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Sunday morning
sluggish streets blink
and whisper to themselves
that there was sun, yesterday

the jagged methadone
of a bad night’s sleep
giving all the weight
none of the peace

technicolour memories
seem to be made false
by this overcast sky
so happiness lies

in the old days
a cigarette and a cup of coffee
would smooth edges,
in the good old days
Toward the end of it all
my knackered earth beds
sit dishevelled
like a mother’s rushed haircut

tufts of the next growth
brace for another brown-grey winter
while the last redcurrants hide,
blood dark rubies
tucked in dying leaves of neighbour bushes

in the middle, the supermarket spruce
of three years ago
waits its turn
growing done in the throng of all
while the sun played favourites

soon, in the cat pad darks
the ground will be given back to rule,
cold, empty and silent
ZR Simon Sep 9
There's a light on in my mind
If you look closely you'll find
The light's merely a glimmer--
A fragment lost in time.
It flickers in and out--
a futile manifestation of doubt,
my mind, the bygone and broken--
A vessel left unmoored,
endlessly wandering through memories
obliterated by time.
The lighthouse of my mind
Darkened now--no ships to find
just lost souls and memories--
fractured pieces left behind,
eternally echoing in the night.

There is no light.
Time that is the enemy of purpose,
    Breathing birthing nothing but burden of ageing,
Wasting the time, in shortage, which one regrets
  when wrinkled and disabled,
      Waiting for Grim to release from illness.
Alas, if sleep is the cousin of death,
  This is dying and seeing death coming.
Life is short and making every single an eventful, admirable movie. Never experiencing a dull moment. Merely is impossible. If you can’t prove me wrong.
A bold density of memory anchors,
scattered across a past
where colour saturates
like someone sat on the remote control,
holy hand grenades on loose afternoons
with the slap and bicker of passing the joypad
in blithe ignorance of washing piles
deadlines and empty pockets

Drifting in the now, helium light,
well-heeled but drab,
absent fingers trace the slight links
on the line around arthritic ankles
as they gently, surely give
We were once well acquainted
with the wee small hours
adept at navigating neon jungles
and the deeps of kitchen philosophies
entwined with kebabs and illicit frissons,  
in vino veritas conspiracies
that took weeks to unpick and apologise for
but passed

Now, if seen, those hours hold different snags,
surrounding plants are far less exotic
but familiar brambles cut deep,
immutable truths roar
when the ***** doesn’t do the talking
and morning burrs not so easily dislodged
by a full English and a million teas
Olivia Feb 1
I want to be eighteen forever,
I don't want my skin to turn to leather.

Will I forget the people who raised me?
The one's who pushed me to become everything I could be.

When I'm sitting in my rocking chair,
with my withering hair,
will I remember the good times, the bad, the experiences and the memories?
or will they just dissolve into my empty stare,
while wishing I was still there.
This is the first-ever poem I have written :)
Betty Jan 20
You irritating ****!
Somehow you got yourself under my teenage skin
and you stayed there for thirty odd years
with the stubborness of a tick
we have grown up together
and old together
dynamite wouldn’t shift you now
you are a part of me
as I am a part of you
The sort of poem you can only write for someone who you have been in love with and has loved you since forever! We have been through loads both good and bad, last week I could cheerfully have brained him-but he's mine and I am his- that is all to be said!
BSween Dec 2020
Rust makes weak old parts
until they crack in caustic riot.
Then slow we slough
through finite term
searching for some quiet.
Then settle in a nice safe box
to wait this whole thing out
A smile for every grateful year
prostrate to our diet.
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