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I think that you
could careless
about me.
I might be your kid,
and you could be might my parent,
but sometimes
I think that you treat me more like a carrot.
I grow by myself,
I get my own nutrition.
I get my own life,
I get my own attention.
You do not care about me,
at least that's what I think.
But even carrots
cannot be no their own.
You do not care if I come home ****** red or sick orange.
Glenn Currier Oct 2018
Solomon tells God not to forget his promises he made to his father, David, of successors and protection.

     .     .     .     .     .     .     .

I wonder what his promises are to me
if he has made any at all.

But if he has not
he has in a million small and large matters
protected me
except when I didn’t allow him to
which is probably most of the time.  

Dare I expend the energy
to mentally list these matters?  

I seem so lazy  
when I think of my parents and how they sacrificed
their pleasure and comfort for me,
when I think of the pain I caused Mom
from the first weeks of conception on.
Oh how I have taken that love for granted.  
How much more so with my Creator.  

But truth is, I cannot separate the love
of Mamma and Daddy
friends who bore my boorishness
kin who’ve overlooked me overlooking them
I cannot separate these
from the fingers of the great sculptor.    

(See I Kings 8:25-30)
I revisited this poem 1-22-19 and the first part made me go to Wikipedia and the Bible for further understanding of these promises.  This then, led me to do more research on what was the ark of the covenant and what was that covenant.  Very interesting.  What I read summarizes a bunch of what the Bible and traditional Christians teach.
Arianna 3d
Afternoon shadows
weave spiderwebs over your cheeks,
and though I have never seen cherry blossoms,
I sense their aroma on your skin,
the bashful fireflies beneath your lashes
zigzagging here and there
among butterflies
and bluebirds.

I cradle them on my palm,
reading between their wings
in the language of dark eyes


back into the depths,
though of the one or the other
I cannot tell.

Thoughts race through
childhood blizzards
and brightly-colored still-lives,
vivid tapestries in the mind

of Little Things:

a trail of breadcrumbs
tracing back through the years

to the fairy tale my mother wrote for me,
and the pages of favorite storybooks;
to the recurring dream of an ogre
and something about my bookshelf,
the smell of my father's cologne in the hall
on Sunday mornings,
and the intoxicating freshness
of outdoor air,
now stale.

Even the garden droops more grey
than green,
and I don't remember if the roses bloomed last year.

Autumn hangs over my parent's house,
and I see the age grow stronger in their faces
each day.

How strange they seem,
though in truth it is I
who probably seems stranger to them.

Can't even say our worlds collided,
for the realization often strikes,
looking at their child faces
smiling shyly from photographs.
that these are foreign images,
reflections of past forms,
of change.

Looking in
at the translucent spectre
of my own self
as a girl,
I often wonder
if somewhere along
the neuron trails
of memory,
our child-selves might meet
outside of Time,
skipping stones through our waters,
a re-metamorphosis
with neither cause nor effect,
only the pureness
of being.
Noah 6d
I'm not jealous.
I'm not jealous that you get I love you texts from your mom for no apparent reason.
or that your dad makes funny but loving tweets about you often.
or that your sister is still living and breathing and thriving.

I'm not jealous.
I'm not jealous that you come home to a full fridge and pantry.
to a dog whose treated well but not adored more than you.
to working lights and ceilings that don't look like they're gonna fall again.

I'm not jealous.
I'm not jealous that your mom wants to go on a road trip to tour colleges with you.
that your dad will buy you instruments and play guitar with you every night.
that your sister wrote a play based on you.

I'm not jealous.
I'm not jealous that you can not only afford but expect fancy sheets and blinds and rugs.
that your mom will still let you crawl back into bed at night if you have a nightmare.
that she'll do your laundry or dishes if you're having a bad day and she'll make you hot cocoa.

I'm not jealous.
I'm not jealous that your parents don't guilt you for needing therapy.
that your parents aren't ashamed to talk about you because you got a A- instead of an A.
that your parents don't avoid talking about you to your friends now that you're out.

I'm not jealous.
I'm not jealous that your parents take your side over your families.
that you've never thought about what you would do if you got kicked out.
that you don't have to plead to get your parents to call you the right name and pronouns.

I'm not jealous.
I'm not jealous that you don't have to prove your worth to your parents with grades and sucess.
that love is more common than shame at your house.
that you aren't just the kid they had because the first one died.

I'm not jealous.
I'm not jealous that you've never had to struggle with money.
that you've seen your mother proud of you for something other than an eating disorder.
that you aren't treated as a burden.

I'm not jealous.
I swear, I'm not jealous.
Its just that I would give anything to have parents who weren't jealous of other parents with "good" kids.
at least I get to move out in three years. my parents **** yayyyy.
Every so often children throwing tantrums
Catch parent faces , bracing fallen sourness
Where outlines wrinkle rosy outlook sadly
Raisens having pits

Logan Robertson

Read CC's blog at Poetry Soup, describing  sapphic stanza with a jux. I found that form interesting, spent hours marveling and researching. I attempted my first one. Not sure if this is correct-11/11/11/5. In this poem I wrote of a parent coping with a child's misbehavior. The effect of such leaving a wrinkled image much like a raisen on the parents face with the juxtaposition at the end of the poem, which is a play on words, too, raisens/raising.
It's sad to admit but I've never In my life truly believed In my self never
was ever given any confidence
Whilst going up by my parents and It still hurts even today whatever I did a painting or a drawing they would always say
but then add your Cusson there's Is much better nothing was ever good enough that I did, made me feel like a failure In everything I ever tried to
All my life I felt like a failure not help by my parents who never gave me confidence
Bree Jan 14
It’s at the point where cigarettes costs the same as a whole week of groceries.
It’s at the point where my heart breaks and I want to scream because my mind is on fire.
It’s at the point where you complain and I can’t take it anymore.
You blame and you blame other people, but never yourself. I can’t I just can’t do it anymore. I really can’t.

Stop blaming me. Please stop. It has never been my fault. Do not blame this on me.
How come you can scream and yell, but I can’t? How; why am I silenced?
You created this. You did this to yourself.  I want to scream, but no matter what it is silenced. You are pathetic.
It's at the point where I can't handle you anymore.
Allesha Eman Jan 11
Chase after moments and collect them like I collect the stars in your eyes.

Dance with the moonlight when you’re feeling ok, and I’ll watch your smile as I find mine.

Tell me your sorrows and rain down your greys. I’ll water the garden that you planted in my heart.

Kiss my forehead and watch me as your lips move to pray, I’ll keep your hands within mine.

Don’t just be my mother, be my moon and my sky, and I’ll dream of the night time.
Kara Ashley Jan 7
He sat on the couch with a glass of red wine
Watching the news with jaded eyes
Finally home from the 8 hour shift +overtime

His world was threadbare
One taxing day and then another,
Wondering how long it would last
He knew the nature of the business field
The downs and the ups and the downs, back up-again
This cycle he circled; he knew as the true life cycle of a man

At home he had a wife and kids
His little loves and one true beauty
He worked so she could be with them all day
They loved their mother
She bought them toys and candy
He was the secret benefactor,
But mommy always made them happy
He spent every rare day off with them
He taught them how to ride their bikes,
Held the handlebars for balance
Made sure they wouldn’t fall,
But when they made him let go and fell,
They ran to her for safety

He worked for them you see
He wasn’t happy but they all were,
And that was what really mattered

God, he would give his life for those kids
That’s why he already did
But you know how the saying goes
“There’s nothing like a mothers love”
And he was just a father
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