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Äŧül Apr 14
He was born in 1924.
The month was November.
And the date was 20.

He passed away in 1991.
The month was September.
And the date was 25.

I couldn't consciously listen to him.
I missed out on a grandpa.
I could've learnt so much.

He also taught Sänskřŧäm.
My HP Poem #1924
©Atul Kaushal
k Apr 1
caged in an endless
pursuit of happiness
we hide boxes in the attic
behind a wall that stands
between everything we have
full of shouldn't and no more
signed
born, never ever to belong
ever after
BSween Mar 21
Reflected apparent.
A tilted eye shows long
Stupefied sadness.
And the nose, swollen where it oughtn’t to be
Squats bulbous and surrounded by age.
Coated in a fine craquelure
That won’t be restored any time.
Somehow the working of a smile forces
Furrows deeper.
There is no wisdom in the life you forfeited.
And the pain is reflected in my own record.
My image made weaker in your likeness.
Ira Desmond Jan 3
As we got older, it became clear
that we wouldn’t have the luxuries

of drink without worry,
of sleep without restlessness,

of raising children
without fear for their survival.

It became clear
that we would never garner

the respect of our elders
no matter how dearly we pined for it,

and that the world itself
would smolder

while those responsible
rested comfortably in their graves,

and those of us to whom
our forebears’ sins were bequeathed

would be left to choke on the smoke
and ashes

of a promise to posterity
allowed to burn instead.
Zywa Sep 2020
What inheritance

do we receive as children? –


Only the future.
“De heilige Rita” (“Saint Rita”, 2017, Tommy Wieringa)

Collection "Germ Substance"
Zywa Apr 2020
I have two full boxes of mail
and a drawer with old stuff
an autumn leaf from 1989
the wings mama put on me
to see what I had to be

and a few scraps of her voice
from the stealthily moments
when I held my breath
to hear the secrets
she discussed downstairs

Again, I smell what I wished for
her love all day long
and she being happy accordingly
but I should have been an angel
to accomplish it

Only these items have remained
moved over and over with me
to a new version of myself
Sometimes I sniff it, read answers
from then and find questions for now
For Maria Godschalk #72 and Angelina Scholte

Collection “Imprints Masks"
Matthew Roe Oct 2018
DNA and genetics strummed,
Note by Note,
with memories of how you
Danced them, the chosen ones,
through childhood,
on their own
stages
of grief and joy.
In a cinematic style,
for the soundtrack was intended to heighten the
emotion,
but ended up framing it as well as any photograph.

They are now stuck on the stage
of so-called postmodernism,
despite the dreams being the same as yesteryears.
A free festival of colours:
Psychedelic, Acidic, Neon and
Corporate non-prolific,
NEVERLAND, TAKE US!
they beg.

The courts' reading of this DNA,
will grind chords to cash.
Are you the parent that hits their child
For dancing the steps they themselves had laid out?

I' AM INNOCENT
The thief proclaims.
For notes belong to no one,
or the birds would be plucked feather by feather
and the whales carved in an Eastern market.
A child will copy it's parent.
As do the pub stage hopefuls reach for your hands.
About how artists and musicians will sue each other over supposedly stealing from each others songs. This is ridiculous, every artist has sounds that are similar to the artist which had inspired them, in the way a child looks like its parent.
Psychedelic/acid/neon/non-prolific refers to various stages and scenes from music history (60s psychedelic rock, 90s Acid House, 2007 New Rave and the commercialised pop of the 2010s).
This also reflects on music and it's impact on people, for instance, how a song can bring back memories.
Amanda Sep 2018
Riding the wave
Of life’s tidal flow
Inhaling the breath of ghosts
Infusing the inheritance
At your birth, they bestow
A map with life travelled signposts
veritas Jul 2018
i hail from heat, heat
in the heart and in the home, in the head and in the heel of the
sword that swings for both justice and action.
i inherit this love, this life and these virtues like heirlooms.
i inherit this boldness from you
i inherit the air of a highborn lady, while not without the humility of a low born daughter from you
i inherit gentle hands of craft into fists of rage and fire that melt away sorrows from you
i rise and fall, for from you
i breathe.
unspoken it was passed down, and yet it stirs and whispers to me in my bones of
ancient thought and force,
passed down from kin to kin, from one blood to another of
temperance and will
that flow like tradition—
a book written on age-old sandstone pressed eons below the earth,
text mapped in bloodlines over a body, not alone. never fading.
you bid me to rise from dust and ashes into the woman of your forging,
and so with a kiss between my brow for
farewell and fortune
i may live with your light tucked into my heart,
because my inheritance lives within me.
a belated mother's day gift, because i never really know what to give.
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