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Carlo C Gomez Jan 20
Morning drops like a parachute,
the irrational things within her.

She drew the grim cartwheel
--crayoned images of kids in closets,
and blackens them into
illustrations of war.

She sleeps on bleak days
with young cameras,
Lucy under the tongue,
rosaries at the border
feel like pins and needles
to an adrenaline sorceress
in giallo approach,
her eye in a labyrinth,
the eye she lost in the Crusades,
filming streets below
the color of dark Roman wine.

It's a staring contest,
waiting on rooftops
in stages of collapse,
there she lives or dies
at the dividing line with the grave.
Bardo Mar 2023
One day my young niece was showing me some photos of herself and her
  friends on her phone
She had loads and loads of these photos
I was thinking to myself I don't think anyone's taken a photo of me in forty
Then I thought what'd happen if I got famous and someone wanted to write
  my biography (would be a short book)
And they'd say Give us some of your old photos to stick in the Book
And of course, I'd have a problem, I'd have no photos to give them,
Then I remembered there was this Novelty Joke shop in town
They had a great collection of all these different kinds of wigs
I thought maybe I could buy a few wigs then stage a few photos
Pretend they were from earlier days,
Yea, I could get an Elvis wig with the sideburns, I could say that was my
  Rockabilly stage
Then I could get a big Long Hair wig and say That was my Hard Rock
I could get a Mohican wig and say Well that was what I looked like when I
  was a Punk Rocker
And Hey! Maybe I could get one of those lovely big blonde Dolly
  Parton type wigs
I could say
"Well that Summer I was listening to a lot of Country music".
A bit of fun for St Patrick's Day. Have a Great One. Cheers!
Sharon Talbot Apr 2022
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.
Carlo C Gomez Jul 2022
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...
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.
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
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