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Cné  Jan 2017
Hate propaganda
Cné Jan 2017
Black lives matter
When people quit making the distinction
Think about that
Before going off half cocked
With hateful thought
I live in love without prejudice
Kevin J Taylor Sep 2015
This—  This is the closest we have been in forty-seven years. Graveside, I close my eyes. See again, her lips smeared, her head turned, as she had lain unconscious. Whispers of Other Men—   Immoral—   Immoral living—  Declared unfit for motherhood and I am only days from four.  

Before that, in white shift sitting at the foot of her bed and singing quietly to herself. Singing, brushing and lifting her hair. Letting it fall. She is lovely to me. Later that night, weeping, anger, fists and cries.  

At fifty-one I look like him. Fist-Man. Father. He wept in Irish taverns filled with weeping, singing drunks. She had danced the Sunrise on Hastings, whatever that meant.  

She was gone when I was taken. I was gone if she returned.  

A Child Welfare office filled with nervous women, children dressed in Sunday-best and a faint wash of fear—   these memories, all memories, discomfit and jar.  

A metal cup with orange juice. Warm, sweet and slightly bitter. The far end of the room. A bed made in a wooden trunk. Eyes slipping. Box lid closing. Sleep—  

Bewildered, pushing, opened, the room lies stark, white and empty. No mothers. No children. No one waiting here. The lump that rises to my throat is the same one— the same one that rises in spasms from my chest on that dark-boxed, white-roomed and room-filled afternoon.  

In forty-seven years I would stand above her on that overlooking hill. No words to mark her place, a plot numbered between other unmarked and numbered graves. Maybe she was gone again.  

Gone before I could tell her what had happened, that I was sorry, that I would be a good boy, beg her— find me.  

Eyes opened, I have waited long enough. The sun is hot. White lines trail across the sky. Paper from one pocket. Pen from another. I write. Roll tight and push as far in as this ground will allow.  

White paper, ink. Graveside for her. Wayside for me.  
A mark was kept. A mark was left.  

A deep breath in, not held and out.
The Sunrise was a low-end hotel on Hastings Street in Vancouver. The bed-in-a-trunk sequence was as described. The orange juice had a sleeping drug in it and the trunk-bed was used to separate children from parents or guardians without a fuss. '61. Alberta.
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Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry from common things.)
Livia  Jul 2017
9 Lives
Livia Jul 2017
I died before I met you
Only once prior
I recovered, got better, and made it through
Try to believe me, I know I’m a liar,
But I died once before I met you

I died the day I met you
Because my heart stopped beating
Your attractiveness too true
I was afraid to mumble a greeting
But I already died for you

I died the day after I met you
You wouldn’t get out of my mind
I got distracted – couldn’t make do
For someone like me, you were too kind
I died because I withdrew

I died a month later without you
I couldn’t even fight it
The fear stuck to me like glue
I started breaking bit by bit
I died when I wasn’t supposed to

I died a season later when you
Saw I was too broken to be fixed
I had a strong sense of déjà vu
But I was nevertheless transfixed
My death meant nothing to you

I died before I was friends with you
Your change of mind bemused me
Because you never used to
Listen to my sorry plea
I died when the world was no longer blue

I died two more times all because of you
You made me laugh, you made me cry
Until my world was back to blue
You clipped my wings so I couldn’t fly
My deaths were caused by you

I died a last time because of you
After we were long done
I saw you with another and trouble began to brew
While that’s all I ever was
I died because I wasn’t enough for you
Don't normally write rhymes, not too sure how it turned out.
N  Sep 2018
ruined lives
N Sep 2018
Is it **** if you don't put up a fight or scream?
But you wanted to say stop.
But you drank...
and you never said no...

"It was your choice", they say so heartlessly.
It was not.
"You never tried to get away", they declare.
Six men will easily overpower one girl.

Is it **** if you obeyed?
You wanted so badly to run but your body didn't move throughout it all,
so stiff you remembered.
"Why didn't you scream then?" Is what they'll say.

I wanted so badly to push them all off me and run away,
to disconnect from my body,
to make the several videos disappear.

I was encouraged so badly to report it,
"It will give you closure",
"People will think you are so strong",
so I did.

But instead of praise I got criticism and disrespect.
I wanted so badly to come out with this ****,
I was told I would be safe,
I was not.

But I reported it, it's my fault they would victim blame.
They would say since they're so successful,
she just wanted attention and money.

They let it slide because after all,
those boys are so young and talented,
why would we want to ruin their lives?
Yet mine is already ruined.
Eno  Sep 2018
A nostalgic visit
Eno Sep 2018
7 lives
Intertwined
Some were breaking
Now riding the wave
Others were drowning
Now swimming up and away
There’s secrets cleaning the tables
Unanswered questions serving food
And I cannot comprehend the distance

Between me

And

You.

We began in tandem
Building this great pyramid
A myriad of hope
Block by block
Carried by our journey to discover new lands
Off the shores of collective success
Together
Some higher than others;
All in it.
With smiles
And parties
Tears and fears
Winding along and around
Working intensely
Loving concepts, people, food
It was just good business
They say...

3 years on
Time sweeps our intricate
Fast paced
Warped and winning
Bodies and brains
Under, once more,
The same old roof -
Oh my, how things have changed

Those men who were ringing the bells
Calling the shots
Trail scandals behind them
Like pieces of toilet paper
Still attached to their shiny, worn out shoes
Are we a pleasant reminder of a band of brothers in arms
A loyal family of resilient workers
Who played a note or two in your orchestrated dream?
Rather I fear
It’s much the opposite
Although we were greeted like old friends
With lopsided smiles of nostalgia
In the pit of my stomach
(The one you used to feed)
It just seemed like we were evidence of ghostly shame
An unwelcome reminder of a past which tried to swallow them up for dinner
A quiet embarrassment
That knew it did not deserve us
Like a lover who had tried to move on
When we’d decided to move in next door
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