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Sharon Talbot Apr 10
Before hearing about your death
I began a novel inspired by you
and your struggle with the truth--
The truth of who you were,
what you wanted of life and of me.
And it became a journey
into the past, into a life
that had happened before
we met, decades ago,
and after we parted for good,
I wove a new life out of remnants,
of things I knew or just supposed.
And like a good researcher,
I told of your parents' failings,
the darker side of love.
Of your grandmother and friends,
and even your cousin who
brought you to me,
Luring you out of the homogeneous crowd
and into our perfect valley--
"the land of spires and dreams".
I even spoke warmly of our artless love
and our drifting apart like ghost ships.
After our second parting,
when you left the mortal coil,
I tried not to reminisce about us,
for the story was yours, not mine,
But I fear that a mirror kept
cropping up behind me and
around corners, erasing mystery.
Narcissus caught me time and again.
Even so, I created times for you
that I had never seen or heard.
I have you swimming off La Jolla,
traipsing on mountain paths
in the wilds of British Columbia,
or arguing with your wife
in that mansion you dreamed of.
I invented a girl you would like
and two kids who loved you
in spite of everything.
Your memories of me became
less urgent, locked in a chess box,
in songs or on film, hidden away.
I analyzed your youth, your vanity,
lust, boredom, mistakes and age.
And when it came time for you
to make a decision: to stay or go
again, either west or east,
I stopped and looked over your life,
rolled out flat, like the American plain
from western crags to eastern city
and like a broken record,
the choice shuttled back and forth,
not letting me decide for you.
Glancing at a photo
of your childhood home,
I realized at last,
not that you had died too soon,
but that I really never knew you.
He kinetically arrived
with 1973.

Night is the longest day,
here come the warm jets,
served on a cold plate.

Play it back at half-speed
and you've got auditory wallpaper,

it must be as ignorable
as it is interesting.

His own world spins within a device:
cacophony of sound
mixed in a blender
and xeroxed;
a little snake guitar,
a little Leslie piano

— music to resign you
to the possibility of death.

Then came 1983
and beyond just him.

Tamper tantrum hotline,
amplifiers on the balcony,
secretly taping Edge
and Adam Clayton
on a 4th of July.

The numbered streets
and desert rain
add soul to this heartland,
it's the gospel truth
he wiped the deck clean.
(sort of and maybe).

His device spins within its own world:
manageable hums,
danceable drones,
welded into night;
daytime variations
held together
no better (and no worse)
than a cloud.

Then there's sfumato:
music without lines or borders,
in the manner of smoke
— theatrical fog
— a different kind of blue.

Densely layered,
so impossible to track,
this being lost in
the magnetic hush
of airports and
  other strange kiosks,
it all falls into a creative lull.

Guess it's time for
Oblique Strategies...
Ahmad Attr Apr 2021
I’m travelling back
Back to where it all began
From one home to another
Back on the train
a domestic bird like me isn’t ready yet
I am too tamed
But deep within me lies a secret part of me
That awakens once I’m sent to the wild
Like a phoenix or an exotic bird,
Rising from my ashes
My ruffled, dusty feathers shed
And the clean, pristine ones arises
I wonder how he does it
Conquering, thriving
Living life as though it is actually exciting
My heart is racing faster than the train I’m riding
I pass through towns and mounts
Rivers brown and blue
What am I going to do when I reach my other home?
O! other me you know better than I do
How long are you going to sleep?
I need you now more than ever before
I can’t wait to be you
At the church of all saints
Singing glorious tunes
Hymns and harmonious voices
The father, an altar he stood in front
His passing
Life if an exited fellow
Can we say something?
Say to the saints
The tears of many
Words much but little
An ovation so small
Ashes to ashes
Keeping nothing in your remembrance
He once stood here
A man like God
He jouryned with the saints
Wait a minute
His family speaks
Tell them
He once stood here
Only to stand no more
Did he perish?
Wait a minute
Did he perish?
I said speak
He had no vision
The mantle perished long ago
Did he wait for the saints?
No, the morning after
I see a congregation
Mourning a death of old
Clap for her speech
He perished like a sunken treasure
Was he not a king?
Did he perish?
A glorious exit
He perished like a sunken treasure

Written by Tosan Oluwakemi Thompson
This peom tell the story of a man who died and a lot of him at his funeral didn't have a good thing to say about him. They didn't have any memorable thing to say about his existence on planet Earth.
Kenneth Gray Oct 2020
As I ponder upon my life
I feel as though I'm trapped inside a book of science fiction
Deep down in my bleeding heart I hope its about a
fantasical expidition
But in reality,
all the pages therein
Are screaming of my affliction
I pray with all my soul and might that there will be a
miraculous transition

I know I am the author
and that I hold
the key to victory
But what becomes of the ending
We'll just have to see
I need to pen in an
overcoming battle
And set my future free
I need to set up the ending
And decide just who I am to be

With all these things in mind,
I still frantically flip
through all the pages
Knowing all the pain I've caused
And seeing my past rages
Seeing all the failures pass
As it comes and goes in stages
How can I conquer all of this
When Ive been a total waste of space for ages?

I cannot help but gaze upon the blank sheets that follow after
After all, this book is not sci fi and I wont let it become
a great disaster
I do however, have a hero
and that hero is my sister
Ill be a mighty warrior just like her and I'll become the victor

I look towards the ending with my inspiration right in tow
Knowing that ill overcome and that my strength will grow.
I see my hero overcome on a daily basis and this
hard fact I know.
So just like her, I'll fight this battle everyday even if the goings slow
Ill do my best and fight the fight
Take up my mighty pen of life and deal the final blow!
This one hits hard. Its one of my more self inspiring pieces. Its weird how I can write something that actually inspires myself. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did! It actually really was inspired by my sister. We were talking earlier and she mentioned something about her life being like she was in a book. She knows I write alot and do poetry. So I said that that line could make a good poem. I told her to give me 30 minutes to write something using that line amd this is the result.
Cara Anne Sep 2020
I am 23 years old, and I can still feel it.
My past lingers over me, and hangs in the room like a thick cloud.
It engulfs me, and holds me tighter than I would like.
I am 23 years old, and I can still feel it.
Feel what you ask.
I can feel the room.
The four blank walls with a thick coat of dark paint.
Sadness and fear are the only things that hang on these walls.
I feel the coldness and the emptiness that contains the room.
They join me as I sit on the single object in the room.
I am 23 years old, and I can hear it.
Hear what you ask.
I can hear the foot prints of the individual household members.
I can tell you the exact point that they are located in the room.
I can tell you what mood they are in.
I can hear their voices, and their whispers about me.
I can hear how close they are.
Sometimes, I can hear the crisp sound of the lock being moved.
My shuffles into the darkness echo in the room.
My silent pleads of escaping can be heard running around the room.
I am 23 years old, and I can still smell it.
I can still smell the sour stench of the room.
The smell coats the room.
It drapes itself on every crevice.
I can smell myself, after being trapped here for days.
I can smell the sickness from my stomach, because I haven't ate for days.
I can smell the individual tears that have kissed the floor.
I can smell the blood from one too many beatings.
I am 23 years old, and it will forever haunt me.
The memories of being in this room are old, but they will stick with me forever.
They never hesitate to welcome me with open arms.
They taunt me whenever they please.  
I am 23 years old, and I cannot escape it.
Laura May 2020
I was a promising child
home as a war zone
I reconciled
grown men around
unknown or known
I remained
as their playground
my soul begrimed
Ellis Reyes Mar 2020
I'm from hate and discontent,
from words so caustic that they burn after 35, 40, 45, 50 years.
I'm from nowhere and everywhere,
I'm from nine schools and fourteen houses.

I'm from "You'll make new friends,"
and "Quit crying, we didn't live there that long."
To the KFC Christmas and "They're too old for a tree anyway."

I'm from slammed doors, and curse words and silent treatments.
I'm from high expectations, icy glares, straight A's, and disappointment.
I'm from 800 miles of claustrophobic silence in the family car and 18 years with no vacations.


I'm from lazy days at the family farm
and hard-*** work a few years later.
I'm from rides on the tractor with Grandpa,
and watching the illegal sabong... with the sheriff.

I'm from Uncle Martin and Mary Lou,
and the tiny apartment with the swimming pool.
I'm from the mean man in number 9 screaming at us to be quiet
and Uncle Martin telling him to, "Shut the Hell Up!"

I'm from David and Richard, my cousins, my brothers
I'm from poison oak adventures at the creek
and countless days at the beach


I'm from Gentile and Jew,
From Asian and White,
From Catholic and ****.

I'm from St. Patrick's, the old church.
I'm from stained glass and wooden kneelers,
incense, and Latin Mass.
I'm from Ego te absolvo and Dominus Vobiscum

I'm from tradition and sanctity,
dignity and peace.

I'm from Hellfire and Brimstone
Screaming, Bible pounding preachermen who are slain in the Spirit,
babble in tongues, and exhort the congregation to be "Washed in the Blood of the Lamb".


I'm from love and loss,
and love again

I'm from Lisa, and Donna, and Carole,
the girls who were far too pretty to have been my friends (but were)
I'm from Jaki who wrote me letters letters every two days
and sometimes more,
and Laurie
and Kelly.

I'm from Cardinal and Gold
from Conquest and Traveler,
from the dorm and the Row.

I'm from 90,000 screaming idiots,
I'm from Greek Week and road trips,
and long nights in the reference section.
I'm from typewriters, card catalogs, and white out.


I'm from gritty men and terrible places.
I'm from peace, and war, and peace, and war again.
And peace - with war thundering in the distance.

I'm from the cold wet ground on cold wet nights,
and I'm from blisters upon blisters; blood and water.

I'm from the Blacksheep, the Alphabots, and the Ranger Creed.
I'm from the M-249, the 203, and the A-2.
I'm from Colt, not Beretta; that's the M-1911,
and I'm proudly from jungle fatigues and black berets.


I'm from a fateful encounter on a random night
an order of pizza and beer that would change our lives
Days together and weeks apart
Time didn't matter
She'd captured my heart.

I'm from loyalty and faith,
Trust and honor.
I'm from a small ceremony,
nothing to big or too fancy,
and groomsmen carrying guns, pagers, and foreign passports.

I'm from odd jobs and uncertainty and graduate school
I'm from UPS and PKP, and Summa *** Laude,
MISD, WM, and the birth of Anthony.

I'm from safety patrol and tug-of-war,
Accelerated math, now Maria's born.

I'm from the Blonde Mafia, the Bumblebees,
the Shopping Girls, and the Ubermensch.
From 14, and F, and back to 14, and 15.
Principals Emerson, Anthony, Blix, and Mellish.


I'm from the Middle School
and teaching only math until
I'm teaching math and tech until
I'm teaching math and tech and study skills until
I'm teaching tech and study skills and more tech until
I'm teaching tech and study skills and media and Spanish until
I'm teaching tech, tech, tech, media, and Spanish with
Principals Miller and Budzius and Lucas and Stone

I'm from the animé girls and the theater crew
From the gamers and poets and dreamers
From the introverts and hackers, autistic kids and slackers
I'm from the kids who don't fit anywhere....

(To be continued)
Slices of my life
Mystic Ink Plus Jan 2020
Has written
Your biography

And It's always
Who have to

Even as
The third person
Genre: Inspirational
Theme:  "I wonder, if I write behind the 'he', and behind the 'she' , to hide the 'me'.-Atticus
annh Sep 2019
Lend me your biography; your innermost-ness,
Your secret shame; your hidden struggles,
And I shall gift you words.

A language woven with silk,
Borrowed from my own unravellings,
Frayed edges, now mended.

Let me help you thread the needle,
So that you may quilt your scattered pieces together,
And, in time, find yourself whole again.

‘Words are singularly the most powerful force available to humanity. We can choose to use this force constructively with words of encouragement, or destructively using words of despair. Words have energy and power with the ability to help, to heal, to hinder, to hurt, to harm, to humiliate and to humble.’
- Yehuda Berg
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