
posted to guard against
the oranges and reds,
the piano notes of fall,
the ivory whites of winter,
the iconic colors of the
seasons of responsibilities.

Lock the doors.

Preserves of
oranges, peach and lemon,
summer fruits,
preserve my calm!

Mingle well
with the other summer's fruited sweets,
cherries, black berries, caramel,
all, ally thyself with salt air
and do thy fragrant work!

Ferry away, banish,
the wardens of the
workweek jail, like only
summer garden colors
and sun-rays can.    

Still yourself,
be calmed, becalmed,
there is no breeze,
tis but mid-August
and the grill still awaits
your further command.

Long days and humid nights
bid you drink red rosés,
and summer lemoncellos,
chilled to accompany
the sweet summer corn
covered in salty butter.
drink the jus of the
summer sea's bounty,
saltwater berries, seasonal delights.

But you know better.

Stepping outside,
you are tree felled,
senses red alerted
by hints, whiffs
of the odor of change,
a piano refrain.

Acorns in August?

Can't be, won't allow it,
that slight chill, dispatch it,
won't let go yet of
sun tanned lotion notions,  
and legalized
summer laziness.  

Beneath my flip~flops,
acorn shells irritatingly crunch,
uninvited guests,
they are the peas I feel
under the mattress and bed,
contaminating my head,
while I lay  cloaked beneath,
my summer weight comforter.

Too late.

Back to school flyers
litter the driveway and infest
the Sunday papers.
I am defeated,
my senses tingle,
at the sight of these
changeover secretions.  

Sap of the maples is acoming,
the Paul Revere warning
of Redcoated leaves soon to
invade my bay's sandy shores.

Come my friends,
be courageous
and of good faith.

One more time, unto the breach!
One more time, unto the beach!

Tho our armor of golden tan
will of necessity rust red by cold bitters,
the summer of our poetry,
recorded, will forever live.

Even tho summer's demise
draws near, its death most glorious and not in vain,
when we lay spent and slain
after our approaching defeat,
apres the Battle of
Labor Day,
We still have our body,
Our poems, summer crafted,
The cello and the piano
Reminding those few left to listen.
mid august suicidal
August 12, 2017

to the facts:
suicidal thoughts come as regular as a
teenager pimple

weekends summer sun burns the skin,
the inner gloom,
so that I just make from the
Monday to Friday bookends
of grey cloud doom, barely opened eyes

the acorns peas under the bed's mattress,
my summer-brain pod irritants
freshly arrived, fully ensconced,
antibiotic resistant sob's,  
the colored newsprint of hateful
back to school flyers still haunt and clog
the sinking sunking sinking
waste disposal

the newest indignity,
the emails proclaiming
end-of-summer better hurry
drink up those three cases of pink rose wine
down in the chilling basement

not a bad idea in *** actuality

nothing kills like suicide and
nothing kills suicidal thoughts
like a three week drunk
starting now

the truth burden just got harder;
Adagio for Strings, Opus 11,
whispers stay the hand

  May 24 hiraeth
Ferrin McGinness
all the tangled veins broke
and the waterworks started.
little firework drops
colored my skin on the surface.

and you took this all in
watching me barely breathing,
my soggy heart hardly beating
in the palm of your hand.

i've never wanted anything
more than i wanted this:
my life in your hands,
my DNA in your fingerprints.

this is the only way to die-
at the hands of a stranger i wanted so much,
who could see my entire life at once
by reading my heart's pulp like tea leaves.
  May 24 hiraeth
Forrest Jorgensen
I awoke to rain on my second floor window;
An overcast sky and tossing trees,
Glimmering leaves above tar-black streets.
I opened the window
And felt the light breeze against me.
I watched the droplets fall on my hand.
Splattering carelessly:
A downpour of tiny suicides.
So I closed the window,
And I took a cold shower,
And as the water poured onto my head
I stared down at the drain
How it would feel to clean this broken skin,
And fall away
Into oblivion,
Only to be reborn
Falling from the sky.
hiraeth May 19
I can feel it
running down my throat
reddish slivers,
last scratches of hope
through my veins the
longing flows
to be buried underneath
our mother's coat
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