Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Saint Tropez is a summer town.
Smaller than it ought to be, really.
Like when you realize the French quarter,
in New Orleans, is just three blocks wide and long.

In the fall, there’s a feeling of disuse in Saint Tropez.
A turquoise bike leans haggard against a stone pine,
and summer leaves gather in gutters like trash.

Your appearance in a bar is treated like a surprise.
The wait staff gathers, like they might take your picture
and not your order - one brings napkins another the menu.

Summer memories are indistinct now, from disuse.
You aren’t sedated by sunlight and warm ocean airs.

Was summer some French, romantic, cinematic fantasy,
like "La Belle et la Bête" or "And God Created Woman"?
Or was it deliciously bright, seductive and real.

You find yourself saying, “In the summer, when the thyme,
lavender, rosemary, citrus and jasmine bloom, the aromas
are strong, actually physical, like going into an Ulta store,
where a thousand delicate perfumes vie for attention.”

But it’s like describing ghosts or deserts under glass.
You search for the words, like a poet or an actress, unable
to remember her lines - lines that would make it real,
invoke it, precious and immediate - like a spell.

The Saint Tropez of summer.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Haggard: tired, disheveled and abandoned
In The End

       Well there’s two sides to every coin
And there’s two sides to every story
And in every game there’s defeat
And then there’s obviously glory

There’s riches in currency and
There’s riches in Silver and Gold
There’s a life of youth and there’s
A life you spend when you’re old

There’s sparkling shining jewelry
Beautiful Necklaces and rings
There’s a plethora of worldly possessions
So many meaningless material things

Some might say that it brings true
Happiness but it’s just fake
But you believe what you wish and
By all means get all you can take

But life is temporary and so is everything
In it and that’s the truth my friend
You can’t take it with you and there’s
Only Heaven or Hell In The End

Written By:Charles Kean
unspoken Voice say nothing
as well
as unwritten Words

Deeds done unnoticed,
unheeded, are beheaded in quiet

private Executions
in a Smokey courtyard, pulsing
with Electronica

It's a Plain world
and Fancy words don't do it justice

I rap Words ordinarily
Lisping the loop to synch
with a Caller:

Chattel, chatter, and chatting
under azure Seas thru black

I hear skin and touch tears

I lisp loops like a f*g
being Scratched on an 80's
I wrote this poem in 2008. I was in Germany. I was almost 40 but not yet!
The derogatory slang for a gay man may trigger. It has been sanitized to f*g.
I hope you'll still be my friend. I hope you still trust my message.
a tribute


in fading sepia we find,
the romance of
another time;
albums filled
with black and white,
of glossy faces
burnt in fading light;
boxes of our ko-dak-chro-ments,
gone-by treasures,
wistful years once crystal clear,
mem’ries drowned in haze,
resurface now,
renewed in tears, we remember well.

the yellow ribbons tied,
’round an ol’ oak tree;
anxious waiting to make an “us”,
the anticipation of a “he and me”;
until the news from distant shore,
yet another casualty of war,
and now remains but this,
a marble slab inscribed,
in accolades of former glory,
merely remnants ’midst the pines;
on forest lawn where promises,
tween two for’er became untwined, she remembers well.

so many are the ways
the mem’ry onward lives
even this, a,
“do this in...” request
restores a covenant anew
a "remembrance of..."
the “we” here left behind,
be it in the bread we break,
this forever to remind,
a sacrosanct entreaty made,
promise sealed as blood in wine,
reserving not for deities alone,
but given us immortal souls,
to us a gift at birth,
of staggering import,
responsibility of heavy worth;
of after-ashes keeping still,
an ever-after captured with
the shutter, brush and quill, we remember well.

its keeping cherished lovingly
though its loss,
its diminishment bereaved;
as lovers silent grieve,
those lost to us yet breathe,
in memories ’midst the breeze.
forgetful of the slightest
until one day in finality
their mortal soul is set free
into immortality. for’er remember.

to us, a call, a charge,
a “ne’er forget”
a duty large
a “do this in
remembrance of”
this our promise
to e’er remember,
always keep;
forgetting never,
to carry the flame,
while we yet live
in sunshine’s grip;
an oath is sworn,
that forever we,
shall always ready be,
for in remembering best,
the tears flow easily,
and so it isn't pity,
of a loss i seek,
for ’tis in finding memory
that i shall always weep, i remember well.


post script.

of love lost in the haze of war; of lives changing motion, a baby is born, as a grandmother moves into memory care... a cycle of life, brought full circle best in remembrance.  and this makes remembering perhaps the most important facet that defines, sets us apart as humans, best captured in this thought, "in forgetting the past we cease to be and bring hope forward for the future. and so we remember... for we must never forget!” and so we line our shelves, our walls with them, visiting inscribed stones behind fences.  

dedicated today to our memories each of loved ones, lovers lost; but on this dark eve, especially those who lost those souls, three thousand strong, a darkest day of remembrance, this September the eleventh, who never got to say goodbye... so we remember well!
Please Pogo music, wake me up. The night, now reduced to warm laptop light, is inching toward dawn. I pray to the patron saints of writers - is it Neri or Ávila? Whichever is on call I suppose.

“I’ve indulged in reprobation,” I confess, openly to the fuzzy, waxing, crescent moon. “I need that alchemy that turns coffee and a rough outline into an actual paper.”

I yank off my hoodie, fling my window open wide and hang myself out like wet laundry. Have you ever tasted *****? Vile stuff really.
The forty degree breeze feels like heaven and my eyes begin to focus. I peel off my leggings to let my entire skin tingle with cold.

My Keurig beeps confidently. I found a couple of peanut energy bars in my bookbag and rip them open like a ****** who’s discovered a forgotten stash. I devour them so quickly it’s like a magic trick - then I brush my teeth.

I take several slow deep breaths. I can DO this, I assure myself, but my outline looks adequate at best. I need this done so I can relax with a super bowl party pizza Sunday.

The song “Data & Picard,” sets me to dancing, “It’s better to have loved and lost..” Patrick Stewart as Jean-Luc Picard pronounces, perfectly auto-tuned to the music.

I love this song. I love the night. I love the challenge.
I set myself to the task and finish, three hours later, as the sun breaks into morning.
BLT word of the day challenge: reprobate is a depraved or unprincipled person
My child is grown
Married with children of her own
Life a twist of fate
Divorce, judgements ,learn to hate
Before God They came together
She left him, a battle, a storm unable to weather

They both moved on and found new love
Was it a gift from above
Turn about is fair play
He with the new life ,wife is happy today

She broken hearted dazed puzzled looked but did not blink
Tears falling ,she spoke quietly Karma at play ,I think
New love burns bright, then fades for all to see
The way things are ,not as they should be
She believes this is her punishment for wrongs of the past
Devil laughing in delight she must pay her dues at last

It’s hard to see your child broken hearted
Knowing there is nothing I can do when two have parted
A mother’s job is to listen not reply
In a broken heart many bombs lie

Hour spent rehashing the chain of events
The things said at each other exspence
I know in time this too will fade
If I could save her from the pain I would make the trade

So for now all I can do is be there for my child
cautiously watch what I say or Her words are not meek or mild
Why is it we take out our hurt on the ones we love
Wasnt that the first lesson we failed with God above

Hope faith and love
The most important of these
Is love
My daughter had a fight argument with her boyfriend of two years she is distraught calling me all day long I am happy to be there although I can’t do or say anything right
But mother’s never stop being a mother no matter the age  it’s just a little more difficult to  Council  an adult
New Year s Eve parties
We “dressed to the nines “
Fancy frilly Dresses
Hair updos, nails, lashes
Dress to impress.
but it’s all for fun.
Ready to ring in the new year
with those we hold Dear.
those who are no longer here.

As we count down
the seconds until midnight
A sparkler for delight
Holding our loved one tight
Fireworks,Noice makers
popping streamers Watch them fly high into the sky.strategically position
In the middle of the dance floor,
Five, four, three, two, one…
“Happy NewYear” The crowd cheers
The bells begins to ring,
Well wishes, Cheek Kisses
Collectively, We all begin to Sing.  

Should old acquaintances be forgot
And never brought to mind

Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and Auld Lang Syne

For Auld Lang Syne ,my dear
For Auld Lang Syne

We’ll take a cup of kindness yet
For Auld Lang Syne…

There’s actually more lyrics to this, but nobody ever sings them?

Have you ever wondered
What this song means?
After a few drinks,
it doesn’t really matter
A hill of beans!

Auld Lang Syne means,
Old or long since, Old Times

It invokes feelings of nostalgia, especially to memories of good times spent.
Should old acquaintances, be forgot, and never brought to mind

Serves as a reminder to cherish those fond memories that We’ve already had,
Which makes the song
A perfect New Years Eve song.

This song was written centuries ago. A Scottish poem, updated by Robert Burns, in 1788, Who gave a new modern version from the original poem. by author Alan Ramsey.
Please share with me
How do you Ring  
in the new year.
How do you spend New Year’s Eve now in my 60s, we seldom stay up double digits(after9:00pm) usually, I’ll wake up when I hear people yelling and screaming outside and the fireworks going off. I’ll go to the door and check it out. And come and whisper happy new year to my husband and kissing on the cheek and he mutters it back to me and I sleep. but it’s all good, because I would rather be in bed next to him, then anywhere else in the world
 Jan 1 Nat Lipstadt
it is the most heightened of times-
tick tock slowly and slowly again-
this 2023 disappearing 23.59-
one second gone going-
and gone again.... welcome 2024
good luck everybody, and poets
your new year songs.
I don't want to be this old
The fried crisp lips and
a neck with strings of
gobbled goop skin like
Christmas lights circle

the end of the days
like cookslices.  The
taglike things,

the straight hairs on my
chins, there are several,
poke into collars raw from
rubbing on butiful jewlry

I refrain my lament
Being 77 yars old
is like the inside
of a soup can
dried on the counter
corner for a week.

Caroline Shank
think i may like to travel to small places,
old and full of history. deep aged fabrics
stained with the words of time. to touch
Next page