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inthewater Jan 2
Pictures, now, are strange to me
Once upon, what "is"
Has no "never be's"
Pictures, now, are strange to me

A snapshot back to a certain future
Laughter shared; tears, too
It precedes my doubtful memory
Pictures, now, are strange to me

Once upon, what "is"
Lives indefinitely
Unaware of what will never be
Pictures, now, are strange to me

Printed pieces of boundless time
Whose citizens are full of life,
Safe from looming trajedies
Pictures, now, are strange to me

Once upon, who "is"
Are now all ghosts
Free, from framed captivity
Pictures, now, are strange to me
Following the recent deaths of some family members, I've been looking through old photos and finding ones where one to all people have since died; the photos are becoming more bittersweet to me. I think it can be the same for people who are no longer in our lives for other reasons, too. I catch myself thinking "if only they knew..." but "they" is a totally different person because "they" haven't experienced "those" moments yet.
Reuben F Jun 2021
Like the short-lived sunrise
My window refuses to show balloon,
I pass jarring time that pours
Looking at pictures in accompanied laughter...

Like a candytuft dies
My soul flourished a dancer in tune
To a touching sound that tours
Around an imaged and gaily passed chapter...
Eloisa May 2021
Gazing at your different faces
in my pile of photographs.
Remembering the rhymes
I used to carve in those smiles.
Reliving the affection and delight
I used to see
in those luminous eyes.
These words I tried to write
for this unfinished poem,
With my heart in fragments
and my soul cut open and torn,
I will now have to say goodbye.
For you have willed that tiny hope into stillness,
And with the flame I long adored
started to flicker,
These last lines
I needed to pen in bitter darkness,
“Goodbye, my love.
Please take with you
the memories of me!”
Francie Lynch May 2021
She's posted a picture of her son,
Sitting on a swing I assume is moving.
I wonder how this Spring day moves him.
The sun stretching
From his head to his toes,
As he arcs to and fro.
I'll never know.
It's a picture of her son.
Does he read, write, paint, build?
I'd like to see his photography.
Perhaps a picture of his mother
Sitting on a swing;
But it's him, sitting there, still.
So many pictures.
Jay M Apr 2021
Once, long ago
A brilliant flash before
Saved forever in time
Faded in shades of greys
Like a photograph;
Black and white
One thing or another
Not shining in its entirety quite yet

Then, saturation of color and hue
Bring forth visions unseen
Slightly blurred at first,
Then in full detail
Sprawled out into glorious view

Though once, only raw and bare
Time brings it into exposure
Into the open air
Believe it or not
Some brought into the light of reality
As they are surely meant to be

- Jay M
April 19th, 2021
Just something new. Familiar.
solEmn oaSis Nov 2020
Kung hindi ngayon kailan?
hanggang kailan mapipigilan
malikmata sa abang isipan?
Lumulobog nga ba
o sadyang pasikat pa
lang ang araw Kong nagigisnan?
Hanggang saan pa ba
ang kayang tanawin ng inyong kalooban?
'gang sa likod ba ng mga lilang
ulap at mala-kahel na papawirin?
Tulad rin ba niya ang inyong mga mata na mayroong tanglaw at panglaw?
Sa kung gaano kalalim ang lawak ng karagatan sa taglay nitong saklaw?
Kung kayo ang nasa katayuan ng namamasdan **** katauhan..
Mababatid ninyo kaya kung paano niya
minamalas ang nasa kanyang harapan?
Sa pakiwari ko'y hindi sapagkat talos kong nadaramang higit ng inyong mga puso...
Na ang nilikhang inyong nakikita ay walang nakikita sa malayong ibayo !
Hindi dahil sa siya ay naiinip lang na makita na ang kanyang minamahal..
Ang tutoo nangangamba na ako na baka hindi na niya maantay ang resulta ng aking pagpapagal.
Sapagkat kung ano man ang nilalarawan ng bawat kapaligiran..
Pikit mata ko na ipinipinta ang mga sandali kung paano ko siya daratnan !
Kaya ngayon na ang tamang oras
At di ko na kaya na ipagpabukas
upang sabihin sa kanya na hindi na ako mamamalakaya.
Mahal heto na ako sa iyong likuran..
'Wala akong hilang sagwan',
Ang bulong ko sa aking isipan..
Tatakpan ko ang iyong mga matang namamalakaya
Hanggang sa ang aninag mo muling maging malaya..
Dahil ang araw na ito ay hindi takipsilim para sa ating dalawa
Bagkos ang liwanag nating inaasam ay binibigay na ng bukang-liwayway !!!

Ngunit mga katoto kung ang sagot ninyo ay Oo..
Marahil inyo nang napag-isipan mga binibini at mga ginoo
"... Na kung minsan bago pa tayo may mapagmasdan
Madalas hindi agad namamasid ang lihim na kagandahan"
Bihira man bigkasin ang kasabihang...
" magkaiba yung may tinitingnan
sa mayroong tinititigan "
mula sa malikot kong balintataw
nailibing ko na ang pandemya ngayong araw ng undas at binuhay ang larawan ng masasayang
" ALAALA "
I pondered the thought of insanity
Taking the time to weigh it all up
Feeling the pressure of all consequence
Should I slip up

I began to sift through old recordings
Stashed away in the hope of amnesia
I dusted them off, anticipating
But ready to begin

For in those broken hours formed a lady
Designed by an autistic artist
Those flaws seemed so beautifully *****
Bringing flowers and gifts to her room

I recognised her face in the photograph
Much more dusty than ever before
For the life of me I could not remember her name
She was gorgeous

I endeavoured to find out her meaning
Her purpose, her lifestyle, her goals
In reality, she never knew me
Oh, but I knew her!

Scratching below layer upon layer
Stumbling numb towards truth
Wanting so much, all those flowers
And gifts in her room

For in those broken hours formed a lady
A woman romantically perfumed
Weaving in and out of insanity
Yet, always in truth
the memories of the life of a woman
Misty waterfalls
And mud trails
Mountains covered in green
Like the meadows
As you climb up the top
You savour corn on the cob
Roasted on charcoal
A zing of lemon, butter and herbs
While taking in the view of the valley down
Moments to minutes, gentle hours
Memories in old photographs
Jade Apr 2020
⚠Trigger Warning: the following poem contains religious allusions that some might find offensive⚠

Memories belittled by dust,
preserved, taxidermal fashion
inside an anthology
of vintage photographs.

Though,
I am aware that  
"vintage"
is only a euphemism  
for a possession
that was once beautiful.  

Your treason
has turned all the photographs
ugly,  
their corners curling up  
like the spiral of a chameleon's tail.  

Vivacious colours devolve
into lacklustre,  
sepia tones,
blending in with  
the palette of my
surrounding melancholy.  

Ensnared in a dilemma:  


Do I miss you?  


or  


Do I hate you?  


(perhaps a bit of both,

but never

I love you--


not anymore.)  


Apertures mewl,
bruising the gallery walls
with tears.  

I frame your
betrayals
with gold and
garlands of daisies
in an attempt to soften  
our past  


(it never works).  


These
vacant
hallways
trap your phantom footprints
beneath the cobblestone.  

Was it really  
such a guiltless task  
to walk away from me?

Embedded  
across the rungs of my spine
are the scuff marks  
from where you wiped the dirt  
off your boots only after
wrenching the welcome mat
from underneath me.  

I have accepted that
our friendship was
merely transactional
to you;  

I served up  
all the love I had to  
give
like John the Baptist's head
was served up upon a silver platter.  


You feasted  


while


I starved.  


Yet,
full is this menagerie
of lost things.  

I know
I should burn  
the polaroids
in the name of closure.  

Perhaps
I am just afraid there will be no art--
no poetry--
left to sculpt
from the cinders that
remain.
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