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The smooth finish
Of the floor comforted
Her bare feet
As she paced
With anticipation

Her belly entertained
A flutter of butterflies
As the memory
Of his face flashed
Before her eyes

She married her
Fingers, bringing
Them to the centre
Of her chest and
Held them close

A relentless realization
Remained throughout
This capricious time
The love she felt
For her beloved
Could never dissipate
Even through the passing
Of time.
Chris Slade Sep 3
I’m sorry I had to leave so suddenly that night.
And even more sorry to know that you had the shock
of finding my ’not wanted on the voyage’ body.
The useless carcass I left behind.
That shouldn’t happen to anyone,
to find your lifeless partner by your side…
That’s how you’d see it anyway.

But me? I’m off now into the wide blue yonder,
never to return. Not as you knew me anyway.
These are the rules I’m afraid.
Apparently some people do come back.
****** Spiritualists & Clairvoyants… They make us all,
up here - seem like part timers.
Not that I wouldn’t… But it’s complicated.

There’s a kind of apprenticeship,
a protocol to follow…There are still rules
even in death. There has to be a trade off.
No pain… no anguish…
And, you can just dip in and out of your old
family’s life - PAs… Personal Appearances.
That’s what 'Head Office' calls ‘em

Pacifies the loved ones that you are settled.
In the dying mode of things that is.
Really what you’re doing… as a soul,
is waiting for a suitable donor body
then you're born into a new family!
That's the way it goes!

To end on a lighter note… Kind of makes you wonder
why there aren’t more child prodigies around…
Maybe only the smartest ones make it back! Who knows?

All that knowledge gone to waste… Just saying!
I write from the other side of death... not the hearts and flowers... but the looking back on life and the the 'still living' from the 'other' side!
Karijinbba Sep 1
You know you stopped me dead
while I was passing by
while you were inking gold
and glancing by;
reading poetry you like.

Oh my Lord I loved your style
and though I hadn't written
of this feelings all of my life,
I always thought in metaphorical
deep formating style.

One beastly soul
just loved my style becoming
a better patrkCham mind.
Other Poets thought of me
as different true and wild.

Two wolves pretended
to even like me in any form
A rich a goody two shoes
forelorned perceived;
in my skin so wrong viewed,

No sheep but Ram I am!

Some even called me weird
in dance and song so feared
I guess they saw
their own greedy eye revered.

So as my story in poem flowed
like a river rushing to the sea,
some poets joined my plea
to the sea I longed to join.

And as my river ran along
diverted its rushing went wrong
my river the sea never joined.

What's a river flowing!
what's a metaphor in poem!,
Copy Rights 09-2020 revised.
Some poetry makes it to it's destination
read by the intended target
this kind reaches to the sea joining in.
Dante Rocío Aug 26
Can you deduce
basing on one’s
and heartbeat
what notes and melody
fulfil them,
precariously and intimately
decomposing and

And what sophistication,
what greatly mindless
analysis is it
when you acquaint a process/
a person
approaching in full
immersion like
the day
you go through
and not like going out
into your garden
from your house
for a few mere moments
that just make this escapade
a trespassing event,
without even looking at it!

What patient devotion
must that be to pay
for the prize of entering
its mechanism
and presence emanating,
even more
when that
is what your mirror
shows both to You
and your body,
or the sonorous car engine
driving you insane,

or finally reading
the architecture of letters
of a Book
for the first time
in your life
comprehending actually
the story of the text
or the painting
that architecture gifts you!

what a horrifying
would it be
if that
would be Life,
or the World,
anything like
that in itself,
and thus there
would be no wonder left,
no excitation,
like living an immortal
a God that has gone
to every corner of perception
and galaxies,
has witnessed every
that then starts only
to repeat itself
and constantly!

diverging from that,
maybe the reason
many minds believe
that Magic and Literature
as an apparent coming true
in our passing
are nonexistent
is that we restrict it
solely to blank pages
we fill with imagination,
to Child’s
are actually
they are more
than possible
if we bear it in
as it was put in
the Kybalion:
As it is on the inside,
it is thus on the outside.

Like when I was standing
just a while ago
saying goodbye to the sea
in shouting silent beauty
of transparent words:
the beach to my far left
by tourists
and chosen by shadows
with Sun
and looming trees
all of a sudden
was more than verily
a shore
from “Robinson Crusoe”
or “The Treasure Island”,

just called to run and
peruse no matter
if something was waiting
or not

Or how now
whenever I write
instead of speaking
to a person
I do not differ them
by their ID
or biological data
and make revelation
of myself in the same
Godly, well perturbating
way like Pythia
and don’t care
if its a wise child,
a seemingly important
member of some affiliation,
or stiff standard model
in human skin.

It is simply all
constant Metamorphoses.
Notes sudden, granted,
In reflections
Of how all turns its entrails
Inside out to you
When you just consent
To staying till the end
And going all the way
Through what they are
On all planes
Dante Rocío Jul 31
Of beige gaze.
Premonition in the river cast passing.
Would those trees looming
uncertain by gravity
fall on us?
The effort tried in setting
oar’s agility,
so as not to
Hit the sides,
For my own persistence
And calm,
willed mistakes is.

In steel.
As bliss.

Bliss such of slipping
out of boat’s grasp
to that of illusionary time,
Out of speech’s hold,
From how summer moulds.

Head out,
I will
to lying in river’s sole
fine line of freeze,
Who holds dear the mute,
those who feign not appurtenance
of this world,
As the sail companion’s
left to thinking.

Though oars may hit the shore
Lungs in silver lining stay aboard.
Face backwards.
And the bottom separating
River and Boat
will pretend its existence
No more.

I walk
and my laudability
can’t be taken

As a current like I
Runs air-tight bubbles.

/And the sounding:
SHeeSH | CLing |LiNK |
SHeer | CRinge | PLinTH |.

FLOW, mOUld me SOre/
Kayak passing, speeding,
Forest reed, stream clicking
And a companion to give you a moment.
Silver’s sky that could reek of your lips so strong.
A most beloved cloak
My tanned shoulder will bear for.
TS Lefort Jul 18
We all go,
We all turn and leave this mortal coil,
Our beauty woven into memories,
The ugliness of age will call.

We all fall,
We all fade and wither like a flower,
Our years crumbling one by one,
The finality of it all.

We all forget,
We let go of those we said we loved,
Our betrayel proven in our lies,
The futility of this wretched squall.

TS Lefort 2020
The call is upon one
Elevated beyond whilst
Tears set to fall
Do so evaporating a passing
Home I know you now
Too far to shake your hand
Out of sight for we here
But when you speak
If we listen deeply within
Those words tell of peace
Pleading no more hurt
Numbing the loss we hear
Never gone.

Still here.
Good bye for now Ray Pitt.  It was an honor to have known you.  I'll keep an eye and a shoulder for your kin.

Until I see you.
Chris Slade Jun 30
Sent some flowers the other day
to a friend who’d lost life’s loves,
kith and kin, too often
over the years.
Loves & Lives Lost,
too many fears realised…

Birthdates after death,
death-dates after life
they concertina together
to cause concerning days, weeks,
months. And, commiserations come in
in a flurry sometimes and amplify the hurt.

As time rolls on it's strange
how anniversaries come in bunches!
Just for the moment it seems that all
the good things are in the past…

But let’s look forward to warmth,
comfort and re-assurance from
memories of friends, family,
partners and loved ones - at last.
Dante Rocío Jun 19
Every little moment,
or location
is a completely different presence
and stance of you,
no matter how similar it seems to any other,
for, like in alchemy,
existential fluids of Bowel Heart are endless,
new in every millisecond,
and make varieties of you.
There is never nothing going on.
We're every time a different flickering
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