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S Bharat May 22
Estrangement

You don't know
How far
You appear to be

When you avoid
And
Don't talk to me

S. Bharat
Jo Barber Apr 2018
Glaciers, white and blue,
fill the spaces between me and you.
In a torn, faded photograph,
a happy family displayed as they joke and laugh.

A mother's smile,
a father's firm grip
on that of his only daughter.
The gentle waves of water
and rocks the shade of emery,
lay the scene for this sweet, fleeting memory.
Brother pulls down ******* his hat,
the wind blowing it flat.

Each face a sweet montage of a life lived,
the wrinkled eyes showing all which they have survived.

Father's dead now.
The mother holding her son,
their love an unspoken vow,
the likes of which
is broken now.

In this frozen photo, all of this remains unspoken.
A family of which I now have only this small token.
This poem was inspired by an old family photograph that I stumbled upon. Feedback is always appreciated. :)
goodtea Apr 2018
They never tell you
In the books
How weird it is to
Be the ****** up one
Of your friends
They make it sound dark and broody
But they never talk about the distance
And how no one can relate and all
Those awkward pauses and silences
That happen when you speak
Hey they never tell you in
Books and movies
That it ******* *****
Being the ****** up friend
Bleeding hearts and tragic poetry
Have no space
In real life
And
Sometimes late at night you’ll reach
For your phone and realize you
Have no one to call
Cause when you’re the ****** up
Friend everyone else sleeps easy
And you’re left alone with all your
Demons and truths you can’t swallow
Hey it’s weird being the ****** up friend
i can still taste the blood in my mouth
Lilac Jan 2018
children's park
two swings
one broken

childhood memories
a desire to time travel
i know i can do it

nightfall
barely any trace of humanity
darkness
cold and clear sky

feet take me to the swing

only now
as an adult
do i feel
the infinite poetry in swinging

swinging alone
in the dark,
head up to the sky,
eyes asking for salvation from the hidden stars

give me your blue peace
take me up forever
breathe your infinite void into my soul

heart keeps hoping for a flight
eyes keep looking at the sky
soul's afraid to miss a second of the infinite silence

even the screech of the old iron swing
can't break the harmony
it's the harmony itself
it's the universal sadness

mind awakens the feet
fears return -
darkness,
aloneness,
strangers passing by
spreading more fear
with their cold eyes-

the swing stops
the illusion of reality returns-

get me home,
i feel belonging in those four walls
only when sleep aggravates on my eyes-

other times it's all about incessant estrangement...
In the hand that only asks, wants and takes
There is little room for gifts
So I expect none.

In the mind filled overflowing with self,
Pleasure and the moment
There isn’t space for gratefulness
So I won’t look for any.

In the heart that sees itself abused in the midst of cosseting
There is no quarter for love returned
So I’ll not hope for that.  
              
In the soul that locks itself away, a willing alien,
There is no inclination to give
So I go empty-hearted.
                
Fourteen was a very difficult year for mother daughter relations
Ormond Mar 2017
.
*Through filmy window
I saw her leave the last time
My hand on the pane
Nico Reznick Jan 2017
Not real people,
just characters,
defamiliarized,
playacting through
the stage dressing
of their
unconvincing, plywood
lives.
In one small spotlight,
one character
is deciding
not to call
the other character,
and a
second spotlight
picks out a
telephone
not ringing, and
the second character,
who could
call the first,
but doesn't.
Between them,
the few metres of
darkened stage
represent the cold,
separating sea, or
their emotional
estrangement, or
the shadowy uknowability of
the inner self, or
something.
They don't elicit sympathy,
these characters, only perhaps
an intellectual empathy,
critical and objective.
They are devices
by which we might learn
some abstract lesson about
the human condition.
They cry, or don't,
soliloquise about their fears,
their guilts and their woundings,
or are silent;
they damage each other,
themselves, and seem
incapable of learning
from pain.
But they are not
real people,
only symbols,
only the roles
they occupy:
Father,
Daughter.
It might be heartbreaking,
if it wasn't all so
far away.
Ormond Aug 2016
.
*Through filmy window
I saw her leave the last time
My hand on the pane
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