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I wanted to remember the past,
I tried, tried a lot to know-
How was my thoughts
What was I loving
Where was I seeking
Who was my feeling

I wanted to get back the night
The night that has been disappearing before my sense
I tried, tried a lot to know-  
How was my abstract mind
What was I praying
Where was I travelling
Who was with I dreaming

I wanted to remember and I tried a lot but,
I was killed beyond retrieve
I was drilled by my heart  
I was erased by my memory,
To whom I was alive.
13 March 2020
There was a hand in the darkness once
That reached out and held my hand -
That was a hand of caring.

There was a hand at the playground gates
Took me by the hand the first day -
That was a hand of sharing.

      A Father's hand I never knew
      A Mother's hand I lost too soon
      Of Lovers' hands there have been many
      My Brother's? Everytime, & always ready.

There was a hand pushed my hand away
Then pushed again and kept on pushing -
That was a hand of warring.

A time of loneliness when no hand came
When my hands held themselves and
When my hands learned about mourning.

      My Children's hands reassuring me
      My close Friends' hands knowing All this
      More tenuous Friends not getting me yet
      Colleague's hands getting the fist bump flip.

A lifetime of hands coming and going
A poetry of hands speaking more than words
That death and all of life is but a hand away.

Giving hands, hands taking, years of hands
Speaking incessantly good and bad
And I have listened to all they had to say.

      When I give my word I offer my hands
      When I greet a friend, when I take my leave
      Equally I see myriad hands upon the page
      Time flowing from this Poet's hand displayed.
      
There was a child holding a pen once
That needed a family to write about -
That was a hand  of shaking.

There were two fists raised to the world
That was a young man out of control -
That was the poetry of me in the making.
Mystic Ink Plus Sep 2019
म सानो छदा

म सानो छदा
बिहानै उठथे
दुघ भात खान्थे
पर्खाल बहिरका बच्चाहरुले नुन रोटी खाएको दख्थे
यसो माथि हेर्थेे
आफु माथिको आकासको टुक्रा झरिहाले के गर्ने सोंच्थे
यसो पछाडी हेर्थे
भकारी भरी छ
पेट किन भरीदैन भन्ने लाग्थ्यो
अलि ठुलो भएपछि
पर्खाल बाहिर गए
गोडामा काडा बिज्यो
लडे, अनी उठे

अझै बढेपछि
त्यो भन्दा पर जादा
लडाउने मान्छेहरु भेटें
झुक्याउने मान्छेहरु भेटें
केही सन्त
धेरै अपराधिहरु  भेटें

गाडी चढेपछि अझै पर पुगें
मैदानहरु देखें
हिमाल, पहाडहरु देखें

हवाइजहाज चढेर झनै पर पुग्दा
अर्को संसार देखें
सबैलाइ उतार्न थाले
कवि बन्नै लागेको बेलामा म कवि हैन भन्दिए
मित्रहरुले माने
शत्रुले मान्दै मानेनन्
तिमी कविनै हो भने
मैले लेखेरै भन्नु पर्यो म कवि होइन

शत्रुले सोधे
त्यसो भए तिमी को हौ त?
मैले भने
म त कवि भन्दा ज्यादा फुल हो
फेरी ती मेरो पत्र,पत्र हेर्न थाले
सुध्न थाले
रुपको कुरा गरे
तिनले म नेरको पातलाई पनि सोधे
काडाको पनि रिस गरे
मलाइ भरोसा दिने हाँगाबिँगा पनि भाँचे
माटो समेत खोतलेर हेरे
तिनका हात हिलाम्मै भयो
रक्ताम्मै भयो
तिनले गड्यौलापनि देखे
किरा फटयागा्रलाइपनि सोधे
मित्रहरुले माने, म फुलै हो
शत्रुहरुले मान्दै मानेनन्
तिमी कविनै हो भने
मैले लेखेरै दिनु पर्यो म कवि होइन

शत्रुले फेरी सोधे तिमी को हौ त?
मैले भने, म पंक्षि हो
उनिहरुले गुलेली लिए
ढुङ्गाहरु हान्न थाले
पखेटाहरु काटिदिए
गुँड भत्काइदिए

फेरि सोधे तिमी को हौ त?
मैले भने तिमीहरुको मित्र
मित्रहरुले माने
शत्रुले मान्दै मानेनन्
तिनले भने तिमी हाम्रो शत्रु हो
तिमी कविनै हो
मैले लेखेरै दिनु पर्यो म कवि  होइन

त्यहाका बच्चाहरु अझैपनि
नुन रोटिनै खान्छन्
नाङ्गै धुलोमै खेल्छन्
अझै म पनि कवि बन्नै बाँकि छ
तर शत्रुहरु तिमी कविनै हो भन्छन्
तिनलाइ लेखेरै म भन्छु म कवि होइन

अहं होइन
शैली : अवलोकन
विषय :आत्मकथा
Author's Note:
When logic and reality interwine
Should one need to close the senses?
Or, let one freature the time in rhyme?
What should one do?
Pete King Dec 2018
I stopped striving for the perfect year,
Because my concept of "perfection" was flawed.
I was chasing a scenario in which,
I could go a full rotation of the sun
without anything going astray,
All my dreams being fulfilled.

This search for perfection,
Was like looking at a window,
And being annoyed because
All I could see was a sheet of glass.

But, I decided to alter my desires;
Try to live single year in hopes of good autobiography.

Meaning;
To say yes more often.
And say no when needed.
To relish in successes.
And learn from mistakes.
To love without exception.
And to be kind without expectation.
To revel in every single wonderful moment as they come,
And not letting their fleeting nature feed the bitter parts of me.

Don't chase the perfect year.
Chase an amazing story.
Leave readers captivated.
And your grandkids bored-to-death.
Lacey Clark Oct 2018
Raised faux-religiously in a catholic school by convenience of neighborhood (though, I loved the plaid and I wanted to do Eucharist but my mom explained I wasn't catholic, so I dabbled with the hymns and cursive) by my two gay moms and some 'extra kids' (fostering, etc) in Spokane. Homeschooled later (and seriously religiously, Vacation Bible School, NO HARRY POTTER and no saying 'stupid', a lot of neighborhood scootering) by uncle auntie and my two home-made and hilarious cousins (siblings) in Nevada. another private school in the Wild West with my grandpa and grandma (maybe religiously? they took me out to Mexican dinner religiously). And scattered across the West, Mid-West and South for all the rest. Public schools interwoven and equally traumatizing in between states.
One school in florida was known for fist fights and head lice. I kissed my first boy there. and girl. I left for what I thought was summer vacation and never came back. Another accidental move.
I had been squeezed in-between the palms of each coast for high school (plopped in the midwest).
In Wisconsin, I popped like a pimple and broke some major skin. Tried to end my life a few times. Psych ward after psych ward. Pills. Pills. Pills! A nurse took me aside and said "i have hope for you" and it was the first time i felt seen. met hard drugs to replace the cutting- they felt like long lost friends. Easy to pick up.
And recovery was like feeling your face after a satisfying shaving... and not a scratch since.
Now gliding along the West Coast in Academia's matrix. Politics and community engagement and the center. Clean. In the Heart of the City. Biking with helmets. Shoebox studio apartments. Nose in book, nose in food. Day job with a class of kids who I love and who love me. Space to grow, assess, reshape. Optimism. Peace. Stability.
Mystic Ink Plus Aug 2018
Till that time

When
No space left inside the mind
They keep on collecting
What touches the life
Close enough

Till the threshold
When words can’t resist
And finds peace in Ink
And words start to embed
And the thoughts get its way
And the soul feels calm

When
Everything, Everybody
Nothing, Nobody
Sense like a word
Which gets pass through
The Ink

And once started

They find
A good reason
Not to stop
Or forget
How to stop.
Genre: Autobiography
Theme: May be so many somebody passes through this
Pagan Paul Apr 2017
I am the ******* son of Nero,
the sad product of licentiousness.
A fact about my life
that I should really mention less.

My mother was a famous Queen
or so it is that I am told.
Unable to acknowledge me,
to the slavers I was sold.

But pirates attacked our galley
a few miles out to sea.
Bold, daring, fearsome men,
their life appealed to me.

Plundering, fighting on a ship,
I loved the pirates life.
Until one day I floundered
and took me a beautiful wife.

She bore me two boys and a girl,
I gave them all my affection.
Mourning the loss of my childhood,
my severed parental connection.

The children grew and flew the nest,
so leaving just two alone.
Then the plague paid a visit,
my grief weighs heavy for my home.

So now I am just a humble poet,
Withdrawn and cold, but serene.
Throwing words at a paper audience,
waiting patient for the final scene.

Well, wait there a while longer,
this ******* is not quite done.
I am not so ready to die just now,
that epilogue is yet to come.

© Pagan Paul (19/04/17)
.
Pure fiction :)
.
Tom Alan Quest Apr 2018
I
I, tired
synecdoches

For exhausted sadness.
I, fragmented animus,

(……….)Stilled air in a mutiny,
(……….)Sent afloat from mine eye.

I, aimless bounty
Missing bligh.

(……….)I, nimble crumbs,
(……….)Too mouldy and dry

To be scraped off the floor
Into bins, out of sight. I,

Too perilless,
Too stagnant

To die.
(I, tired)
From the depths of depression, the self starts deteriorating and collapsing on its own selfish loathing. This is what that infected ghost speaks and how the very speech gets chopped up, obfuscated, and verbally suicidal.
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