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M Vogel Apr 23

She bleeds through the
ends of her fingers, as she cries--
   she dies inside
   as she relives the horrors

   and re-suffers the blows;
   down on to the paper
   it all goes

her shattered-heart knows,
and her tear-stained face shows
that this is how she will reach
those, all alone;  

so, with trauma-scarred hands-
and blood-stained-red bones, creates
the much needed seed to be sown

   and down on to the paper
   it all goes

she is bleeding out, all alone
but her face  has a glow
M Vogel Nov 2020

On a hay day of glory
my most deeply buried  thoughts
found words..
alone throughout the years,  now touched;
a child's heart will bring forth
its finest magic
as deep within  the crevassed-bedrock
there is a priceless vein of gold
in each of us
but only to be  excavated
by so tender, a few..

And once exposed to the atmosphere
(and all of its elements),
it becomes hard to contain
the magnificent feeling
of having our precious insides, touched
by the tender-wielder  of a pick axe
so perfectly formed, as to
masterfully pry open the crevasses

yet,  without breaking them

Never would have it been touched;
always, would it have remained concealed
within the bedrock of loneliness.
Perhaps one day you just might  become able
to forgive me, for all of the wondrous magic

brought forth-- out into the light of day
on that beautiful night  of excavation

.. perhaps.

sorry to say  that i'm not sorry.
preston Nov 2020
Selmhem Naise

She stands at its edge
looking back

looking into.

Who is ‘unafraid’ enough
to come near the edge;
Her searching eyes ask
as she looks back.

You see you, girl—
through my eyes
as I see how alone you are
at the edge of it.

I am you also—
standing at the edge.

Is there enough
love in this world
to swallow up this fear?
Apparently there is

tho often
only seen

    from the edge.

oh Mary
you have seduced my soul..

forever a hostage
of your child's world
ali Nov 2020
i feel as though my
joys go to waste when there’s no
one to share them with

ships could sail slyly across
the depth of my aloneness
Glenn Currier Jun 2020
I seem to be at home on the margins
where I can be alone
with my folly
sweltering in my private bowl of stew
simmering in the sins
surrounding and piercing me
but you found me there
invited me into your heart
where you loved me
redeemed me
sewed my seams
pulled together my crazy quilt
made separate parts into a whole.
I wonder if these times offer opportunities for us to become quilt makers each in our own ways. I suppose most people are on the edges at one time or another and could use a seamstress.
preston May 2020

You are screaming at me and I'm in tears
your face peeled back
in deep contempt of my need
I am just a little boy and my head hurts and it
is a sin to hope that my aspirin could be cut

because I can't swallow the pills and they get
stuck in my throat, burning. My head is

and I'm falling down, a shaken baby
black around my eyes--
which one of you shook me?
Who did this to me, I'm just a little boy
peaceful in heart,
yet horror stricken; and the anger builds
Unexpressed words defining injustice, are

once again, deeper:    evil excels in its clothing
a child in shame, within the denial of its own wrongdoing.
Years of hard work, dismantle the shame..
remove condemnation's heavy, mantle;
but this rage.. this deeply embedded injustice-scream?
A lifetime has not enough years to undo what
the locusts have eaten

And I am only half of it...
a ***** in my armor, and I fall
A cheap shot, my hands now empty
the fire of my temple, now dust..

Lay me there, beside her--
she, that tore me down, she who I now
a beautiful boy, a broken son
in death, makes his peace with mom
his burial place, once again
back, in her arms

This is the home I choose
I forgive you, Momma, be my resting-place now,
my home--

my anger, my hatred.. contempt
purged, by cremation's holy fire
all glory and honor,  now yours

as the once-broken little boy
curls up safely, in your arms
Your beautiful son has returned,
back home:

     God.. and a mother's love,
                             rest his soul.

hell is for children
preston May 2020

(note~ This is a rather lengthy story about trauma and brokenness..)

I have a patch of skin on the back of my left hand, indiscernible to the
human eye as being any different than any other part of my skin.
It is my heart of hearts.

Five days a week I am not with my little ones.. there is a place I go.
A broken one awaits me there; Unknowingly. On 'day one' of my
non daddy-time, I go where the longing of my heart leads me.
When I am not with them.

There is a vertical shaft-- hidden in the tumbleweeds at the base of the
mountain's foothills that leads down beneath the surface. There are
rusted rebar steps in the shape of hoops, embedded into the hardened dirt
and rock of the shaft that gives me access to what lies down below.
With each ten steps, the shaft becomes noticeably darker. After thirty
steps, there becomes a pungent smell in the air that begins to cover my
skin, and a dank mist that enters my lungs and begins to coat the
inside of my skin. As I continue to descend down-- all becomes covered--
everything.. but the 4 inch square patch on my left hand.

There is a foul 'burning' in the permeating mist that wants to place a
film over my eyes and cause them to water, but as I descend I grow a
new pair of eyes over the top of my old ones, and though it is nearly
pitch black now and the pungency completely fills the air;
I can see.
Faintly, but I can see.

Directly at the bottom of the shaft is a room barely lit by what little
light has made it down the shaft through the mold and musty mist.
I get a strong sense that this room is the antechamber. Dirt and rock
line the walls as if they had been there since the ancient days. There is
also a black mold and an unavoidable saturation of the wall. There are
two doors in the wall, but I sense that both lead to the same room, so I
take the door on the right and slowly enter into a windowless and
nearly pitch black room-- old and partially torn up asbestos-tar tiled
floor-- filthy ***** with strewn about rags and used up things. The
pungent mist would be completely overwhelming had I not already
been fully permeated in it and received the new set of eyes in order to
be protected from its permeation and also to be able to see through the
darkness and wet fine dust that floats throughout the air.

On the walls there is a saturation to such a degree that it almost moves,
and there is a permeation of mold throughout. Mold on the walls, floor,
ceiling-- everything permeated in the mold, and whatever it is that has
saturated everything. I have now entered so far into the room that all I
can see is shadows. It has become that dark. There is a sense of movement.
It is large-- behemoth even, methodically slow in it's self caught-up world.
It is perpetrator. Abuser-- And it only knows one thing--
destruction of anything of life for its own gain. It cannot see me
because I am permeated in the foulness of its own perpetual emission--
The walls.. they are *** soaked. The air is filled with an ever-evaporating
mist of pungency. The only life form attached to it is mold, a fungus
which covers every square inch of floor, wall and ceiling.
I am not afraid, because I know that what I want is in the room also--
and I know that the only thing perpetrator can see is what hasn't been
permeated by the filth-- and so as I move.. remembering to place my
right hand over the back side of my left--
covering the only part of me that is not his.

Protected by the fact that I have become permeated in and with the
outcome of his abusing ways, I am hidden from all that he is,
as long as I keep that part of me covered.
I begin to move slowly around the room knowing that I cannot be seen,
but needing also to make not an ounce of sound. I am looking-- searching.
In the corner is a small discarded pile of ***** rags, and there my
eyes focus as I slowly move towards it. Perpetrator has begun to
shuffle off towards another smaller room that I have just begun to
become aware of. I head towards the small pile of rags.
I can feel him-- someone else in the room. The one I came for.

I move towards the rags on the floor there in the corner of the room
and I can see him-- just a part of his hand sticking out from underneath
the pile of rags; he is face down. All my focus is on him now, as I kneel
down next to him and sit alongside him-- pulling the rags off of his
head, revealing the side of his face. He is face down with eyes closed,
barely breathing-- barely a pulse.. only kept alive by the perpetrator to
serve his purpose. I am with him now and his brokenness takes over
me. I cannot touch him with any part of the permeated filth.

I reach out with the unaffected four inches of skin on the back side of my
hand, and touch it to his face. There's a slight movement, but he
remains face down. He's just a little boy, but because of the horrors
he was subjected to, I knew not to try to move him--
the trauma of just the slightest movement would **** him.
And if I were to look directly into his eyes, the light I had brought into
his broken, dark world, would have burned the back of his retinas and
ended what little pulse and breathing he had remaining. This is where I
want to be, even if the only thing that I can do just let him feel the
warmth and cleanness of my skin through the back of my hand against
his face.

I feel him quietly breathing it in.
He never opens his eyes-
face down still-- pain.
It takes all the energy he has;
just to survive.. to breathe.

And outside of the warmth of my hand, I know
that he may never again have the chance
to see the light of day--
he is broken, abandoned.

This is where I want to be.. but to be near the broken one of my heart, I
have had to wear the 'full outcome' of perpetrator, and know full well
through what I have learned when young that I'm putting myself at risk--
of forever being banished to hell for what I have 'chosen to wear'.
I will stay with the broken one wherever that may be. This is where
my heart is most at home (the times I'm not with my little ones).
If heaven doesn't want to let me.. or the broken one in,
then I don't want to be there.
I will stay here with him, and if hell is his final resting place..
then it will be mine also--
perpetrator cannot see me here-- destructor will not see me there,
and I will sit with broken-one forever.

But for now I must return at the end of the five days-- climbing once
again back up the shaft and receiving the washing that happens once
daily life sees the four inch patch-- I am clean again in order to play
with and love my little ones.. holding them and protecting them from
the daylight-perpetrators as best as I can.. and as I love them and look into
them, I look into the broken one also. He is with me in my heart even
then. I will be with him again soon and also once again with my little ones.
    I am both.
They will grow up and become responsible loving adults with children
of their own. Broken one will always remain young and broken.
I will remain with him forever--come hell or high water.
He is me.. and every broken-one who has ever had to suffer alone.
It is with the broken ones that I will always want to be.

I live within the four square inches of my skin.
Empress Asa Jan 2020
Is there any love between us?
Then why is so quiet?

Is there any love between us?
Then why is so much effort?

Is there any love between us?
Then why it take so many times?

Is there any love between us?
Then why I still being alone?

Is there any love between us?
Then why I still feel a lonely?

Is there any love between us?
Then why I assume that you didn't want that?

Is there any love between us?
Then why I can't see you?

Is there any love between us?
Then why you are thinking too much to come?

Is there any love between us?
Feel it..
Tommy Randell Nov 2018
... the sound the Sun makes each evening
hitting the sea, the ground, the swamps, the forests,
and the sheer effort it must take
every morning, pulling itself up into the sky
through clouds, through oceans, through sandy deserts
up into the glassy blue by a straight force of will -
I mean, literally... wtaf..!?

... the crackling of the stars and galaxies on fire in the night
every night, the gazillions of blazing alchemical furnaces
smashing into each other, in turn and turn about,
forging a pyrotechnic big bang, again and again
in a re-enactment of creation just for our benefit down here -
so we might pause, and see, and understand
something at least... I mean, just look at that ****, Man !

... waking, working, breeding, and warring,
Humanity in all its self-important battle-screaming glory...
it is decibels of noise at every wavelength, arrogant and brash,
it is beauty and exuberance, it is cruelty and allegory,
all added to the Earth's biogenesis, its molten tumult
and the conspicuous creation of Life in its continuance...
and these, my single thoughts, a brief moment of prickling doubt...
The title, of course, references Nicolaus Copernicus, a Renaissance-era mathematician and astronomer who formulated a model of the universe that placed the Sun rather than the Earth at the center of the universe.

Aristarchus of Samos, also formulated such a model ... almost 2 Thousand years earlier BUT... for the purposes of 21st Century poetry, Copernicus sounds better I think.
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