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 Apr 2014 Maman Screams
Wednesday
You told me I was a pan of hot water and
sometimes it hurt to touch me
but you never thought to turn the temperature down

you just left me boiling

its april 7th and you are still a joke
but somehow you are the only one laughing anymore

I once told you I saw fire in your eyes
and you said it was just the reflection of the
ever burning in mine

I've only now realized that was nothing but a lie

The devil is not red or pointed with hooves
The devil is of flesh
He arrives as the very thing you want most

His name is Lucifer
And he is tall and handsome

He keeps you blind to the raging hellfire
He does not mention you are floating on the river Styx

When he finally pulls the curtain and
gives you back your corneas and irises
You are like Persephone-

you've already eaten seven pomegranate seeds
the problem with
being a poet in love,
is that you savour
& trust each word your lover has
without  question.

we are simply in love
with bare literature,
spoken from the lips of someone we hold
in higher regard
than ourselves sometimes.

when you love a poet
each word you utter,
should be a piece of artwork

each sentence,
a highly thought out structure of awe and beauty to leave us seeping
in the warmth of your voice
caressing such fine words

so when deciding that you love someone,
who writes or reads
fill their souls with beauty, memories & truth especially,
for a poet's heart breaks at ease.
thoughts.
 Apr 2014 Maman Screams
r
As water is to cleansing rain
and heat as to burning flame,
so are you to me; the same.
My fiery rain.

Fill the gutter of my mind.
Fire the coal your heart has mined.
Burn me to the end of time.
Your fire does reign.

r ~ 4/1/14
 Apr 2014 Maman Screams
RA
What you think are walls
are not walls, these
are blocks of shoes belonging
to the long gone. Look
at us, the way we walk in the footsteps
of those murdered, and here
there is no scream. Here
there is only silence.
Majdanek, Poland
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
12:55 PM

From my collection, Poems from Poland
Your youngest sister
wears your blue
and white coat now,
my son; it brings her
some comfort
since your
sudden death.

She zips it up close,
to keep her warm,
thinking you
are still there inside,
to keep her safe.

I remember
you wearing
that white
and blue coat,
on your way
to work or back,
or out for the day
in all climes.

They were
the good days,
good times.

You use to zip it up
close to your chin
to keep the cold out,
the warmth in;
hands in the pockets,
elbows back,
like some large bird
about to take off
on a long flight.

You have taken off now;
set your soul's keel
to the open sea
of eternity.

I sometimes dream
of you at night,
see you as you were
before the stain
of death approached;
your smile spreading,
your blue eyes bright.
FOR OLE. 1984-2014.
The silence so strong
Weighing down my trust.
The believes in love
Waning by the second.

The once forgotten soul
Drowning in fear of rejection.
Too weathered hearts
Plotting its self destruction.
I wish I could jump,
from a place so high-
I cannot count.
I wish I could jump,
From a place so lost-
Never to be found.

I wish I could fall,
At a speed so fast-
I will never decipher.
I wish I could fall,
Far from my past-
Never to remember.
My eyes are not wet
And yet I am weeping,
I sink with the weight
Of secrets I'm keeping.
I try to run, unable to move
I turn to flee, and find no door.
I close my eyes to obscure the sight,
And cover my ears to mask the roar.
 Apr 2014 Maman Screams
J
Why is hellopoetry.com black and white? I've always wondered about this... why my colorful photographs are required to travel back in time. How does this effect the poetry in any way, shape, or form? But I understand the wisdom of this design now. And it sets a great metaphor for all of the people of the pen involved in this truly noble motion, this secret society for people with passion, talent, and troubled minds and souls. Hello Poetry is black and white not because it has to be monochromatic and modern, but because us poets fill these pages with enough inovativeness and color already with our words, ideas, thoughts, songs, senryus, ballads, heartbreaks, insecurities, that adding literal color to this website would be overwhelming. These soft undertones of gray, black, and white may be considered drab and depressing to some, but to us poets it represents timelessness. And this is probably why we are all here. Hourly, daily, weekly, monthly, or even yearly publishing poems. Because we all know we are not going to live forever, and we are so entirely insignificant in the broad scheme of things and of the universe itself, that it is a bit comforting and helpful to have this coping mechanism or soft blankie to calm our fears, that this literature we write, however insignificant it may be, is absolutley permanent. And that maybe someday it will be remembered so a small bit of us may live on. Tom Riddle knew the needs and wants of man kind before anybody else realized it. Maybe he was just trying to cope with the fact that he is insignificant. These poems are all our Horcruxes so *viveamus per camenam nostram.
^^^let us live through our poetry
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