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ash Dec 2020
You held my hand.

While Andy Dufresne crawled through a river of **** and came out clean on the other side, you willed your fingers to find mine.

I wanted to tease you, “don’t play palm reader, i don’t think there’s a rosetta stone for untangling this mess”,

But I didn’t.

Instead, I let your thumb make maps of me, charting my mountains and valleys and taking inventory of the cracks you could gently crawl your way into.

I wanted to say, “it’s dark down there, don’t let yourself get lost because I’m not sure that you’ll find your way back out again, and trust me, it’s no place to make a home”,

But I didn’t.

Instead, I let your fingers ****, where does it ache? Where are the fault lines that just won’t give? Where are there fires waiting to ignite?

I wanted to explain, “the fires inside of me aren’t something to roast marshmallows around. These fires destroy towns, burn whole cities right to the ground”

But I didn’t.

Instead, I watched your fingertips search for mine like kindling, wondered if you touched the stove one too many times as a child, wondered if maybe you weren’t afraid of getting burned.


I wanted to be honest, “I don’t know how to write love anymore, my hands don’t know **** about soft, only know how to etch in my notepad with splintered bone and blood”,

But I didn’t.

Instead, I let myself melt into the laughter that followed a joke you so cunningly told. And suddenly, poetry felt more softened butter and less barbed wire.

I wanted to warn you, “they shake sometimes. These hands are more bull than butterfly most days, tend to do more breaking than building”,

But I didn’t.

Instead, I steadied myself in your breathing. Let your heartbeat echo in my ear and decided that I would never, could never, make a china shop of your chest.

I wanted to give you one more word of caution, “I’ve waded in my fair share of ****** rivers, thought about drowning myself in them a time or two to put out the flames, I understand if this is too much, if you’re already taking on enough water of your own”,

But I didn’t.

Instead, I wanted to tell you what I was thinking, that maybe, you’d trudged the same waters, wondering if somehow we’d both come out the other side clean. calloused and cracked, but clean.

But I didn’t.

I wanted to ask, “can you be patient? no one’s ever treated my fists like teacups, I don’t know gentle. But I can learn. You can teach me.”

Instead, I didn’t say much. We watched Andy Dufresne make a free man of himself, tasted salt on our tongues from the tears or the ocean, some relief from the dry mouth the *** so lovingly gave to us, felt the sun on our faces and hoped the Pacific was bluer than either of us could have ever dreamed.

And you held my hand.

And somewhere along the way, I found myself holding yours, too.



a.m.
At the church of all saints
Singing glorious tunes
Hymns and harmonious voices
The father, an altar he stood in front
His passing
Life if an exited fellow
Can we say something?
Say to the saints
The tears of many
Words much but little
An ovation so small
Ashes to ashes
Keeping nothing in your remembrance
He once stood here
A man like God
He jouryned with the saints
Wait a minute
His family speaks
Tell them
He once stood here
Only to stand no more
Did he perish?
Wait a minute
Did he perish?
I said speak
He had no vision
The mantle perished long ago
Did he wait for the saints?
No, the morning after
I see a congregation
Mourning a death of old
Clap for her speech
He perished like a sunken treasure
Was he not a king?
Did he perish?
Oh!
A glorious exit
He perished like a sunken treasure

Written by Tosan Oluwakemi Thompson
This peom tell the story of a man who died and a lot of him at his funeral didn't have a good thing to say about him. They didn't have any memorable thing to say about his existence on planet Earth.
Mose Nov 2020
Christmas music echoes off the walls.
Apple cinnamon candles fills the halls.

A mistletoe for every absent kiss.
To remember those who we miss.  

A memoir to commemorate the old days.
The way to honor our ancestral ways.

Traditions pay homage to those who have passed.
To let them know our love will out last.
Norbert Tasev Oct 2020
I lived in my scaled rectangle room right opposite Budaörs from eighty-seven until now! Infinitely strangling Time has become a slave. Crumpled, curved-waisted bachelor. Ladies - with a good number but exceptional abilities - I even call him Norbus. There was no air, no deprivation of vacuum in our country at that time, and no enough fake, rumored chords reminiscent of anti-Orpheus. Romantic, meaningless compliments of lost confessions of love.

He was chained to the corner of the proud city by a desire for independence, an emigrant-loneliness consciousness! With my Enkidu body too hairy, no one drilled his lily head into my shaggy fortress chest, only He! My Sisyphus, my foolish figure, the blunders of my hesitation, stared all the more in Calvin Square on the way to the baroque library castle: Our lips caressed love messages like young fools, we ran away from our eternal emotions!

If I had been the conqueror Don Juan or the colonizing Adonis, he might not share his feelings with confidence, because I wrote a poem many times that brought the pearl of his face to a flaming flame like a rose bush of flames: Chinese buffet!

I have always had a living conscience; a proud descendant of flirtatious amazons who could never confess his defeat to my chubby chubby face. Maybe he trusted my hamster holster better than Ponty from the philosopher! - Voice-successful couple: I would often have taken a ton of glazing to the proud hills of Nógrád, and I was angry with my parents that there were no pearls in her cherished moments.
pluviophile Sep 2020
isolation's comforting; none here to object
kolsmusing Apr 2020
memories do hold
a thousand feelings
that linger in our hearts
and make us feel alive

a sunny morning
reminds me of the time
where I made him smile
because of a cheesy burger in exchange of his hard disk drive

a windy afternoon
when I first heard
him deliver his corny joke
while he fixes a subscriber's telephone line

a gloomy 3 pm
when he drove to see me
hold back my tears
for a friend that failed to battle for his life

a quiet sunset
where he gave me
his birthday gift
and watch me as I open it with delight in my smile

a rainy night
where we both ate
our take-out McDonald's inside his car
as we listen to the radio and held hands

wistful I say,
that these kind of days
remind me of my
one great love
Memories that are so vivid they could last a lifetime.
Ellis Reyes Mar 2020
I'm from hate and discontent,
from words so caustic that they burn after 35, 40, 45, 50 years.
I'm from nowhere and everywhere,
I'm from nine schools and fourteen houses.

I'm from "You'll make new friends,"
and "Quit crying, we didn't live there that long."
To the KFC Christmas and "They're too old for a tree anyway."

I'm from slammed doors, and curse words and silent treatments.
I'm from high expectations, icy glares, straight A's, and disappointment.
I'm from 800 miles of claustrophobic silence in the family car and 18 years with no vacations.

AND

I'm from lazy days at the family farm
and hard-*** work a few years later.
I'm from rides on the tractor with Grandpa,
and watching the illegal sabong... with the sheriff.

I'm from Uncle Martin and Mary Lou,
and the tiny apartment with the swimming pool.
I'm from the mean man in number 9 screaming at us to be quiet
and Uncle Martin telling him to, "Shut the Hell Up!"

I'm from David and Richard, my cousins, my brothers
I'm from poison oak adventures at the creek
and countless days at the beach

AND

I'm from Gentile and Jew,
From Asian and White,
From Catholic and ****.

I'm from St. Patrick's, the old church.
I'm from stained glass and wooden kneelers,
incense, and Latin Mass.
I'm from Ego te absolvo and Dominus Vobiscum

I'm from tradition and sanctity,
dignity and peace.

I'm from Hellfire and Brimstone
Screaming, Bible pounding preachermen who are slain in the Spirit,
babble in tongues, and exhort the congregation to be "Washed in the Blood of the Lamb".

AND

I'm from love and loss,
and love again

I'm from Lisa, and Donna, and Carole,
the girls who were far too pretty to have been my friends (but were)
I'm from Jaki who wrote me letters letters every two days
and sometimes more,
and Laurie
and Kelly.

I'm from Cardinal and Gold
from Conquest and Traveler,
from the dorm and the Row.

I'm from 90,000 screaming idiots,
I'm from Greek Week and road trips,
and long nights in the reference section.
I'm from typewriters, card catalogs, and white out.

AND

I'm from gritty men and terrible places.
I'm from peace, and war, and peace, and war again.
And peace - with war thundering in the distance.

I'm from the cold wet ground on cold wet nights,
and I'm from blisters upon blisters; blood and water.

I'm from the Blacksheep, the Alphabots, and the Ranger Creed.
I'm from the M-249, the 203, and the A-2.
I'm from Colt, not Beretta; that's the M-1911,
and I'm proudly from jungle fatigues and black berets.

AND

I'm from a fateful encounter on a random night
an order of pizza and beer that would change our lives
Days together and weeks apart
Time didn't matter
She'd captured my heart.

I'm from loyalty and faith,
Trust and honor.
I'm from a small ceremony,
nothing to big or too fancy,
and groomsmen carrying guns, pagers, and foreign passports.

I'm from odd jobs and uncertainty and graduate school
I'm from UPS and PKP, and Summa *** Laude,
MISD, WM, and the birth of Anthony.

I'm from safety patrol and tug-of-war,
Accelerated math, now Maria's born.

I'm from the Blonde Mafia, the Bumblebees,
the Shopping Girls, and the Ubermensch.
From 14, and F, and back to 14, and 15.
Principals Emerson, Anthony, Blix, and Mellish.

AND

I'm from the Middle School
and teaching only math until
I'm teaching math and tech until
I'm teaching math and tech and study skills until
I'm teaching tech and study skills and more tech until
I'm teaching tech and study skills and media and Spanish until
I'm teaching tech, tech, tech, media, and Spanish with
Principals Miller and Budzius and Lucas and Stone

I'm from the animé girls and the theater crew
From the gamers and poets and dreamers
From the introverts and hackers, autistic kids and slackers
I'm from the kids who don't fit anywhere....
Neatly

(To be continued)
Slices of my life
JK Cabresos Mar 2020
I write poetry
in the midst of solitude

of infinite miseries
I yearned to elude

words engraved
in a rose-kissed canvas

are fragments of hidden
memoir of the past.
Copyright ©️ 2020
Hannah Christina Feb 2020
The blue squares were safe.
The white squares were lava.
The cool kids huddled in their corners were irrelevant.

It didn't matter where I was going
or what I was exploring.
Maybe ancient pyramids,
perhaps a dinosaur dig.
Probably "the jungle," wherever that was.
I always changed my mind half-a-dozen times.
It didn't matter where I went
because I could handle every adventure
all by myself.

The benches were safe.
The wood chips were lava.
The crawl space under the rock wall was my escape pod.

My crew both was and wasn't imaginary.
If they had names, they had the names of real people.
Just versions of those people who were
around a little more often.

The loud days were safe.
The quiet was lava.
Then the quiet was safe,
and loudness was lava,
and then I never could tell what was safe anymore,
really.

But, oh, I'm so glad I found You again.

Your embrace is safe.
Your heart is lava,
and every day is a quiet adventure.
This is one of my favorite recent writings.  I would like it to be longer, but I couldn't think of any more stanzas that added anything, and I didn't want to drag it out for the sake of dragging it out.  Also, a longer poem calls for a really strong conclusion to keep from feeling anticlimactic.

In my first draft, the final few stanzas were pretty rushed and disconnected and overall not great.  I think they're better now but still don't feel quite confident with them.
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