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Stanley Wilkin Dec 2016
Wherever he went the visitor left a note
A small one, barely a centimetre long,
Beneath a glass or jug, on which he wrote
The same incomprehensible song.
Oh yes! It made no sense. Not a bit.
Which is why he left it

The town became used to his fleeting presence
A joke, a laugh, a drink, then gone
It didn’t matter that he made no sense
Or that his odour, also left behind, was so wrong.
It didn’t matter one little bit;
Which is why he did it.


He floated in with the sunshine and dust
Not by the door. They  quickly forgot what he looked like,
His name, if he possessed one; precise objects of his lust;
The tone of his voice; whether his build was heavy or light,
He had no substance or distinguishing features
In the usual manner of such invisible creatures.

He left only a memory, flaky as rust
The half-remembered shades of those with diminishing sight
The first kiss, a balloon that goes bust,
The unseen hand that turns out the light.
Like aging, he unravelled each mind, stitch by stitch,
An accident waiting to happen, disease, misfortune or glitch.

If he visits, struggle to recall something
When he’s gone. He will take part of you with him.
Changes will be rung, sans mind, soul, sans everything,
Disposed of through time, fate or whim.
He freely comes, unrecognised
Unnamed, unknown, unexorcised.
Atypnoc Dec 2016
Lai
Something is wrong with my brain
What are we doing?
I think I'm dying
I'm dying
I'm going to die
Am I going to die?
What are we doing?
I'm scared
I don't feel well

-Chu
In memory of Lai.

I work in assisted living, and these are quotes oft repeated by a resident dear to me.
Stanley Wilkin Dec 2016
As cold as another age, wracked with solitude,
A slow start to another beginning,
Unreliable cloud coats the sky
And the sea repetitiously roars in,
Cuffing cliffs,
Pounding rocks
With calamitous roars
Playing endless riffs across the sand.

We walked together down the beach
Troubled by the surf
Chewing on cigarette stubs, sullied by the wind
New ghosts in the half-light
Bearing years like backpacks.

Grown old in the gathering twilight
We chattered together, our footsteps picking
Wounds.  Barbed words
Like greetings, cheerfulness like an accusation.
******* a shared and interesting memory,
We cuddled together in the scouring wind
Enjoying each other’s casual warmth.

It was a time for reflection,
When love is a scab on evolving friendship,
Heartlessness the price of redemption.
The contrived book of your beauty,
The gilded ceramic of expertly rendered features
The undulating film of your gestures, coded and decoded
Through time.

Beauty is finite, crumbling to fleshless reminiscence
Fixed to canvas and celluloid
With tireless labour. In the end, signifying another thing-
Of little interest.
An artist’s casual thought, a director’s cut.
They barely remember your name,
Your laughter and wildness gone, missed by the
Senile artist’s transitory brush,
Clotted with hundred-year-old varnish.

A small house by the sea
Surrounded by flowerbeds sparkling with summer colour
Self-absorbed children, with whom we exchanged affection
And parted from, holidaying in Bangkok
With lovers of all sorts.
As the sea rolled towards us
And evening gave way to night.
JDK Dec 2016
Drunky McGee,*
that's my nickname for her,
though lately I wonder
if it doesn't also describe me.
Is it possible for a poem to be sad and funny at the same time? Idk, I've deleted most of these.
(That's not entirely true. I make a copy and save it as private before I delete the original. (But why am I telling you any of this?))
Michelle Garcia Dec 2016
I will one day become a grandmother in a wooden rocking chair,
hair dusted over by the willowy waltz of passing time. A cataract memory,
mind sheltered by the wedding veils of unblemished maidens
long after the receptions have ended.


My granddaughter will see right through my fossilized transparency
and she will smile, for she will only see my frosted forgetfulness,
eternities buried within my scattered steps
as I remember how to walk each morning.


She will never understand--
not until my fragile bones find home within dampened earth,
that her grandmother was a poet.
That I, of countless melted birthday candles and weary stumbling,
was once seventeen with poetry embedded in my irises,
pounding to the cadence of my pulse.


Once, I was a poet.
I ran barefoot in the neighborhood streets,
aching soles on summer concrete, finding solace
in between the sidewalk cracks of smaller worlds.
Once, I was a poet,
and I found comfortable silence within the rhythmic thumping of typewriter keys
past unspeakable hours, graceful ink spilling symphonies onto paper,
every rejection letter promised potential,
every love an image to be painted with the soft brush of syllables.


She will notice my hands tremble.
Here, grandma, let me help you, she’ll say.
Celestial, it was, the pitiful gaze of the naive.
I let her pour my coffee, observing slim hands move with ease,
peaceful, calm, the apricot sunsets I used to chase
at seventeen, forever engraved on the backs of my heavy eyelids.


Once,  I was a poet,
and I wrote of my lover like someone handcrafted
by the calloused hands of an existing God,
how easily the blazing fires of youth melted
into promises creased inside sealed envelopes.


I do not recognize her anymore,
the reflection who pours my coffee today.
She has my lover’s eyes, his unforgettable opals of poetry
that are nothing but faded recollections
of the muse I used to be.


*My darling,
I still see you. You are still here.
Sparkling Dust Nov 2016
Droplets of rain falling on an abandoned umbrella
Mud puddles loved by little children
I look out the window, to our garden, missing that red gumamela
Now withered, like my days, forgotten
“Growing up and growing out of things”
Angelique Nov 2016
a distinct pattern
of
insecurities
fragments of battles make their way
into
the next decade
Scarlet McCall Nov 2016
Age ain’t nuthin' but a number, they said.
Only each of those numbers
means you’re one step closer to being dead.
Sure, I can still wear a short dress.
But why would I—
there’s no need to impress.
The hormones have fled, and in their stead
I have wisdom and serenity. I’ve said goodbye
to the burning desire to coax someone into bed.
Yes, I could hike the Himalayas, if I try;
but my arthritis means
every step of the way, I’d cry.
I play the guitar, but don’t get too far,
before I feel it in my elbow.
Didja notice Jimmy Page
rubs his arm?I guess he didn’t get the memo--
the one that says it’s just a number, your age.

I’m here to tell you age makes you humbler.
NO ONE my age says “age is nothing but a number.”
Numbers mean something, they add and subtract;
by the time you’re my age, you’re in your second act.
In fact the second act is closing, I’m moving on to the third—
the final act--where you’ve got to sum it all up, but, rest assured:
I’m not pining for my lost youth,
when I had better health,
but less truth.
PR re-post from a couple years ago.
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
BeforeTV

Before TV,
When we were together,
Before growing apart
From father and mother,
We entertained ourselves with song;
All the sisters and brothers.

We gambolled in the backyard,
The clothes line was our zip line,
We fell soft, then hard.

We somehow got a hold of skates,
Not knowing what they're for,
So we took turns,
Laced them on,
To skate on cement floors.

We raised a high jump,
Skipped on the driveway,
Double Dutch and Speed;
We strung a line for volleyball,
Nailed a hoop below the roof,
Played soccer in the hall.
We paddled ping-pong on the table;
Our household freedom
Made us as grateful
As animals in a well-kept stable.

Some winters we'd flood the back,
And shoot and slide until the cracks
Turned to puddles,
Then I'd sail popsiclestick boats
Over oceans,
To distant folks.

On the frontwalk we tossed our stones,
Landing on the moon,
And hopscotch til we went for soup
And soda bread and **** milk.

If we had a ball and bat,
Chances are we'd not come back
'til the sun went down;
And then,
When the stars came out,
We'd *Hide and Seek,

Til the last one'd shout,  Home Free.
With dirt and patchwork dungarees,
We went in
For good-night tea.

Weren't we the normal family?

Then we got our first T.V.

After T.V.

We were landed,
Not gentry,
And we started channelling
U.S. T.V.

We weren't polite like Cartwrights,
Nor guaranteed Lil' Joe's birthright.

The sisters locked on Patty Duke,
Then dressed the same
To get the look,
So they ditched their Wellie boots.


We'd lie on the floor,
Stuck like glue,
On Sundays watch Ed's Big Shoe.
We didn't know the sun had left,
Our eyes were on the TV set.

The Cleaver boys still got dessert,
Though leaving green beans on their plate,
Left ice-cream and sweet chocolate cake.
We'd stare confused, yet salivate;
Such treats and food we'd never waste.

The Douglas boys had single beds,
En suites, bathrobes,
Hair on their heads;
Pillows and open windows,
And locks on doors,
They weren't co-ed.
We slept, at least, two to a bed,
Four to a room, two bedspreads.
We slept on mattresses with stinging springs,
Torn and traced with stale *****.
In the hot and humid summer,
In bathing suits
We'd swim in slumber.
Our small window couldn't open,
We roasted in our four walled oven.

We watched Lassie and Gomer Pyle,
Green Acres' Arnold had us beguiled.
We didn't get Father Knows Best,
His gentleness raised our regrets.
Lucy and Ricky, an odd couple,
Were always getting into trouble,
Like Fred and best bud, Barney Rubble.

Were these the models to emulate,
To blend in North of the United States?

These families had open conversations,
Shared their thoughts without hesitation.
Mine were full of consternation,
And alien, like My Favourite Martian.

We grew in a foreign land,
Beached like the cast on Gilligan.

Surely, we were Lost in Space,
Separate from the human race.
No gyroscope to set direction,
To separate fact from fiction.

We weren't stupid,
We were astute;
We weren't the ones on our TV.
We were a singular family.

Post T.V.

We numbered ten at the start,
Then aged and drifted far apart;
We can't gather to watch TV,
As we were once wont to be.
But I remember Ernest T.,
Throwing rocks to win Charlene,
And arrested by Sheriff Andy.
We laughed at all the silly doings
Of Barney, and Thelma Lou's wooings.

I send e-mails and textual banter,
(One brother still likes writing letters),
Reminding me of our early days,
How TV censured our innocent ways.

We never were small screen.
We emigrated to Canada from Ireland in 1957. A brave new world.
Cannon Nov 2016
In short, you see, I'm leaving.
And I've grown enough to know I'm not coming back.
I've grown enough to know that what we had was temporary
and I'll miss you,
but
but I can't promise that I won't show up crying at your door and I can't promise that I'll turn you away when you come to me.
I know I'll miss being so naive.
The world we had was so simple.
No one made mistakes.
No one showed up in ditches,
no one real anyways.
Mom and Dad were perfect.
Mom and Dad loved each other.
But, you gotta understand that I'm leaving,
and I'm grown enough to know that I can't stop you from coming with me.
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