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Bones-Let’s let them be dry and ******
As if that be the way they were found
Let them crack and fracture and bruise, amongst the concrete ground
Let them have their space to break and wither away-
Let’s turn the other cheek-while behind us they quickly decay
And then let’s use their fossils for fuel, weapons or laddels in every size
As simply as to stir the ***, and smug at their great demise
If not ashes to dust, then what'll be of our bones we fast to give away-
Sewn better than not, twist an arm for play-

But simple pleasures wither too, bones we toddle but dare not fix
Let them wonder how we toyed our hearts- like a feverish game of pick-up-sticks.

-Bre Womble
From Spirit's plane to ER, I
Waited 4 hours post triage.
Watched a middle aged white lady wail herself to the front of the line for her pain was the only thing that mattered in a room of other equally ill patients.

My body shocked and perhaps still in the sky.
It was this moment that solidified that I had matured: grown to know long suffering love more that the other traits. Patience was as rooted as my African ancestry, my black race.
This is an observation poem the stings me like Bee mid meditation & reflection. There is so much to unpack and release when the pain is this bad. I am grateful for another outlet that allows me to share my journey.
ON LOOKING AT SCHILLER’S SKULL
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Here in this charnel-house full of bleaching bones,
like yesteryear’s
fading souvenirs,
I see the skulls arranged in strange ordered rows.

Who knows whose owners might have beheaded peers,
packed tightly here
despite once repellent hate?
Here weaponless, they stand, in this gentled state.

These arms and hands, they once were so delicate!
How articulately
they moved! Ah me!
What athletes once paced about on these padded feet?

Still there’s no hope of rest for you, lost souls!
Deprived of graves,
forced here like slaves
to occupy this overworld, unlamented ghouls!

Now who’s to know who loved one orb here detained?
Except for me;
reader, hear my plea:
I know the grandeur of the mind it contained!

Yes, and I know the impulse true love would stir
here, where I stand
in this alien land
surrounded by these husks, like a treasurer!

Even in this cold,
in this dust and mould
I am startled by an a strange, ancient reverie, …
as if this shrine to death could quicken me!

One shape out of the past keeps calling me
with its mystery!
Still retaining its former angelic grace!
And at that ecstatic sight, I am back at sea ...

Swept by that current to where immortals race.
O secret vessel, you
gave Life its truth.
It falls on me now to recall your expressive face.

I turn away, abashed here by what I see:
this mould was worth
more than all the earth.
Let me breathe fresh air and let my wild thoughts run free!

What is there better in this dark Life than he
who gives us a sense of man’s divinity,
of his place in the universe?
A man who’s both flesh and spirit—living verse!

Keywords/Tags: Goethe, Schiller, skull, bones, charnel, house, grave, souls, ghosts, spirit, flesh, death, shrine, divinity, universe
grace Sep 24
once we sat on the floor outside of the theater and talked about all of the horribly destructive things we wanted to do to our bodies

to crack open the sternum
to bite off the pinkie like a baby carrot
to pick at every imperfection on the skin until it is raw and ******

understanding the urge to undo and then rewind ourselves in ways that finally made sense was the first thing that tied us together
Amanda Hawk Sep 24
I cry these days
When I read positive news
Something shatters in me
And I think it is hope
Apathy has become a bedfellow
An unwanted lover loitering nearby
I feel myself falling apart, alone
My eyes find dark space
Settling there, trying to disappear
My bones grinding into the ground
Until rooted fingers born from their shavings
Grip my lungs, squeezing tighter and tighter
And my life screeches from chapped lips
Norman Crane Sep 14
Remember black winds of November nights,
rattle your bones, chill your marrow,
quiver time's arrow and rip the world's white
veil from a skeletal face. Throw
it. Watch it fold, caught on the cathedral,
high church of the ossified faithful,
whose whispered prayers will calcify us all.
Unveiled, the world is bones without a soul,
rattling as it grinds, creaking as it turns.
A flag flies / Calcium collects in urns.
riley minteer Sep 14
shoehorn, white poppies
pockets all full of teeth
within one white whisper i swallow the key
too many pieces of pearlescent cutlery,
millions of tormented gnashing the air...

what is the culture's accepted state of satire?
what is the current world's state of affairs?
i think to myself, pondering like a child
for if i just knew i could laugh at my fears...

now i sit,
yes, i sit- in my cold echo chamber
sonic reflections, electronic lies
all my past memories calcified slowly
my skeletons lie in the back of my mind...
-riley minteer
“shoehorn”
(from “candlelight, rust & shells”)
Thursday, September 3, 2020
JA Perkins Sep 13
Cast to raging seas;
a boat beaten by
an angry wave.
Unanswered cries
like pleas from
crows that cry
above my grave.

Now, the living  
only mock me,
dancing around
my doom singing
"Here lies the
foolish boy who
followed freedom
to his tomb."
Can these dry bones live?
rhiannon Sep 6
How is it that the human being?
can be at once so fragile-
paper skin and glass bones
that bleed and ache and heal and wither
and yet so terribly resilient;
defiant in the face of its own mortality
(but its faithful subject all the same)
What is the brain?
the fleshy soul of the body
if not stubbornly defiant of its own demerit;
stalwart in its convictions-
a ****** soldier cleansed in the flames
of its own self immolation
and yet- resilient- terribly so
hellbent on survival
And what is life?
but a series of trials by fire
a never-ending procession
You march the vestiges of the people you once were
to the gallows to be hung
and they fight and they holler and
they haunt you into the next incarnation;
they demand to be seen
they demand to be loved
But what is love?
if not a sharp and knifelike thing
vengeful in its cut as you hold the fabric to the light
and says this is not good enough
If you ever hope to love yourself
you must be better
and those who come too close
bleed on you
and they will be angry at you for it
You are bound to this body
that holds you and carries you
and one day it will carry this anguish into the dirt
yes this body will become a corpse;
the trauma it holds is not eternal-

but for now it needs a home.
eli Sep 2
as i seep into the ground

my body fading to dust

all that's left of me

is my scars and my bones
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