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No one believes me.
I have just returned
From the other side of the sun,
No one believes me.
I should not speak about my travels
From one end of the universe to the other,
The journeys that I make all alone
To strange worlds.
I should not tell them what lies in the Beyond -
A sea of delight;
Their small reach
Does not allow them to believe me.
Em MacKenzie Oct 9
The colours to illustrate you don’t exist,
and even if they did I still would miss,
a single shade or hue
that fully captures you.
Better than a Mona Lisa smile,
and Starry Starry Night eyes,
I tried for a mosaic but there was no perfect tile,
nothing could do justice, blasphemy to anyone that tries.

You’re a living, breathing masterpiece;
every gallery should be honoured to have you on their walls.
Too complex for graffiti on the streets,
too heavenly for concert halls.
I can write you; rainbow and tornado,
orbs of faint blue, and a grin of sweet day glow.
Oceanic waves and erupting volcano,
the sun’s ray that came on through,
and the embrace within the wind’s blow.

There isn’t a single brush head I could find,
that could stroke each corner of your mind,
it’s too complex and deep,
it’d be so stunning, it would make all weep.
Putting shame to an Impression, Sunrise
and casting shadows on Lady with an Ermine,
as just a simple picture of your eyes
would last eternally through time.

You’re a living, breathing masterpiece;
not meant for a mere mortal to possess.
Completely perfect personality, traits and feats,
every other human design was just a test.
I can write you, style and rhyme,
blindly bright, natural sunshine.
Digging only at surface to fit into each line,
but there’s no describing what connects it all or the bind.

I know the answer but if you said,
that your favourite colour was red,
I’d let myself bleed out to provide you some paint.
Non acrylic and totally free of lead,
I’d wish for you to illustrate the picture  within my head,
even if the proportions are wrong,
and the lines are blurred and faint.

You’re a living, breathing masterpiece;
completely impossible to duplicate.
Though unfinished you’re still complete,
amazingly flawless in this state.
I can write you; every day till I die,
until the pages and filled and my pens run dry.
Deep like the ocean, but bright like the sky,
and you’ll steal the hearts and breath of all passing by.
Em MacKenzie Oct 8
Please don’t mind me,
I’m just a splinter of the past.
Wandering blindly,
and hands are tied so I can’t grasp.
Just like the thought,
of giving up after giving all I’ve got,
I admit that it wasn’t a lot.

Now it’s too late to pretend
that I’m not broken; could be so easy to mend,
I’ll hide the shatter point where you made me bend.
I’ll return to my other fix,
it succeeds in dulling my heart with it’s mind tricks,
a perfect combination just mix and blend.

Nightly I lay awake
sketching scenarios involving us,
where you give and I take,
I return equal amounts; a benefit of respect & trust.
When it’s time to fill in each word,
I admit I’m aware I’m not what she deserves,
someone better who won’t lose their nerve.

‘Cause it’s too late to pretend
that it’s not plagued in every thought I spend,
should be thankful that I’m important enough to still be called friend.
And there’ll always be somebody else,
completely oblivious to a heart’s wealth,
and too focused on their self to ever expend.

We can’t fix the mistake
but we can make a new one;
drain each ocean and lake,
and completely block out the sun.

Yes it’s too late too pretend
that you’re not draped in every word I’ve penned,
even with the lowest odds I’ll still contend.
And do you see each blow and broken bone,
wishing that I’d just leave and find a home?
On me you can depend to not be alone,
do you think the same you could lend?
YY Oct 7
Why worry about something that is not in our control?
Why do we try to fit into some role?
With endless love, fulfilled with flowers,
You'll have way better inner powers.

Not with good looks, but with heart's beauty,
You can give back your given duty.
Not with false words and deprivation,
But with sharp focus and true dedication.

Don't look up or down, but far ahead,
The more you do - the more your love will spread.
Not the platonic wild obsession -
But calm and positive progression.

Don't try to own one's feelings, cause aggression,
Stop making someone your material possession.
Do good, not harm, don't ask to give you back,
Only give and you'll receive twice back.
Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 5/26/2019

Do you remember the cars plainly carved up?
pine trunks and oak wheels,
with which we carried joy every day
to the potato field enveloped in smoke,
where carts with ammunition waited
and potato barricades stood

our big storages of bloodless weapon
- there we fought our potato wars.
A sip of water served as refreshing fare,
so everything was spinning around.
And when the battlefield has been captured at last,
tired, craving for settlement

by the fire with a song we bravely sat down
to conclude friendly agreements
- into young hearts with a warm thread sewn.
I know that you remember - how we could forget
the most beautiful moments? - It's like
not to see a certain beauty in the fields;

It's like losing in the time of beautiful weather
a piece of dear life that has been given to us,
to be able to always recall memories
and give advice to the lost...
overly idealized.
Hidden somewhere in the recesses of tomorrow,

as though intentionally with a secret mist enveloped
to delude, or for our convenience?
You remember the spring, so carefully selected
from among the purest? It's why we reached
to the very bottom - into innermost deposits,
to learn with a falcon's look

to grasp what a simple thought cannot,
if you won't look with stubbornness into the eyes
because lectures from the theory are not enough,
and blind faith will only do more damage.
However... solitary, we ran into the crowd,
wanting to acquire known and unknown:

to reach peaks rising from the darkness...
but perhaps it was right - to rather dream up,
than to compete with fate stubbornly.

Wieslaw Musialowski 3/19/2003
Friends, I am asking for your understanding, because all my translations must be proofread and corrected. Poems are hard to translate (even in free verse translations). The original is rhymed. Regards.
Monika Layke Sep 21
My papa’s a bird
Weirdly wonderful and flighty
In odd flight patterns
He makes me laugh
Daggers drawn
I wait
For the battle to begin
To settle old and new scores
But did I not know
I shun spilling blood
I will not raise my hands
To strike
I will not fight
Randy Johnson Aug 16
You've been dead for the same amount of time that you lived, forty-two years.
You were loved and your death devastated each and every one of your peers.
You didn't perform in all fifty states, one state that you missed was Montana.
You performed your last concert on June 26, 1977 in the state of Indiana.
Two of your hit songs were 'All Shook Up' and 'Hound Dog'.
You had great taste in motorcycles, you sure did love Hogs.
You had a wonderful life but not a life that was long.
When doctors constantly prescribed those pills, it was wrong.
You loved to give away Cadillacs, you truly had a heart of gold.
It was very sad to lose you when you were only 42 years old.
One of your friends saw you putting a hole in your foot with a drill.
When he asked you why, you said you were doing it to get more pills.
When you died on August 16, 1977, every one of your fans were in tears.
You've been dead for the same amount of time that you lived, forty-two years.
Em MacKenzie Jul 17
If I went back in time I’d kick myself in the shin,
try to grow a spine and then reinforce my chin,
with hardened steel over rusted tin.
‘Cause it’s taken hits beyond count, infact I’ve lost track of the amount,
but I know even with my jaw broken I can still force out a grin.

I don’t want to have to lie
but it seems I’m guided into it for an alibi,
and I can’t help but question why I try,
when there’s no one to answer to; just time flying by.

I’m not as stupid as I act,
but I guess I can say I’m a good actor.
I make a sound but immediately retract,
because in a split second I balance every factor.
I don’t want to be another casualty
in a war effort so effortlessly,
in a fight that shouldn’t concern me,
but my flight instinct took flight instinctively.

If I could go back in time I’d clock myself in the face,
past me would rebut “what a disgrace,”
while I’d agree to the mirrored me who’s never finishing, **** even last place.
I know that my shoes were tight and tied,
I was at the line waiting I never could hide,
but still I’d trip and flounder, I should’ve double checked each lace.

I don’t want to have to lie
but it seems it’s better than admitting defeat or spitting out a goodbye.
And I can’t help but wonder why,
I even cry when I’ve taped my mouth shut and closed each eye.

The butterfly of my effect has lost each wing,
trapped in a jar, not going far;
what a tragic thing.
I press my hand against the dome,
to let it be known, it’s not alone,
this prison’s now it’s home.

Poetry has given me the ability to travel through time
to stand in shoes I abandoned on the concrete.
Paint the scenery in every word and rhyme,
and change the outcome in each stanza and beat.

I fully feel the sun shine and the wind’s blow
every single day like I’ve just arrived and met.
Now I’m cursed to be a Romeo to a stand in Juliet.
Design the plan for me, and I’ll blur the lines and matra,
I’ll fight as Marc Anthony to only one Cleopatra.
Zywa Jul 1
With tender hands
you may carefully
undress and caress me

give me big kisses
heat and cold
won't harm me, I smell

fertile in your arms
open you with my skin
strip you of calluses

and stiffness, yes I do
want to be pregnant
with you, without temptation

and be desired by you
every day, I want all
of you, cherish children

and grandchildren
in gardens and orchards
with a house full of rooms
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