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Dear Father

I hope you found sleep tonight
You’ve come in off the field of play
You’ve put away your sword and armour
Nothing more to say

Rest your warring mind
No need now to rage
Against the rising of the tide
The long night is upon you

The golden wheat stands ripe
As you stride through the field
Let peace run through your fingers
No need to hold so tight

Your work here is done
The battle not over
But your part played
We will carry the day
Let your tired bones rest

I wonder what gifts did you bestow
We unknowingly don lightly
Unaware your legacy is informing
Our daily lives with small moments

Little things that trip us up
All unknowingly speaking
Of a man gone but not forgotten
I hope you found sleep tonight

I shed a quite tear
Writing this in the still dark
Before the dawn light seeps
Across the rim of the world
Breaking held breathe
I hope you found sleep tonight

Are you resting quietly
In your imagined eternal night
Or delighting in the halls of your fathers
Raising a glass in silent salute
A small smile upon your face

I hope you found sleep tonight
My father died two weeks ago. Complex, difficult man, who suffered towards the end, out of his depth, away from the one he loved, unaccustomed and uncomfortable with his new life.  He particularly couldn't sleep in the final weeks, towards the end, and  commented on it like a sad lonely child. He was a logician, uncompromising academic with 5 degrees, intelligent, a successful chemical pathologist, very linear, with a black and white world view.  Not very warm and lovable for many years now, somehow got lost in his latter life. He really did rage against the dying of the light. He was an atheist, who a clear view there was no afterlife. He is of Scandinavian origin.  A distant man, closed and introverted, yet gregarious once.
Not lost as much as misplaced,
gone from where you should be
in bosoms of families
and conspiracies of friends
still adding your narrative arc,
your author’s hand

It is for us to ape your style,
continue your quirks and syntax
so the story, like these spring bouquets
will bloom well
Christina Jan 8
Theodore left an unknown legacy to himself and to everyone, in American history.
That two hundred years from now, women’s children’s, children, children will learn about Ted Bundy and his devious wrongdoings back in the simple, maniacal, chaotic nineteen-seventies.

When his hopeless, vulnerable innocent victims that weren’t able to make it, didn’t get the
opportunity to
accomplish life’s greatest gifts, as their lives were just getting started. They didn’t get the
chance to become wives, mothers or grandmothers when they should’ve. As over forty years passed since those tragedies began, there’s still this reminder of : NEVER EVER AGAIN.

Monsters unknowingly appear in all shapes, sizes and even faces. They instantly appear right in front of your face in any place at any time of the day. Morn

They don’t hide under your bed, basement or inside your closet, like our parents told us in children’s folklore.

But right in front of you as you walk down the street in your friendly neighborhood, grocery store or taking the edge off  talking to a stranger from the long days work at some random local bar or coffee shop. They could even be your best friend.

You. Just. Don’t. Know.

It’s like whenever you see a vintage VW Beetle, driving down the street downtown or down your neighborhood street, fellow women all around must feel an internal bone-chilling shiver creep down their spine’s. That that warning is still there to watch out, whom you encounter with. To never help a man who is in need.

So take  this notion to be aware of all of your surroundings and be cautious of who, when and where you talk to. Lock your doors, windows and get a high-tech security system if you have to. Because you just never know, when your life will turn into a three-sixty mess in a matter of seconds.
Johnson Oyeniran Oct 2021
Night sweats from worry, troubled
Me deeply, for that dreaded thought
Of old still lingers within mine soul.

When I make my bed six feet under and
My legacy goes on display, will the children
Of Eve be swayed to esteem my name as
They do with great men of renown, adored
Unto this day?
Carlo C Gomez Sep 2021
He knocks.
Time, it's time,
the Kuroi Jukai within me.

Finding an unordinary
drifting off to sleep point,
a hollowed-out spot,
where I can let
God dream for me.

Whistles in the wind,
in lullaby the sky and sea
seem to trade places,
bending around me
as vertical blanketed surges.

My carcass is a colonization (of bones)
for my dearly departed ones,
forbearers of migration,
seeking endless sea,
until like them,
I settle upon
their ancestral shore.

Kuroi Jukai (Japanese, translated as Black Sea of Trees)
Andrea Kabugo Jul 2021
Freedom was a writer from whom his name was stolen.
That of whom left his breaths on every page he wrote the meanings of which, were torn from his chest.
He was the fruit of his works,
of his labour.
And was the whistle in the wind that blew that blew through silence.
Hanging tastefully in the air.
A sweet sensation.
Who grew from dismality, was named and married to him as Hope.
The growths of their union,
the words of the tormented writer and the melodies of the candied breeze,
were songs of story sung for acres.
And who’s dawned legacies are the working times of their lovechildren,
Emancipation and Liberty.
The story of our people.
I know, I know, I am nobody
I am not worth remembering
I am wasting your time, I'm sorry

But I just want to try to be
Someone worth something
Like some sort of celebrity

I am no master like Keats
Or Basquiat or Mccartney
Or a philosopher of Greece

I am just a half Man half
Wolf parasite From the city
Who others pick and laugh

At. But I hope that in my poetry
I may become more than human
Something lovely like a rosary

Or magnificent like strawberries
With the redness of life blood
With the life force of eddies

I just want to outlive my flesh
Be remembered by some descendant
Live my life afresh

I want my poems to flood
The plains of their soul
And travel through their blood

Or be a lighthouse in the wild sea
That life offers them and be
A guide to the safe shore of creativity

Or be the lullaby as they sleep
Through the night of uncertainty
And give them dreams deep.

But as things stand, all things falls apart
And I can't even find comfort
In the traces of my art

So I take what's left of myself
Walk through the woods of my life
And find rest in the universe's shelf
I'm writing a poem for you
So that I could exist again
For a short time anew

So that I could share my heart
Fingers blossoming red
With the blood of my art

Read it on the mountainside
Or by the sea, or in the desert
As if I have not died

And sing it to the people
So that I could be heard
In their souls and let it ripple

Or keep it to yourself
It doesn't matter. Put it
In the notebook on your shelf

Take it out from time to time
To amuse yourself for old time's sake
With my simple rhyme.

All I want do is to touch
You from beyond this existence
Because I love you so much

This is the only way I know
Words I wrote on a screen
I have no other skills to show
Hussein Dekmak Apr 2021
It will require bit of humanity to:
Lose yourself in serving others,
Soothe their pain,
Plant smiles on their faces,
Brighten their day,
Lift their spirit,
And strive to restore them for a better future.

Your humanity, my friend
Is your eternal legacy, which is more precious than your wealth, Education, and a lifetime worth of accomplishments!

Hussein Dekmak
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