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Andy Chunn May 23
A huge and shiny mystery box
Sat before me on the floor
It was adorned with shiny locks
Excitement shook me to the core

For many years I had this dream
That I would find the things I’d lost
And now this shiny box would seem
To solve my dream at any cost

I told myself to surely find
The most important item first
So searching deep into my mind
To label all, the best and worst

There was a list of childhood toys
And lovers lost when I was young
The car I raced with all the boys
And Christmases with tinsel hung

The day I found my mate for life
The moment I became a Dad
The life and time shared with my wife
Those times for which I am so glad

I guess we all have lost so much
That placing first the only one
Will be most difficult and such
Must carefully be thought and done

And then I knew, no doubt in mind
That in the box, one choice, no other
From the box I’d search and find
Loving time spent with my Mother
Memories
There are things important to me,
That many people today will find silly,

This is one of those,
To be a writer,
To write great poetry,

To have that poetry read in classrooms,
To have it read in lecture halls,
That it will be read in fire lit living rooms,
That it will reach the ears of the youth,

----- ----- ----- -----

I find this important.
That I will leave something great behind me.
Nat Lipstadt Jan 4
most oft, the
wherever I write,
is duly noted,
it is a due,
due you,
and hopefully,
the why I scribe,
arrives ‘pon your eyes
with Steuben glass,
of diamond tooled curettage,
a clarifying visual of
beauty,

but always
with fair detailed precision
is the
when
denoted,
for it is the timing
of the mining the specificity,
of the exact momentous,
a precious decision
taken by you,
when to turn words
of a few seconds
of a heart’s unburdening,
with
an inescapable reminder,
of the
thereabouts & the whyabouts
the very verity of a serious
causality
that parented the
casualties
we call
our poems

join me then,
in the processional
of denoting the origins,
linkage contained therein
to the work we
c r e a t e

*•for in the recording of the reckoning•
•exactitude of the longitude•
•and l’atitude is the truest revelation•
•of yourself•
the week I was home alone in dec 2024;
well I’m guessing you know the exact time
this one was born😉
Jeremy Betts Nov 2024
Can I tell you my dreams?
Will you stick around long enough to understand what each means?
Should I skip over the nightmare scenes
That flicker through like 8mm on pull down screens
While the essence meanders by like dust through projector beams
Two extremes
Two cerebral regimes
Strange themes
Nothing's as it seems
Importance only found beyond the streams of screams
No, I don't think I will mention my dreams

©2024
John McCafferty Dec 2020
Done are the days of May
You could say we moved on
Spent into early retirement
As raw breaths fade away
All there is is change

The importance of a moment
Instilled inside this frame
To have and to hold in exchange
Consumed to idle eyes
A gift for you and I

The view of which describes
Is fleeting if you let it pass by
Who you are and what to do
Escapism clasps many masks
Only shown to grace the task of life
(@PoeticTetra - instagram/twitter)
jia Jul 2020
me
im tired of failing people,
so exhausted in causing trouble
so i wonder and think continually
am i of value really?

im tired of being a disappointment
so full of regrets and resentment
how i wish im such importance
atleast just once
me - the 1975
Sharon Talbot Jul 2020
The former Chilean soldier,
sits with a straight back,
eating Paila marina,
the same thing he makes
every Sunday, although
his wife and children are gone.
He delights in the long-ago flavors,
the rich swirl of saffron fire,
the unlocked mussel shells,
ginger-skinned shrimp
and floating onion slivers.
"Served without pretension,"
the saying rings in his memory,
the deep voice of his abuela,
as she stirs the liquid gems
in her wide, copper ***,
shining on a darkened stove.
“Only some things really matter,”
She often explains.

He always waits silently,
squatting nearby, inhaling the scent,
mouth watering, eyes catching
the lift of her great ladle.
She will turn and smile at him,
the way no one ever has.
He is warmed and fed already,
before even tasting the meal.

Now he is rich, wanting nothing,
sitting in his well-appointed house,
sipping the best wine
and listening to soft music.
Yet he sees and hears none of it.
Only the world in his bowl
is real to him now.
Commuter Poet Jun 2020
I
Have

This day
This body
This family
This food
This drink
This air
This sky
This water

This earth
This community
This challenge
This opportunity
This moment
This chance
This hope
This life

I
Will
Not
Waste
It
14th June 2020
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