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eleanor prince Jul 2019
I still wear her shawl
hand knitted
gravel-toned

not an item
I'd buy in a shop
but it's so Mrs. Saks

lamb soft
under many layers
of crusty chill

she'd have it on
standing all of
five feet tall

hands on her hips
peering sharply
down her steep drive

her wooden hut
buried in rambling thorns
of isolation

I'd ask about her life
in the old country
for her as if yesterday

in broken English
she'd tell of the scenes
that bitter day

I'd make notes
to write that essay
so people see

her checklist
sharp as martensite
toughened steel

of mountain fire
fathers and sons
picked off

mothers' wails
silenced
made to look

their babies smashed
screaming in shallow soil
as soldiers laughed

hyenas glibly stealing
a people's jewels
not seeing

the core
lived on
still
solc liveson Oct 2019
is

the trying is the finding out of the unique
all about,
losing battles to find yourself a
war-won victor and a long term loser,
making the process new, requiring expensive
for the event custom made expertise trainers,
re-acquired to shoot your foot straight
and laugh about it when you do it
again and again

for the relearning love is the crown jew-el,
that jesters rob from their kingly masters,
nothing more precious
pride in love is the fall season preceding
Canadian winters,
always thinking you know better
this time

you cannot learn from love,
cause it’s twice, two times,
never the same,
the all over modifying
past lessons, so, ain’t no prologue,
the body is the wafers
sometimes vanilla,
sometimes chocolate

and the epilogue is 100%
poem~songs that I love writing
and hate remembering
or is it the other way round?
the soul never dies
solc liveson Jun 2019
we lay together, 6:00am, body warmth touch-sharing,
as the June morning summer chill coming off its night nadir coolness
surrenders very reluctantly,
full length pajamas, blankets and coverlets in use,
keeping cold out while bodies touching generate heat -
a big difference

through these layers of cotton controversy, my right arm,
my cunning, falls awkwardly upon her, advising I am woken
and aware she is as well, hear her earbuds emplaced, make shushed
whispering noises re the future of artificial intelligence
and other such mental knottings

my awkward angled arm rests on her landscaped outline of shape,
coming to rest where legs meet at the top of an upside down V spot,
which makes no request, but accepts my bequest of steady
stroking of her ****** as an unnecessary
but atheist-acceptable to her
morning prayer ritual, kept at the intersection of the
physical and physics theorems

funny how some prayers,
where recitation comes thoughtlessly and routine,
uttered without any contemplation are yet
deep comforting for their inherency,
so I pray a stroking repetitive on her body,
well hid neath a summer coverlet,
wordlessly chanted, wordlessly accepted, silence connoting approving permission

I comfort her,
above and through a floral coverlet for her floral coverlet,
till the sun rises enough to truly warm up our plot,
my praying reaches the end of its rope,
where quality and quantity achieve unanimity resolution
no longer needed,
but am appreciated, besides my arm is cramping,
not designed for the rising, unleveled angle of her breathing bodice

my comfort is her extra comforter,
an offering of coffee my reward,
for my daily work has begun,
and I have many more poems stillborn
that require coaxing stroking
to become
witnesses to living

— The End —