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Lily 7d
~I treasure the pictures of us where we're hugging or you have your arm wrapped around my waist; it reminds me that at one time, no matter what changes, that we were that close~
Carmen Jane Mar 3
Our hands connected,
thereof
Impersonating a chain of love
With mixed loops, big and small
Intertwined
we respond quickly with smiles
And some,
With little kicks in the air
So much happiness,
That's only fair,
We are together again.
When a smartphone's lenses,
Gleaming in sun,
Tries to capture us
In a moment in time
And frantic hands
Waving,
Pleading,
Tries to capture our glances
To be in the same direction
Getting our attention,
With patience.



We smile
Not knowing
That in a year from now
I would not believe my eyes
How much they grew
Our sweet treasures,
Our delightful pleasures
I would not believe my heart
How much love
For you I have
How much love
For you I had.

My heart knows
Our love grows
Our love will  stay aglow
  
We'll have our ritual
To gather perpetual
For a family photo
Seanathon Feb 26
Shooting spree
Fatal none
(that I know)
The camera man once me
Photo shoots
C'est emprisonner le temps,
C'est rendre immortel l'espace d'un instant,
C'est figer le présent dans sa course vers l'éternité,
Pour une étreinte dans le futur du passé,

C'est prendre une photo.
The photograph hangs on the wall by the window
Three judges appear (one carries a folder),
A tarot card reader, embalmer, engraver
Without much to say and not much of it said
About the boot in the crib and the tire in the bed,
The round faced man and the *** on his head
Painted with flowers and chipped on its edge.
And the cat near the door with its collar and bell
Flailing and airborne and mid caterwaul.
And the three-legged dog with her leash on
And sweater, jubilant, leaping— Mon Dieu! Grand jeté!
And the crow— O the crow! In its cage cawing “Fire!”
The crow crowing “Mayhem!” and “****** most foul!”
The dog and the cat and the crow and the tire,
The cage and the crib, the *** painted in flowers;
All in a frame with a sign alongside—
“Self portrait around the Ides of July.”
A ribbon is clipped and then hung for its owner.
It bears the word “Mention” and then the engraver
Makes a note on a form he hands to the embalmer.
The tarot card reader, turns— She and her hat,
And addresses the room, “Ain't no card made for that.”

.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle and in paperback. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry by common means.)
mer Jan 4
Our love only exists in a picture frame.

Yes, it's sad.
I often think of all our good times;
all the laughter.

Then I remember why we are no more;
because of me.

I keep it on my desk.
It sits there, collecting dust.
Sometimes I have to put it away.

"How can I love someone who doesn't love themselves?"
I remember your words.
They cut into my heart.

I'm why our love only exists in a picture frame.
Yes, it's sad.

No more kissed cheeks or warm blush,
no more holding hands or open smiles.

Did you think this would make me happier?
Well
you were wrong.

All my happiness
exists in you.
I’m shivering and emaciated,
All my ribs poke through my sallow skin.
I open up a broken cardboard box,
In front of the mirror broken into twelve pieces,
Standing between the windows shattered by heavy hail
And resting on a floor threatening to fall apart,
Cursing at me with every creak, board by board.
In this shattered mirror,
I see a *****, dusty background of sharp nails
Punched from out of the ceiling and reaching out with rust.
I see heaps of moth-eaten clothing grasping out of the boxes they’ve tumbled from.
I turn from my reflection and see blurry portraits
Of a girl that I knew, of a girl laying in this broken box.

And from out of this box, I pull out a picture,
Of a girl with pure white, flowing locks
That frame her smooth oval face
I fall in love with her bright, cerulean eyes all over again.
She’s so close to me, yet she’s so far away.
One look at her and my muscles contract in pain
Like I was jabbed in the arms and legs with a thousand darts
Dripped with poison to make my heart burn.

(I just hope she’s happy,
Happier than I am right now.)

In one photograph,
She’s teaching some kids how to finger paint butterflies in a meadow.
She was always a good artist with everything.
This girl mastered the art of sarcasm regarding to society,
On how people hunt animals not for meat, but for pride to stick to their wall.
She mastered the art of kindness,
Where she adopted people born dirt poor in sod houses and *****-covered slums.
This girl is taking care of these kids well, these grinning, cackling kids
Shepherded by this smiling, wise woman.

(She’s taking care of these children better
Than I ever took care of her.)

I flip to another picture,
She’s standing by a sunlit window.
This girl is Amaterasu incarnate
As she raises her arms at the window
For she commanded all the bright energy onto her
And anyone else standing around her,
Including the irises shooting up for her
And the vines tangling around her in love
And the doves perching on her shoulder nudge her neck.
She closes her eyes in peace.

(I sought her sun powers once,
Then I worshipped her as a goddess.
This was all a blasphemy to her
As she burned my flesh to a crisp in her light
And sent me to my private ****.)

I look at her in many poses and smiles in the photo album I found
In this shadow-haunted attic
Where the wind’s hideous shrieks stab deep into my ears.
My dirt-covered fingers soil the pictures of this beautiful, kind woman,
That I knew, that I betrayed, that I antagonized, that I cursed.
A woman who sent me to a place of rotten wood and ash,
Of wishful thinking of reuniting with her,
Of retribution, of reconciliation
Of incessant, insane ****.

(I loved her too much to the point
Where light and dark were no longer woven together.
Both threads of both sides broke apart
And were tied on two opposite sides.
She was in the lighter half,
I was in the darker half.)

We are now separated painfully,
Set side by side,
Person by person.
Dark by light.
Krutika Dec 2018
The wind is brushing my luscious locks
Sun shining bright in my eyes
Euphoria beaming from my face
I look happy and nice.

After the steady gaze I realize
Yet I was unable to leave the past behind

It is just a photograph
Of a family outing
But it feels so real to me
When those memories start shouting

I looked so fresh and beautiful
It was so evident and clearly visible

Not that I am unhappy today
But I think I was happier that day
On the beach with my swimsuit on
Forgotten whether it was dusk or dawn

How great it would be if life were a happy picture
No matter whether it is digital or on a piece of paper
Memories with him and memories with her
No fear of them getting blur

Every face tells a story
My story would’ve been the best
having the people I love around constantly
without caring what happens in the east or west

The smile and the lines surrounding
engraved on my face
The wrinkles under and around my eyes
I could forever embrace

I want to forever cherish the smile
Today, Tomorrow, for a very long while
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