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Jeff Gaines Mar 2018
OK Reader, I'm going to tell you a tale … with great trepidation. You see, this tale, well, it's kind of like telling someone that you've seen a UFO. They want to believe you, but … it's never really been proven scientifically. Not to mention the fact that most folks who believe in such things are often the tin-hat wearing types, written off as … lets be nice and call them “odd”. And, of course, the more you swear to it, the crazier you appear. It's an epic tale, spanning 30 years of my crazy life.

  But, It's a story I want to tell, because it happened to me. I can barely understand it myself, let alone explain it. So … I'm just going to launch into it and you take it any way you wish.

*  *  
Where Can You Be?

Where can you be?
Where can you be, my love?
Oh, can't you see?
You're not with me!

I'll search with gazes and I'll search with cars,
I'll search the cities and I'll search the stars, well …
I'm gonna find you, oh, wherever you are,
I'm gonna find you baby …  near or far, but …

Where can you be?
Where can you be, my love?
Oh, can't you see?
You're not with me!

I thought I'd found ya, but she wasn't you,
that girl she left alone and blue, well …
I know that's something that you'd never do,
your love has always been strong and true, but …

Where can you be?
Where can you be, my love?
Oh, can't you see?
You're not with me!

If you must settle for some other man
and deviate from our immortal plan, well …
I hope you realize I will understand
and I'll try and do the best that I can, but …

Where will I be?
Where will I be, my love?
Hoping the next life sees …
our destiny!


Where can you be?
Where can you be, my love?
Oh, can't you see?
You're not with me!

~Wednesday, April 1st, 1987
10:30 P.M.



  I was singing in a band back in those days and, as it happened, this was the last song I'd ever write for it. Just after this, as it does, it all came crashing down and the band was finished. But in those last days, they pondered this song, with great puzzlement. You see, it was unlike anything I'd brought them before. It wasn't rock … It wasn't a ballad … it wasn't even structured like a “normal” 80's rock song.
  
  No bridge, no solo, no loud grinding guitars, etc. It even had bits where I hummed, yes hummed, the melody, like a lullaby. As they read the lyrics and I described how it went, they all looked at me like I had three heads and asked where this had come from. It was nothing like anything I'd written before. I could only tell them when and where I'd written it, but had no explanation of what inspired it. It had just came to me, so I wrote it down. They didn't know what to make of it, or even what to do with it.

  One of them said it sounded like a late 70's or early 80's adult contemporary song or even in the vein of The Eagles. Another asked if it was about reincarnation … And I honestly, until that moment, hadn't thought of it that way, I didn't think like that at 24 … but then, one of them said it was “Haunting” …

  “Haunting”?

  “Wow”, I thought, I'd never had anything I'd written described as that before. When I asked him what he meant by that, he told me that it was haunting to think that this poor guy is desperately seeking a girl, that may or may not even know that he exists … in a world with billions of people in it. To top that off, he fears that she may off and marry someone else if he doesn't find her in time.

  This, along with the suggestion of it being about reincarnation made me rethink and rewrite the song. Well, a few lines in the last verse and chorus anyways. It actually made the song flow better and seem more complete. In a way, it actually made the song make more sense … to me and them. Sadly, we never did anything with it. There wouldn't be time. Ha … Time … how ironic. Over 10 years later, came this …


For Someone I've Never Met

Please save a place for me,
deep inside your heart.
Always know that I think of you,
as we both practice our arts.

Our worlds are full of temptations,
so very hard to resist …
and the good Lord knows
we're both far from,
sixteen and never been kissed.

Wealthy men with jaws divine …
Temptresses with looks so fine …
Paths that lead our hearts away …
Paths that surely lead astray …

They'll lead us there every time.
They'll leave us there … so  unkind.
Our hearts must shine,
night and day.
Through any darkness … they'll light our way.

If you never touch my face …
If I never look into your eyes …
We'll always have the comfort of sharing
the same
big, blue sky.

If I never smell your hair …
If you never kiss my lips …
Always know the search for your smile
has launched a thousand ships.

So, I hope you save a place for me
in your heart so sweet and kind.
Please, save a place for me …
Heaven knows you've one in mine.

~Thursday, September 9th, 1999
9 A.M.



“For Someone I've Never Met ” poured out of me in the midst of another breakup from the second, and last, girl that I wanted to marry. That emotion, never found me again. I looked at it on my computer screen and smiled, seeing “Where Can You Be”, in my mind, on my tattered old note pad that I called my “Song Book”. The memory of me writing it while sitting in my Z-28, looking out over the Gulf of Mexico as a beautiful heat lighting storm sent bolts across the sky, came flooding back; as did the debate of reincarnation I'd had with my pals in the rehearsal room all those years before. Here I was, again, writing about “someone” that I sensed, for lack of a better term, was out there … somewhere.

  Well Reader, do you believe in reincarnation? I was never really certain, but, as you can see, I had twice written pieces to someone I wasn't completely sure existed. I had always “sensed” someone out there beginning with the period after I wrote “Where Can You Be?” and thereafter. So, there they were, each written after losing someone I was deeply in love with. Each came out of nowhere, as they usually do. By the time I was in my 40's, I began to think I was either imagining it all (a side effect of being a hopeless romantic) or that I had just somehow missed this person and our “moment”.

  And then …



Epiphany

There was a place.
There was a time …
There, I stood … still unknowing
and everything seemed fine.

But there in that place …
at that moment in time …
the moment I saw the eyes,
I'd never believed I'd find.

Well, what could I say?
What could I do?
In a world filled with billions …
and there … was a you.

I'd always known you were out there …
even written of something amiss.
I never, ever stopped looking for you …
because my heart always said you exist.

My breezy Fall became harshest Winter.
My crazy life left my health running out.
I'd resigned myself that our moment had passed …
but this moment … it removed all doubt.

Well, what could I say?
Tell me, what could I do?
There we stood, staring … alone … in a city of millions …
yes, there … there was a you.

Oh, that mistress fate, she is just so cruel.
Frustration, a curse to be mine.
   I'd searched for you my entire life …
but now … my clock … knows a limit of time.

You see, I would never venture a love with you,
while knowing I'd have to leave you … hurt and alone.
I could only admire from afar … stoic and aloof …
while turning my heart into stone.

Nothing I could ever say and nothing I could ever do …
But now, at long last … at least I finally knew.

There, you stood … green seas, gazing up … into skies of blue.
My long-awaited revelation … become sorrow-laced realization.
There really is … a you.

~August 12th, 2009
  

  Typical of my life-long Charlie Brown syndrome … After being told in 2005 that I had “the lungs of an eighty-year-old man” and that I had “Six to Ten years” to live, I made a conscious decision in that Doctor's parking lot that I could never have another girlfriend and that I must face this alone. I don't see woman as objects. They are glorious creatures that are here to be our partners and friends and to make our lives amazing. I could never, ever knowingly let a woman fall in love with me, all the while knowing I was going to die and leave her. It's not in me to do such a thing, lonely or not.

  Yes, I'm still alive, I'm stubborn like that. But, some days are better than others and my new doctors say that they don't give people “time limits” anymore … because of people like me. I can't afford the lung transplant. So, as Bono so aptly put in one of his songs: “The rich stay healthy, while the sick stay poor”. It is what it is … and like the energizer bunny, I'm still going. Good for me.

  In the moment that I met her, the morning that followed, and the amazing speed of our nexus over the next several months combined with a string of synchronicities (Coincidences? Did I mention that she too, was a poet and writer?) that not only came after I met her on the sidewalk in front of the publisher we shared, but in those pieces I had written before and in several after; I was pretty much convinced I had actually found her. I have NEVER experienced anything like this, or her, in my entire life.

  So, after all this time, here she was … and there wasn't a **** thing that I could do about it. Besides, she was much younger than I and it probably would never have worked anyways. ****, the universe is rotten sometimes, huh? Maybe, if I'm lucky, things will balance out better in the next life. I can only hope. But I'm reminded, worryingly so, of the **** The Alarm song: “Collide”:

“All of these thoughts pounding in my head …
with the words I've wrote, in the letters I've never sent.
The distance in our lives may change …
Times that you can never erase …
But will our worlds collide?
Will our worlds collide, the next time?”



  Only time will tell.



  “Colors”, and a few others, were written about/for her. But, I could never show them to her. I would never endanger my friendship with her. I just wanted to keep her in my life. That, and that alone, was the only motive I'd ever had with her. I looked forward to seeing her marry, hearing her stories of her three kid's adventures; Hubby, all greasy, working on the car in the driveway, rabbits in her garden at night, eating her precious organic veggies or even about her new curtains. Just to know that she was alive, happy and doing well. I found a solace in her voice I could never describe and I was completely content to just have her in my life and watch hers unfold. Only I could end up in this odd position.

  I feared that she might get weird-ed out because I'd never displayed any romantic inklings toward her, so, to suddenly read these might make her feel a bit, lets say: uncomfortable. Actually, I didn't write them with any romantic intentions, per se; I just did what I always do … write what comes out. Still, there's no denying that they come across romantic. Again, so, so Charlie Brown. (long sigh)
  
  It is what it is. I also have to ponder the fact that maybe all those Charlie Brown moments in my life were preparing me for this one big, painful one. That does makes sense … ******' Universe.


Colors

Well when you're Green, I'll be your Brown.
Like the earth that loves the flowers,
I'll will be your solid ground.

And I'll be your Azure, when you are Verdigris.
We'll be thee most beautiful ocean
that eyes have ever seen.

And when you're Black, I'll be your White.
Mixing all of the colors … I'll make everything alright.

Now when you're Blue, I'll be you're Red.
If something should make you wanna cry,
I will feel your pain instead.

And I'll be your Orange, whenever you are Pink.
We'll be thee most amazing sunset,
that the sky could ever ink.

And when you're Black, I'll be your White.
I'll mix all of your colors … and make everything alright.

Should you be Violet, I will be your Beige.
Like a sleepy moonlit desert,
pasteled in dunes and sage.

And when you're Grey, I will be your Rainbow.
We'll be thee most soothing rainstorm
the world has ever known.

And when you're Black, I'll be your White.
I'll mix all of your colors … yes, I'll make everything alright.

With love on my palette, painting a glorious sunrise …
I'll color all your mornings with a smile and brighten up your skies.
If you should find yourself in sorrow from someones hate or lies …
I'll take the stars down from the heavens … and paint them in your eyes.

So whenever you are Black, I will always be your White.
I'll mix all your colors with a promise … everything will be alright.

Yes, I'll mix all of your colors with a promise … Everything's gonna be alright.

~  Winter 2012



  I wrote this after she had rang me up one afternoon lamenting about her life at the moment, troubled that her latest novel hadn't done as well as she'd hoped and now she had to be waitressing to make ends meet. I tried my best to cheer her up and assured her that she was strong enough to handle anything and that she must keep chasing her dreams. I wrote it as a poem, but I can't help but notice it looks like a song, though I've never heard music for it. Those repeated verses look just like choruses to me.

  Earlier in the day, I had been looking at a booklet of paint swatches. I guess, up there on my roof looking at the Manhattan skyline, her sadness and me looking at all those colors melted together somehow and, as happens, out came this piece. Even this, became another synchronicity as she would name her next novel “Show Me All Your Colors”. I remember seeing it in the bookstore and looking straight up … shaking my head at the sky. Was this the universe telling me to show and tell her all this?

  Well, if it was, I stuck with my gut and kept it to myself. My God, if you only knew how many of these synchronicities there were between her and I. It simply boggles my mind. I wanted to call them “coincidences”, but there were just so **** many of them … Each so unique, they just couldn't be called that. I don't want to tell them all here, because like I said, the more you swear to it, the crazier you sound. And I'm sure your questioning my sanity by now, aren't you? (Smirk)


  OK, OK … this one is definitely romantic. I wrote it one night, drunk to the bejeezus. I'd done what we called “The Crosstown Crawl” with my pal Tristan and a gaggle of assorted waitresses we knew. This involved starting at Brass Monkey on the west side highway in the Gansevoort District and ending at my favorite hookah bar, Karma, on the Lower East Side … Drinking in, and often being “asked to leave” (Read: Kicked out of) every bar that took our interest as we walked (Read: staggered) west to east, staying below 14th St.

  On my way home from the city on the J train, I thought about all the phone conversations we'd had while I was on this train crossing the Williamsburg Bridge. Being drunk, I guess, I caught a bout of sadness that I'd never get to tell her any of this or even how I felt about it all. Before I hit my elevator, this piece was swimming in my head. It's about as mushy a piece as I've ever written … if not thee most! Not the norm for me, but this is, after all, a lot to keep pent up inside you. I wouldn't wish this predicament on anyone.


For My Little Red-Haired Girl …


You …

My Love.
My Queen.
This Shining Light in my eyes.

My Laughs.
My Dreams.
My Soft, Contented Sighs.

My *****.
My Lavender.
My Dew Covered Rose.

My Smile.
My Cinnamon.
The Joy in my heart … ever inspiring my prose.

My Best Friend.
My Co-Star.
My Fearless Partner in Crime.

My Breath.
My Cohort.
My Side-kick throughout time.

My Snow-capped Mountain.
The Wind caressing my face.
My Vast Green Field.

The Ivy Covered Wall
that harbors my soul … ever refusing to yield.

In a different time ...

You … would have been my Life.

You … would have been my World.

You … would have been my Everything

and I will always love you for my own special reasons.

It is just a shame … and I'm so, so sorry … that you … must never, ever know.

Maybe next time.


~Charlie Brown




   When I came-to in the morning and read what I had wrote, I had to laugh a bit. It is borderline corny, very beautiful, very telling and very sad … all at once. I shook my head, laughing and told myself :

  “*******, Sam … yer losin' it. Get your **** together, will ya?”

  I guess in my stupor, I was imagining what it would have been like to write something for her. I don't know … There it was and I was stuck with it. I almost deleted it, but, my finger wouldn't press the key. As I told you before … I'd NEVER show this to her. She'd probably never speak to me again.

   As a sadder epilogue, that eventually happened. I still don't know why, but we haven't spoken in years. Maybe she sensed this emotion in me and ran away. Or maybe, just maybe … she thought I'd pushed her away somehow … but for whatever reason, we drifted apart. I guess I'll never know.  As you can see by reading this, that was never my intention. But, like I keep reiterating … It is what it is.

  One day, I called her number to catch up and shoot the breeze. I hadn't spoken to her in a few months as she'd been busy promoting her new novel and I didn't want to pester her. But … it was disconnected … I checked my emails … nothing. I'd never been so confused, she just closed me out. I didn't want to bother her. I was sure she had her reasons and if she wanted to reach out to me again, she would. She had my email and my phone number. But, for now … she was gone … and that was that.

  So, what do you think, Reader? Do I get the Tin hat … or a Badge of courage? Am I bat-**** crazy … or just eccentric? I'll leave it up to you to decide, because as I said, this all happened to me and there isn't a thing I can do about any of it. I just had to get it off of my chest. Thanks for letting me vent.

  Wherever she is … she will always mean the world to me. I can see her green eyes if I close my mine and look for them. Sometimes, on occasion, her face haunts my sleep. Still, I like to picture her, kids playing in a sprinkler behind her, digging in her garden, wearing gloves too big for her hands and a smudge of fresh dirt on her cheek … it makes me smile.


-Sam Webster
Brooklyn, New York
2013
OK, you can stop scratching your head. I'm sorry if you feel like I tricked you or was playing a prank … That was not my intention. This piece is experimental writing, of sorts. If you are wondering, it's titled “Somewhere … Out There”. But I didn't want to put a title at the head of the page, as that might have clued you in too early.

I also confess that “Sam” the narrator is, on no uncertain terms, based loosely on myself. But hey, what better way to string you along? Besides, as Stephen King said, you “Write what you know”. As far as I 'm aware, using poetry within a short story like this, or in this manner, has never been done before. Welcome to the future!

It really belongs in my “From Thee Edge” Collection with the rest of my Twilight-Zone-esque short stories. (You can now read some of these fiction short stories here, posted in my "NoPo@HePo" posts, along with some non-fiction essays. I hope you enjoy them.) But, because I pieced together several of my poems to not only tell the story, but as a vehicle to carry it along as part of it; I wanted to put it here on Hello Poetry just to see if I could convince you long enough to get you through the story … while having you believe it was me speaking to you and that it was all very real to me. Thus, making it feel real to you as you read it.

Was I having you along right up until it was signed by someone else? Or, at least until the narrator addressed himself as “Sam”?

If so, then I accomplished my mission. I'd love to hear your comments on it. If you've been reading any of my other posts, I'm sure you've figured out that I like to run wildly outside of the box sometimes. This was just, as I said, an experiment in a different way to tell a story … fiction or otherwise. As always, I hope that I took you on a journey and, more importantly, that you enjoyed it.

~Jeff Gaines
L.A.
(Lower Alabama)
2015
Tea  Dec 2015
Reincarnation
Tea Dec 2015
I've spent centuries
in this agony
My body changes
but time stays still

All this time I've passed
waiting to be found
like a bird inside a cage,
my feet chained to this ground

I can't keep my monsters at bay
but I can't run away


In the eye of each soul
all I see is fear
and my own still whispers
"I'm not from here"

By now I thought
I'd have more power
But at the end of each day
"it" still devours

Even though there's love in my heart
I still feel like falling apart


Each fight feels like
dark mirrors inside a maze
and all I see in this reflection
is my own empty gaze

My mind is light years
away from this place
Still the only thing that saves me
is your warm embrace

And when it feels like I have no choice
I recognize your voice


I'm so tired of this fight
But your love still keeps me warm
Together, we'll win this battle
Together, we'll breathe through the storm.
I don't like history repeating itself
So I'm starting over
I just hope you'll be a part of my future
JK Cabresos Nov 2012
I was lost in this nameless island
and I could not find my way back home.
Sudden thoughts of mysteries
perplexed my mind;
how did I come here,
when I’m only about to love someone?

I wrote their names in the sand, indeed —
but it was only washed away
by the raging seas.
So then I realized,
it was the demise of all their love for me.

I walked the island —
and surrendered my heart in peace.
No one uttered those words
my ears ever wanted to hear,
so my tears could no longer be ceased.

When I’m about to **** my eyes
with the melancholic whisper of the breeze,
I suddenly found a starfish
beneath those ridging waves.

I was covered by contentment,
for I will never be alone anymore in this island.
So I ran towards her, to offer the warmth
she might had needed for years.

So lovely, so beautiful, so romantic,
I fell in the love all over again;
I felt something I could never explain.
I found the starfish beyond my solitude,
and hope she will be with me
until no more ends. 

Without doubts,
I decided to go nearer to where she was,
and took her away from the harmful water.
I was so happy,
now we are closer enough
to know each other better.

Is this really destined to happen?
I already begged for forgiveness
but still never forgiven.
I thought the water is harmful
so I took away what it owns,
and supposed that the starfish
would be glad if I would make her mine.
But suddenly, she just died.

When will I find complete happiness?
I thought I have already known
how to make everything stay with me,
but it only gave me loneliness again.
The starfish died because of me —
because of my selfish intentions,
I was so self-centered.

So then I realized,
the reason why people left me
even in the hardest battle in life,
and even I needed someone
when my laughter was outnumbered by cries.

Yes, every person I had — then vanished,
was just a reincarnation of the starfish.
© 2012
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
i like looking up these shadow-people, the labourers
away from the spotlight, away from easy reference conclusions,
Ludovico Arrighi is among them, as is
the high jumper **** Fosbury - no belly-flop in
the competition after... after 1968 the road signs
told every jumper to expose the back and ***
when overpowering the heights -
Philippe Petit is outside the world, the ultimate
expression of solipsism, what grandeur (previous
attempts, the dyslexic source: the graphemes, æ,
previously i wrote grandeur as: grandeaur,
grandaeur, etc., somehow the syllables of only
vowels can leave you momentarily dyslexic,
when we're talking pure consonant graphemes
we have an aesthetic performed,
sheering can become šeering, whereby the diacritical
input overpowers excess spelling of graphemes,
such examples arise from what became the silent H...
or the surd H... ping-pong with the tetragrammaton...
e.g. dhal - which is said with a macron over the a:
dāl... but the trinity of spelled words gives rise
of neurosis... unless it's a word as conjunction,
the tribunal of aesthetic in keeping language beautiful
will prefer the spelling dhal or even daal rather than
what i proposed). concerning Ludovico Arrighi's
italics type... the skewed rhombus alignment /    /
is prescribed for emphasis... i need something to introduce
something that doesn't stress emphasis, but
sarcasm / ridicule... when i write something,
as i did in Christianity 2.0 (two point oh),
i'd change the direction of the ~wind, i.e. instead of
/    /    for emphasis, i'd like to stress ridicule in the
following direction:    \     .
but that's beside the point, it's like a western with
English not applying noticeable stresses...
for example the English trill, or the French hark...
they should be equipped with diacritical marks
of distinction... some sort of uniformity
of suggestion... the northerners trill (roll)
their R, the French used to, now anything but
a puddle of phlegm... but indeed, easy dyslexia from
pure vowel graphemes... cutting up graphemes
with diacritical incisions (safety, in a persistent vocabulary,
following the method of philosophical methodology -
hence my casual use of diacritics and graφemes -
i.e. when graphemes can't be constructed due
to a lacking of grapheme intention - unlike θ and φ -
supported by their alignment of a twin sound,
the Greeks would never consider applying diacritical
marks on p, t, h - unlike in Polish, where the h
is distinguished into a ch for aesthetic purposes -
e.g. chleb - bread and huj - **** -
but overpowering the vowel graphemes produced
their disappearance and the emergence of diacritical
vowels, e.g. the acute o (ó), which is a U, i treat
the diacritical mark as an incision point for the parabola,
cutting up the omicron, and that seems natural
given that the Greeks already did it without the acute
sign, i.e. the omega (the double u) - ω - again,
aesthetic reasons, the forgotten gallery of words
is there, you just have to forget Chomsky for a while.
but indeed, breaking up graphemes provides us
the necessity for diacritical marks,
the ancient Roman graphemes might have disappeared,
but they're still digitally present: mostly concerning
major words, like onomatopoeia - or encyclopaedia -
graphemes behave differently with the barbarians,
the latter encyclo- example is obviously nostalgic,
the ono- example does a reverse grapheme variation
of oe... but modernity expresses these couples
with individual distinctions - i.e. encyclopaedia
could be written utilising... well not a caron - not quiet
***, and more p'eh - the resurrection of the tetragrammaton
is necessary, i'd have inserted the variation without
minding French, i.e. grave accent on e eating away
the last vowel... or vowels... i.e. encyclopaèdia -
so avoiding the French usage that would cut off the -ia,
i'd insert it for reasons of interacting with a h, p'eh.
Joyce's Finnegan's Wake should have been written like this...
instead, it was written without noticing the diacritical
marks, and therefore made it's pompousness known
by omitting diacritical marks, therefore succumbing to
excessive spelling... or the ruin of Delmore Schwarzt -
nurse! scalpel: sch(sh /sz / š)- -wä(łä)- r(z)'t - drum-kit
wet snare tss't like in jazz.
still i need to define the R being trilled (rolling ball)
akin to the å - but of course the umlaut would do the job
likewise - but it's the aesthetic purpose that's necessary,
i guess umlaut designates an eased concept of
arithmetic included above the sound: i.e. prolonged,
count +2.

but these are but minor points of consideration,
obviously it would take decades to implement, and knowing
human endeavours in this realm, once fixed, once
fixated, nothing will hardly change - due to the already
existing utilisation, whereby it works perfectly to segregate
people... and the fact that there's no linguistic bible to
mind... but talking about orthodoxy and meddling with
dogma, i'm still bothered about the Malachi heresy,
how could it have been implemented?
i mean, a polytheistic concept of reincarnation is the oldest
form of identity theft, isn't it?
monotheism is incompatible with the concept of reincarnation,
this is the weakest spot / the blemish in Judaism...
Malachi is the actual inventor of Christianity and Islam,
he introduced the concept of reincarnation with
the return of Elijah, as mentioned in the New Testament
where Jesus is compared with Elijah...
it's a monotheistic heresy... reincarnation has no place
in monotheism, yet there it is, glaring at everyone from
the page... it was Malachi's error that gave rise to
schism... the litmus test of a monotheism is it's inability to
succumb to schism... well, Christianity is poly-schismatic,
Islam suffered an infection of schism early on...
Jewish schism?  you either practice or don't...
you either don the full attire of a Hasidic jews or you simply
turn your opinions toward earthly matters...
and so much rigour just because they didn't care to
roll the ******* back during ***, all that much work
from snipping the *******... early intervention did the job,
snip the skin off and we have the most ridiculously
funny god in the thought of man, an entire Mongolian
horde of intellectuals have been spawned from his existence...
imagine if god intervened when plastic surgery came around...
wouldn't be so ******* funny by my count.
****! listening to the radio and standing up between sentences
then realising there's no go-back button... it's live...
sometimes the oddities of not being your own d.j. can be
petrifying, when you're working against the river-current
like a Salmon of rhythm.

lastly... i guess this is a major point, in a magazine article
some dung-heap of opinion wrote something
about poetry, in ditto:
a policeman shoots dead Michael Brown in Ferguson,
Missouri in August 2014, Maggie Smith's poem
Good Bones goes viral, it wasn't about Ferguson,
it was about life being short and often terrible -
continues with: poetry is the language of crisis, of
profound thought and deep emotion, it may not be
much read these days, but it is certainly felt...

is that all true? is poetry the language of crisis?
i think that assertion is a load of *******...
it's a bit like using a hammer to paint the civil room's
walls (living room, i call it the civil room) -
if i'm reading poetry i'm not commuting or lying in bed,
i'm perched on the windowsill in a quasi-akimbo pose,
sipping a glass of bourbon with coca-cola and
smoking a cigarette, mindful of never wanting to
wear contact lenses or eyeglasses,
poetry is more than this idealism about it,
that you read poetry to savour the moment of critical needs,
i read poetry because newspaper articles **** me off...
poetry is like newspaper articles when those monstrous
literary ****** get going for months of necessary
attention to finish them... poetry, when drinking
bourbon, smoking a cigarette, quasi-akimbo on the windowsill,
perfect use of spacing, i bet most people who stick
to poetry will have better eyesight when they grow older.
denise brownlee Feb 2011
Reincarnation

We all die
And that’s a must
Eventually we turn to atomic dust
The atoms have been
And always will be
From before we stepped out of
The primeval sea

They cannot die
Or multiply
They just are
And that’s no lie
So when people say
We have not lived before
Just turn the key
And point to the door

As we are all made
From stuff of the past
And scientists pin their claim
To that mast
So reincarnation
It is a fact
And in this life
We have to act

So sceptics you can argue all night
But of the above there is no fight
The soul and the spirit on the other hand
May be discovered if it is planned
Like the higg’s boson particle
Which is hypothetical
You have the right
To think
Soul is theoretical
Martin Heath Sep 2018
Reincarnation -

Today sensing I saw you 'least I think that of a squint
That of a telltale glint a telltale wonted wink
Straight thru to my soul in an inquisitive slant
Passing 'long side somewhat a furtive glance

Yet only to see 'twas not actually you
But a passing stray cat looking back at me

Then down past that path 'long crippled creek
A voice softened so sweet held such mystique
Awakening times of verse uttered in rhyme
As we laid in summer's parched pastimes

Yet only to hear 'twas not actually you
But a proud jay of blue words 'pon my ear

'round the bend 'n riding the wind
Fragrance of hyacinths thru the tamarind
Swearing 'twas you obscured in a trance
Memories now beckon of lost romance

Yet to inhale 'twas not actually you
But the wind thru the willow weeping quite frail

Out of those woods feeling fingers of flesh
Is this you again your spirit refreshed
As if reliving our mourned childhoods
New life 'mongst these ole cottonwoods

Yet only to feel 'twas not actually you
But a monarch alighting so quite genteel

Today I saw you 'least I think
From your telltale shine so quite so distinct
Not sure exactly it might conceal
Your rebirth 'n the wonders it might reveal

Perhaps the morrow we'll meet remember
We two peas in that perpetual pod
This cycle of life 'n its cycle of death
Complete in replete with each of our breaths
As each we breathe in strolling once more
Hand in hand 'long life's promenade
Katie the previous lives lady tries to rescue her nephew



Katie's nephew Jackson Gooden is in town to spend some time with Katie and it couldn't have come at a worst time, you see the kidnapper who kidnapped Graham Thorne, well his reincarnation was in town and he was getting a messed up head with everyone telling him he was mentally deranged, the only one who helped him was Katie, and when Katie took time off to look after her nephew when he's in town, he almost flipped his marbles untill he decided to prove to everyone else that he is Steven Bradley and use Katie as a blackmail target, you see what he plans to do is kidnap Katie's 15 year ok'd nephew Jackson and blackmail Katie,if she refuses to see him, the weight will fall on her nephews head and **** him, yes this is the way for Katie to make sure she makes me happy.
Katie begged for him to let him go, and then say you will be a pig in your next life, what you do here affects your future happiness, let my nephew go and we'll talk about treatment for your illness, and he said that he thought she'd understood him, but really she is just like the other's, and Katie had to keep telling him that he is good and will never stray, and she did that because her patient had a pocket knife at her nephews head, and Katie said, I believe this is the wrong way to handle your illness,,I told you that you kidnapped a kid, and seconds later you have my 15 year old nephew at knifepoint, you are
******* up, and also you are making a mockery of my good business, he just laughed still determined he'll **** him
And make Katie jitter.
Jackson tried to scream, so the knife would be removed from his neck, and Katie said, I will find a way that this man can't ever harm you,,you have to refuse to go anywhere with him, he had a weakness, and that is, if you laugh at him, he'll suddenly be scared of him, and Katie then said that she doesn't believe in laughing in her job, but she decided to make a exception here, because really she wanted time off with Jackson.
The reincarnation of Steven Bradley said that he will hold Jackson and Katie for a huge ransom and Jackson said, you can't get me, I am too smart, you see i am young, you are old
I'm a young dude, your an old fogie, i'm a young dude, your an old fogie, I'm a young dude, your an old fogie, a stinken little old fogie ma--n.
And then he ran and Jackson said 1 win for young against old, and then Jackson and Katie spent time sightseeing for 4 days and Katie, I know she is born to tell people previous lives stories, really enjoyed being away from the office and when she came back,,the first phone call made was a phone call to the cops, issueing a restraining order on that Steven Bradley reincarnation, and then Jacksoc went back to his parents house saying he was kidnapped by a ghost while Katie tried a new approach to tell people previous lives, so she can keep love one's safe for the future of her business, yes that's what she'll do.
Claire A Jacobs Dec 2014
I awoke into a morbid dream

A shadow realm of neither form nor scheme

A subdued mirage without shimmer or gleam  

A foul abomination

In this nightmarish realm of dread

Weary souls are tapped and bled

Demons feed, Spoil and spread

Like dengue in the hearts of men

This was surely a prison for the mind

Perhaps even beyond even gods reach

A place where dark kings rule and black priests preach

And life itself has been impeached

I writhed and recoiled in primordial plasma  

Managing a precise thought in my horror

“Is there not some chaperone

To guide me through this hell unknown

Some charitable entity

To which I could bond eternally”
This is a poem written by Joseph Canon, a friend of mine. He does not have an account but he is quit talented. I hope people enjoy :)

© Sean Byrne all rights reserved 2014
hj  Feb 2019
Reincarnation
hj Feb 2019
I don’t believe in reincarnation
But if I did
I wish to be reincarnated in the grass u lay on and that star in the sky
The same star you wonder at every night
Or the soft breeze that blows by your window first thing in the morning
Your dark coffe mug so I could be as close to your lips as I can be
Ur mirror so u could see yourself through my eyes
The tree that sits in your  backyard so you can trace our initials on my skin
And I don’t know if reincarnation is real but I know our love is
Bharat B Trivedi Sep 2011
Tears
shining like precious pearls,
from the corner of your oyster eyes,
trickle in transparent torrents
into the sea of sadness
and drown in the
turbulence of the
wailing whirlpool…

Like jewels, so bright
saline stars stream down
from the sky of your face
to perform
dance of the dire distress
salsa of sad solitude
ballet of broken heart
waltz of weeping emotions
tango of tearful longing…

From the dark veil of clouds
like melting snowflakes,
crystal drops
roll down
your cheeks,
to unfathomable depths
of your heavy heart…

Simple release of sentiments
from overflowing well of eyes
shed silent tears of agony,
streaming down,
trails of shattered dreams
leave traces of hurt and pain…

Lifting your sad face,
with a touch of warmth and love
I wipe your fragile tears.
You smile -
and they reincarnate
as beautiful tears
of happiness…

Copyright 2011 © Bharat B. Trivedi
Madison Aug 2018
Just when I think

I've known the world

I come to the realization

That I've only seen it

Through my own two eyes.

It eats at me

Though I shouldn't be bothered

And yet

I can't help but wonder why.

What do strangers see

When they watch my favorite film

And what do they hear

In their favorite songs?

What do others girl feel

When they knowingly fall in love

With someone

Who's stringing them along?

What do my parents know

When they look at the roads

They've walked down

Many more times than I?

What do babies think

When the world's so unknown

And they can only use their voices

To cry?

Where is the truth

In others' opinions

So very different from mine?

Where lies the inspiration

Of other writers

As they steadily type

Each line?

In the end

There's not much of a point

Unless reincarnation exists.

But frustration prevails

Knowing my eye's the limit

And my curiosity

You see

Persists.
Joan Pacinabo Apr 2014
Oh, Lady I do understand.
With all that I am,
To love someone like me is wrong.
Even if our heart's singing a song,
A song called love and affection.
It's condemned in your religion,
And you are very religious person.

Just go away from me,
I will set you free,
And I hope and pray,
That you'll find him and be happy.

If only reincarnation is true,
I wish my soul will enter to a man's flesh.
The day I die, I will find you.
I will bring the love for you still fresh.

It won't go stale...
Because my love for you is like a legend story,
It is not a Tale.
Forever... it's you and me, Lady.
A Lesbian Poetry

— The End —