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what right we mess with a better gone before?^

what right does it mess with our composure
one hundred and three years later?


“Such are the little memories of you”

these crafted words of flying feet bittersweet
knock a mother farther back upon her lowered flat heels,
recalling too, similar and same,
the resounding pattern of a gone child’s pitter-patter,
of treading, exploring long hallways and secret rooms
with comfortable, yet reckless flying abandon until,
a fateful reckoning abandons us both

this poem elocutes my charges against your Taker,
and all the little prayers of the angels sent to minister,
give no comfort like the giant memory of your
running little feet,
coming and going and gone
^ To Theodore

by George Marion McClellan, 1860

Such are the little memories of you;
They come and go, return and lie apart
From all main things of life; yet more than they,
With noiseless feet, they come and grip the heart.
*** laughter leading quick and stormy tears,
Then smiles again and pulse of flying feet,
In breathless chase of fleeting gossamers,
Are memories so dear, so bitter-sweet.

No more are echoes of your flying feet.
Hard by, where Pike’s Peak rears its head in state,
The erstwhile rushing feet, with halting steps,
For health’s return in Denver watch and wait.
But love and memories of noiseless tread,
Where angels hovered once, all shining fair,
To tuck you in your little trundle bed,
Kneel nightly now in agony of prayer.
Erian Apr 13
I stare above
Straying away in the lonely gloom
Watching rockets patter higher
Touching the shining moon
One speaks out to the other
Swinging without grief
Far from what to come

"Why do you fear the stars?"
They call down to me

My shoulders sag
Though a smile grew
Each star reminds me of you.
11:11, and still no you.
Wellspring Oct 2018
It begins with the ominous clouds that roil and billow over the sky.
Then they darken:
Soft whites...
Seductive greys...
All the way to the purple black that haunts the skies on the cusp of a winter night.

The smell that follows this sinister nebula of vapor hanging over your head is that of life bringing relief.
The smell of dry earth mingling with that of the fresh water above reminds one of summer breezes, freedom and relaxation.

The cool but warm drops of moisture start gently stroking your shoulders and arms.
The strength increases, forcing you to squint as you take in the beautiful composition of nature above.

Soon you're covering your head as the rain pelts down and you race for shelter.
The puddles appearing on the floor disrupted by the matter consistently falling into them.

You peer into the world, completely changed, as you visibility decreases and smile, the metallic twangs to the rain hitting the patio roof fill your ears and soul with its rhythm and music.
I LOVE the rain.
Simone13 Aug 2018
Cold, naked blurred
Dustless,  maetallic tang  
White, like a dying star

Creak ,  clunk ,  clink

Small laces swaying
against the chair in sync
Beating to the rhythm of....

              Patt    patt    patter

Beige clunks rushed
First to the wall
And then the latter whe...

      Buzz     buzz      buzz

The so...

                            Murmur ,   crackle ,   snort

Why does...

Buzz !   buzz !  buzz !

                   Patter ,    patter,     clink

I cant even think!

Clink !      clunk !         buzz!
Murmur !          swish !              slam!
Patter !    Gasp!!            Buzz!


Whale!      weez !      cry!

The sounds of another
Saying goodbye
About someone trapped in a hospital, stressed of the outcome of a loved one and with all the sounds around them they struggle to think straight untill they hear the cries of other people .. scared that they might share the same fait
Dwalker May 2018
It's talking to me
Knocking on my window pane
Pitter patter
Louder and louder
I open up my window
Letting the screen divide us
She's mad I tell you
With her heavy sighs and opened eyes
She's got a crock her voice
Like the crack of a ball against a bat
She's showing symbolic signs
Simply showing me symptoms of depression and oppression
Full of miss connections and rejections
She's rumbling grounds and shaking leaves off of trees
As soon as kablam
Those trees split in threes
Birds forget where to be
But she doesn't care
Cause she's talking to me
I can tell she's got dead weight on her shoulders
Fully forgetting what she told us
You can see it in her grey puffy eyes the anger and frustration
As tears fall down and leave stains on the pavement
Her heavy sighs are leaving street signs asking why
With the branching on trees fighting back for mercy
All the cars screaming as the swerve against her
Fighting cause they wish they were her
“And the flag was still there”
I don't understand why she's so upset
I just know she's going neck to neck
With all of her haters
Inventions designed to enslave her
Yet I decide to open my window
That just lets her know
She's got someone to vent to
Tell the truth to
She whispers when I sleep
And I listen while she weeps
It's sad she only comes out to vent
Maybe she's heaven sent
God sending a reminder of the promise he meant
Rainbows come out when she's done with her confession
To remind me of her lessons
Brent Kincaid Mar 2016
I poeticize, proselytize
Punctuate and pontificate.
I write couplets and rhymes
And I really do it all the time.
I exacerbate and exaggerate
With no desire to intimidate.
I make similes and metaphors
Indoors and even out of doors.

There’s cussing and discussion
And sharp literary impressions
Through diversions, conversions
Allusions as well as conclusions.
And with luck, no delusions.
Just syllabically deft fusions
Of some deferential references
With a deft touch of reverence.

I rhyme thyme with fresh lime
And cardamom with cinnamon.
Sweetbreads and shortbreads.
Chicken bones and licking scones.
Rhyming pumpkins with dumplings
And matching up filets with filberts
Just as cocoa goes well with Kona.
Marmalade can be a good marinade.

I rhyme chrome wheels and automobiles,
Freeway off-ramps and Tiffany lamps.
Cellophane and vintage airplanes.
Flapper vamps and streetwalking tramps.
Also Cinderella coaches and cockroaches,
Nothing is unfair game to a busy poet.
As well as RCA Victors and boa constrictors.
Since I’m a poet, everyone should know it.

— The End —