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Phoebe H Feb 3
Overhead, the moon has spilled her pearl necklace onto the sky
A night's snowfall frozen in time.
She smells of aged lily of the valley perfume
that she saves for special occasions.

Around her, the sky is whispering Schumann,
Mondnacht, I think.
His celestial voice sails between constellations like a cloud
And the stars give one last wink.
Francie Lynch Jan 28
If we're together
When we're older,
If one's not left for another,
If one's not dead,
Or out of sorts
Or imprisoned on an institutional bed;
Let me tell what lies ahead.

We'll go to sleep wearing socks,
And rise by our internal clocks;
While on walks we'll hold hands,
And listen while the other talks.
We'll sit content by the St. Clair River
In Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter.

We'll have our tea and buttered toast,
On weekends enjoy your Sunday Roast.
Around the table our children sit,
With grandkids we're blessed to be with.
Then, in the evening, when all are gone,
And we're in our home of homes,
I'll confess my love again;
You're all I've wanted all along.
kelsie Jan 2
I wish I knew how you spend your days,
singing and dancing in glorious praise.
Do angels soar through golden gates?
Do heaven’s sunsets shine like the lake’s?
Do you walk hand in hand with your life-long love?
Do you feel the warmth of your mother’s hug?
As time goes on I miss you still, I believe I always will.
So I’ll wait for my time, who knows when,
maybe you can tell me then.
Ella Oct 2018
It smells of coldness masked by futile central heating
And there is the stereotypical worn out carpet that way too many feet have scuffed along
Oh and the carpet is red
Of course
And the china is bestrewn along narrow ledges because obviously that is the safest place to keep them
But it was probably china from charity shops that had lived in many a house similar to this very one
And the stairs are warped from countless feet lumbering (or in some cases waddling) up them
Don't forget that any possible space on a window ledge or wooden beam is prime positioning for the four year old granddaughters artwork
Or some tribal totem pole that was bought from a souvenir shop in that zoo
And there are dog hairs everywhere
But who doesn't love dogs?
elle Oct 2018
I saw you withering
before me, like I felt the air in my diaphragm build up slow
then fall out shakily.

I saw my grandmother wince
put her hand to her mouth,
side-ways gripping this tiny Chaplain
who’s name I’d forgotten, the moment I heard it.

I saw my cousin staring deep into empty space, his nervousness illuminated
under harsh hospital light. My uncle’s red tie screaming in this room of too tired eyes,
wearing reddened faces from crying.

The fear of this reality bit at our ankles. We shifted in place, we talked about the Sox game. We dared each other to keep on pretending to carry on.

Through this blur,
I saw you underneath piles of tubes.
Lain upon the bed a shattered man
shoulder blades peeking upward and out in what was poised to be
an eternal shrug
head hung, eyes fluttering, only held up in increments of straining. Straining to be part of this conversation about nothing.
About your impending death.

Rounds of tears and silence
rounds of nurses coming
and going,
rounds of knowing
then suddenly,
not knowing.

Propped up by a tank of air, a bag of liquid, a ton of pillows and the slow-burning will to live.
It’s hard to see the end coming when it’s around the corner. It’s hard to feel the truth when is rises up inside, hot tears and quivering words. Before you know it, you said what may be your last words to him. Before you know it you’re in an elevator, then a car, then you’re waking up and it’s months or years away. But you will still feel it- that hot sadness, that burning ache for that tiny space carved out in you, from when he gripped your hand so tightly and opened his eyes and stared into your face. His presence firmness so captivating, like my face held his only hope, like it was the only place for his big blue eyes to lay their path on. Like he is still looking at me. For answers. For a tomorrow. And I try to live like he’s watching. And I try tell myself he is.
Phi Kenzie Sep 2018
Rachel Ray was amazing
to the tot that watched
while grandparents talked
to the parent that brought me along

Sat hands in lap
on the living room floor
slowly arching back as each meal passed

We never made any recipe
though I'd thought a lot about it
and often wanted to
Jamie Riley Apr 2018
They look out from the terrace.

At the borders of sight
live rocky hills behind brown
and golden and olive crop
under a cloudless sky.

Sun beams brighten motley roofs
on tessellations which blacken beige
in blurry air.


An artificial cloud.

“Look,” she points, “Let’s go!”

She takes him and they fly down stairs,
diving like sparrows
into the street.

Boys sprint across pavements and climb;
men vault over fences in time
for news to reach ears.

“They’re coming!
"¡Ya vienen!"

Excitement and fear.
The rattling of cow bells
and galloping nears.

Men bait and dodge horns
and escape through doors
and up and over
red wooden bars.

Sticks beat on the concrete ground
and drive the mute beasts's sounds.

Seconds away –
until the last,
he side steps into a house;



he runs through the foyer
and up the stairs
around a corner.

Long strides

too fast to follow.

She chooses left and
sings soprano
when doors won't budge
and a beast crashed in.

She turns and the fear is paralysing.



He leaps down steps
and explodes
as it rams her
to and fro,
bashing her head
against the wall
where horns sin
and horns gore
cement and brick.

He grips the tail
heaving its hide from
side to side as
hooves smash
crates of wine,

he slips and slides
in fractured glass
and finds a horn
and yanks the head;

is yanked instead,
half dead before the men
arrive down stairs
to shout and kick it;
strike and stick it
smack and hit it;
'til it
fits and quits
and flees the foyer
fast and frantic
flying flustered
by the frenzy
finding the





"¿Que ha pasado?
  ¿Quien ha sido?
  ¡El Balbotin
  y la Chicha!
  ¡Que una vaca
  les ha pillado!"

His hands bleed
and flesh breathes.

"¿Estas bien?"

Dizzy, she tends to him
with searching hands,
and scolding words.
Men and women
fuss and frown,
always making sure.

"Podria haber sido peor"

Another story for the herd.
This poem is about an incident which happened to my Grandparents, Fermin Yanguas Ochoa and Raimunda Ramos Frias.

It was during a bull run in their village (Fitero) in Navarra, Northern Spain. 1972
Matthew Roe Aug 2018
It’s a hateful love.
As I see them head over, prepared to be bored and depressed.But it’s not hate to her, it’s hate for her condition.Despite the sighs and groans,We are caring and praying for salvation.

We wish to return her energy,
Give her a skateboard, a boom box, rocket boots to blast through sunny streets and laugh as the wind frazzles her silver twizzles.

Alas they sigh, but I never will.
I still remember being in wonderland.
Every meal a banquet.
From hand labelled tins of sweetness
Which have made 1950s adverts just as nostalgic to me.

Get off the ice floe,
Your blanket and water bottle are ready,
As I give one more hug.
About how society cynical view on the elderly can almost overshadow our love for our elderly relatives.
-4 U Nan

PS-The 'ice floe' refers to the legend that Inuit's would send out all their elderly on an ice floe to die, during times of famine.
faeri Jul 2018
I didn't pay attention to you.

I couldn't bare your company.

I didn't know much about you.

Maybe I didn't even meet you.

All I know is that you loved me,
no matter my

It's a shame to say that I didn't care for your aging heart

until the day you

The day I had to say goodbye to someone I hardly knew

Then I grew up and realized what you mean to me
and couldn't even tell you.

I'm sorry I didn't appreciate you
for you always loved me
and I hope that you know

that I love you too.
Cherish the people around you because one day they won't be around anymore and you'll want to be at peace with the time you've spent together.
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