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Chris Saitta May 15
Love beneath the linden tree,
The blue touchpaper of fingers entwined,
And sunsets of ignis fatui,
The lightning wick of lips and the caroming atom,
That once held faces,
All but sear and blast wind and howl of eyes,
All of love adrift.
“Hibakujumoku” means survivor tree or A-bombed tree in Japanese.  The linden tree, Tilia miqueliana, is one such tree in Hiroshima, and a Linden Tree Monument exists at the Hiroshima Peace Memorial.
Gray May 11
i want you next to me,
to feel your soul intertwined

to feel you once again
would be a dream come true

you are the one thing
that meant anything to me

you held me together,
and now you're gone

wish i could bring you back
another poem for my dearly departed gramma.
01/11/1945 - 10/22/2017
you are missed more than you know
Fullfreddo May 2015

not a fan of reality TV,
plenty of "unreal" episodes
of my own direction stored,
available for further review
in the storage units of
neuronic black and white prison brain cells

which is why I have free~will chosen
to enumerate my poem~videos;
for easy retreat retrieval resurrection
of the travelogue of mind own insurrections

a garage of mobility devices,
car, rollerblades, cross country skis plus,
a potpourri of escape methodologies
that by definition are all round trippers,
returned to their storage unit after use

and I count them Noah~like,
two by two, as they come on board,
and when they disembark for days of
rest and recreation

this one, #4,
is born
among headstones,
just anther memory storage unit
flag decorated,
but different

This is a one-way,
no return,

it can be viewed at anytime
by those who care to be users,
by speaking this:

Read to me poem number four,
on a day we celebrate,
about free men of every color and persuasion,
who are calling out to
open the door to storage unit four,
so we to can perform
our once-a-year
Tour of Duty
to the those who called,
and answered with limb and love,
for by their glory,
we are
free too

to remember in any way we choose

memories of a veterans parade,
on a May Memorial Day
Chris Slade Dec 2018
(a poem I wrote for Auntie Annie’s funeral).

Well you’ve all taken your time… while I’ve been waiting here.
I’m about to trip the light fantastic in all this sparkly gear.
And, because the aches and pains have gone, I’m about to strut my stuff.
I’m dressed in Rose Organza with feathers and pink fluff.

I’m surprised at how well I feel settling into this ‘other’ side.
I’m sure I’ll calm down after some frivolity, then take things in my stride.
For now though the spirit is upbeat testing my wings; making appearances near & far.
First though, a dance contest, tonight at Bridlington Spa!

Yes, I’ll be tripping the light fantastic… I’ve two partners in the wings.
Both husbands in smart tuxedos, brushing up their moves and things.
And I’m hoping we’ll cut a dash on that shimmering stairway to heaven…
Well, Wally was probably a six point five. And *** (my first love)… A SEVEN!

But seriously…my body had reached the bitter end and my memory was little better.
Who was who  - and what was what - was touch and go, and… let a
ninety two year old tell you with chair, zimmer frame or stick…
that the thought of stepping comfortably - toward that light… FANTASTIC!

… and even more seriously…

I’ll look out for all you kids… with a word or voice on the wind as it whistles through the trees.
Catch a glimpse in a crowd… “Was that?” NEVER?!. But It might be just my scent on the breeze.
But for us to be in touch again, however brief, we must be ready and enthusiastic.
I’ll prompt you to think of me as I trip toward that light… FANTASTIC!
I seem to be developing a reputation amongst family and friends as one who churns out a poem after a relative or friend has passed away... With certain folk from in and around my life it's a natural... It is a compulsion!
Sav Dec 2018
I knew a girl who wrote poetry, and I know a girl that died.

She was so far away, and yet her words hit close to home.

She was here, and she was there.

We went to different highschools.

I was a baby *******.

Barley understanding what that even meant.

I went to her show. A play. A tragedy.

Her words, still touched me.

The first time I used the term 'touched me'
I got snickers from the crowd and had to say "not like that..."

It was sixth grade.

I knew a girl who wrote poetry, and I know a girl who died.

I am glad that I told her I was there for her.

But I still know a girl who died.
Gray Nov 2018
the day i found out she was dying,
it was truly like no other
i was twelve

after dinner,
she brought my mom and me downstairs
the four of us sat around the table holding hands;
me, my mom, her, my grandfather;
i thought it could be something good

she tensed up,
squeezed my grandpa's hand,
and took a deep breath

she had cancer
just like she had, five times before; strong woman
Gray Nov 2018
Sometimes I see her at the side of my bed;
Reading me a story;
Kissing me goodnight,
The lights go out
Sometimes her face is so clear
Like I saw her yesterday;
She is right there in front of me
I reach out to give her a hug
She ripples and fades
Like she
was never
there at all
Sometimes I hear her heart,
Beating like she's still here
When it stops, the pain starts all over
When she's gone, time stops;
When she returns, we bleed;
When she returns, we breathe;
When she returns
We are free
i’m really missing my grandma tonight. just over a year since she died and i don’t know why i’m sad now
Shofi Ahmed Nov 2018
Ask me not how far
it's only a day
and night space apart!
But its been like this
since time immemorial!
toleomato Nov 2018
If it had been a heart attack
There would have been a chance,
But in its stead the news I heard
Had wiped hope at first glance.

If you were family, by that
I mean if I was fair,
I would have treated you with love
And been there in despair

I would have been a son to you,
I would have heard you out,
I would have cooked and drank with you,
I should have with no doubt.

Last week I should have stopped to say
Goodbye for one last time,
Instead I said hello and left,
Regret is now all mine.

For all the times I’ve told others
That family comes first,
It’s criminal how I neglect
The one who was most hurt.

I always said that I can wait
To say what should be said
But now, tonight, a hypocrite
I am to be instead.

I am the son you never had.
I’m sad, I must confess,
I was not what you had deserved,
But you loved me no less.

Farewell, so long, my dear Uncle
The words I should have said
Are hastily scribbled in
A poem to the dead.
toleomato Nov 2018
A shadow cast across the room
Adopts a lonely size
Familiar, singular;
Belonging to a bride’s.

The turning of a curtain’s cord,
As the breeze blows by,
Rattles in an empty room
Which was occupied.

What good are words that can’t be heard
Or read by whom they’re for?
An open fist that grasps for wind
And memories from before.

She’s waiting in a wedding dress
Perhaps her groom is late?
But that is fine, she has the time;
Forever thirty-eight.
3rd year
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