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The Dedpoet Feb 2016
The Beginning

Beginning
At the duck pond,
A little boy alone.

And a small paper boat
That sailed a way the monsters,
And a soft voice comes to him,
A little girl asking about his boat.

He says the monsters are gone now,
So she takes him by the hand
And walks away to the playground,
He never looks back at the paper boat.

And the eternal present sank the boat,
He played with a new friend,
An understanding of monsters
And they became each others peace.

The Middle
Times that shine in youth
And there she was at prom
With her peace she still held
His hand like the pond before them.

They danced as the years danced,
The youth soaking in all firsts,
He kisses her under the stars
And promises forever in his eyes.

She lay at the blanket before him
Ready as a flower blooms,
They make love as a sacrifice
Of virginal clarity of truth.

The End
Was still the youth, but college
And adventure called them both
To different places and different
Times were to become a reality.

She kissed her kiss of forever,
He held her in their final summer,
Never let me go she whispered,
And he held her ever tighter.

The summer ends,
And the Fall as life is a fall,
They say goodbye and promise
To stay together forever.

              
              The Middle


The beginnings
Of a twenty something man who just
Lost his highschool girlfriend,
And the girl became a woman,
All is a guarantee too change.

The promise was so much to take,
He held on as long as he could
But her dreams took her away
And he became a normal guy.

She meets another man,
He holds on too long,
She marries and has some kids,
He let's her go in his mind.

The Middle of life
Is rarely how one recalls it,
But the time of his life was with her
And he never marries.

She divorces a man that never loved
Her for who she though she was,
Her thoughts drift to her lover,
Her first love, she begins a search.

And time is a force,
A force of her heart when she sees
His face, the pounding that it took,
She realised she never stopped loving him.

The end can be happy sometimes,
And he gets a letter in the mail,
I'm in town, the note said,
Come see me.

He rushes and sees her stilled in time,
As beautiful as ever, they make love
As the first time, two weeks together
That made a lifetime apart worth it.

But she had kids in another place,
He could uproot the life he had,
They say goodbye once again
And something about it felt final.

    
                  The End


The years pile like snow in winter,
And winters breath came and went
Like the seasons, now in his forties
He realised all he wanted was to see her again.

He sends her a letter to meet him at the pond,
She says he has to come to her,
She wasn't feeling so well,
And he flew like a dove in its miracle.

Her children come to greet him,
And he felt like they should have been
His from another life,
The reflections of life's mirror.

The middle years came,
She had battled cancer for years,
He stayed with her through the battle,
And married her with no regrets.

He was with her only two years
But it was the most fun he ever had,
At the hospital the doctors new
That visiting hours didn't apply to him.

As the cancer ate her last days
She made him promise one last thing,
He said he would find her
Where ever souls might go when they leave.

And the end can be a beginning,
He stands at her grave,
He holds her flowers
With tears for everyday.

He went home to where he began
His life, where they first met as kids,
He holds her picture in his pocket
And a sheet of paper he begins to fold.

He puts her picture in a paoerboat,
He sails it away into the pond,
He remembers like it was yesterday,
At the duckpond, a little boy alone......
OK so I'm crying right now, aren't you?
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
This is a poem of ***,
Simple in nature, I am writing about ***.
Facing the day filled,
I stroke your thighs in the womb
Of the day, we birth the dawn.
Full light comes to
Our bare bodies
Entangling light and dark.

This poem is about ***,
The profilic and harmonic presence
Of a thousand fingers probing
Each other, the kind of animalistic
Pleasure that brings together
The link of man the beast,
God, oh God,
The sensational foray into freedom
Of the body, into the wild!

Oh, sweet sin of heavenly pleasure,
The silent screams!

To the feast!
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
I am at random,
And the lines formless
In my mind:
A lover and the pain,
A cat and a dying master,
Memories while walking
Among the tombs,
The names are faces.

And the void is a mind globe
Spreading itself into a sphere
As the sweat scourges my forehead,
I wipe my third eye:
      Hours leapfrog from page
To page,
   The sound of poetry is among
Everything I have known,
    A dispersed word translates
Me for the verse,
    But I am insubstantial,
Much as my thoughts.
In my room,
     On my desk,
I brood over the wind of yesterdays
Erosions,
I am nailed to a tree,
Deep into a lifeless tree,
I am no poet saint.

     I am not here nor there,
And when all the words have convened,
      I will find a piece of myself
In every poem,
    Though I remain incomplete.
The void here represents the thoughts of poetry, I am addicted to the words, the words of my predecessors
Whom were also haunted by words.
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
There is but one inside each of us,
The magnificent irony that is you,
The gift of emotion and darkness,
Light and the solemn silence.

In each there is a word never spoken,
The lord of his or her pen stroke,
Like a library of dreams
Disclosed to the insensible mind.

In vain with each passing day
The infinite ache of the lifespan
Becomes an accessible garden
And fountains of immersive memory.

And to die is but to awaken,
We toil in the philosophy of words,
Without strength or direction
Writing sorrowful verse.

Haiku, sonnet, free verse,
Stars, skies, oceans, meadows,
All are symbolic to the perceptions
In the void of the eye's twilight views.

Painfully we probe the depth
And fathom the darkness,
Heaven becomes a metaphor,
Hell seems too real, the Power....

Long before me or you,
The dead poets took the dark
And shown them in the light
In his or her fading dusk.

The gallery of poems,
Impalpably dreaded like life,
And we are the dead whom write
Of life in the setting sun.

Power, which had written this poem,
Disfiguring the poet, perpetually dark,
The word speaks through us,
The curse is to observe as it all passes away.
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
You buy flowers and a card as an excuse to write a poem, even though you're single.

2. When " How Do I love you, let me count the ways"... And you literally lost count.

3. When Cupid calls you corny.

4. When you make a poem out of those little heart candies.

5. Cupid throws up a little in his mouth after reading your exceedingly sweet sonnet.

6. You bought your kid Valentines day cards for his class and wrote haiku's on every one.

7. You ponder the box of chocolates, and how it is like life, though it sounds familiar, you title your poem "Life is Like a Box of Chocolates".

8. You buy roses and a card filled with your sweet words for your ex, though she calls you a stalker, you are glad she called you.

9. You recite Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, and you're in the shower.

10. You suddenly bulk up on Pablo Neruda, ready to take on the romantic world.

11.As you look at your hellopoetry site while driving, you see a smear of blood on the windshield, two small wings, and what looks like a bow and arrow.

12. When you write a poem and have no one to give it to, suddenly Mom is the best Valentine ever.

13. When you go on the big date, secretly you have your own penand paper in your back pocket, writing verses when you excuse yourself from the dinner table.

14. When you write a poem for your wife, your side girlfriend and your mistress, just because it feels romantic, it is Valentines after all.

15. When you give the wrong poem to your wife, instead of the mistress.

16. Your girlfriend is suddenly a diabetic due to your sweet poem.

17.When you write a poem on hellopoetry and dedicate it to your Valentine, even though you don't have one.

18. When you buy yourself roses and a box of chocolate, write a beautiful poem to yourself, you might be a romantic poet.

19. When your secret admirer is you, the secret poems don't have the same effect.

20. Last but no least, you might be a poet when you wonder if Cupid is lonely and write an invite in the form of a sonnet to see if the little guy will join you for a poetry reading.
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
At this hour the walls are black,
They breathe with apparitions as
The sky splits open,
     I am alone as the sun dial walks
Across the stone bodies,
    Where there were once streets and homes
Now lay in waste filled with your
Silhouette of silver memory,
Vast as my Earth at the crossroads
Of eight directions I walk through
a gallery of echoes and the infamy
Of the present,
And the verbiage of the moment carries
       Your luminous spectre,
A master of reflections,
     The dialogue of a lonely poet....

I am but a poem haunted by your ghost,
petrified by the frame of your spectral silhouette.
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
With the sun settling down,
The huge candor of the dusk settles
In on its spectral enchantments
And its usual "Only God could have done this",
Portico: Where the day is meditated
And the sigh of humbled gratitude sets in,
As the stars form
Across the eyes and her hand
In your own,
It is simply good to have a moment
Between the day,the sky,
and everything in between.
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
Don't close your eyes,
The wind has just begun
To sing her song,
The rain had just fallen
To tickle the windows.

And the sounds are an enchantment,
The song of the humming storm
As the night reveals herself,
She is a wondrous traveller
Who catches falling meteors
And turns them into flashing lights,
She waters the ground intent on
Life giving life.

Don't sleep,
The rhythmic nature
Of her kissing the glass,
The crystals she hangs to
Shine in a morning dew
For a magical beginning!

Don't sleep,
She rumbles a world
To isolate the imagination
Between the mind and a pillow
She lulls one to a different world.

And when you do sleep,
Your dreams will be as a lightning's
Child free into the sky
Shooting up into space
Where dreams are born.
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
Your body is a Heavenly crime;
I am caught like a mountain
To the sky
And I am certain of your Angelic presence:

I am absent of myself when your naked
Light forms another plain like
A light of bright silhouettes dancing
At the precipice of eternity,
The night in your hair as
The moonlight dances a seduction
That makes Angels fall.
The nape of your neck to your shoulders
Where I mapped my world in a
Cascade of kisses and I am sure
I saw your wings in the dancing shadows.
A thousand sighs around your
Waist as I trace forever with
My touch,
The tongue as it tastes from
A fountain of your flesh:
Daily I drink of you.
Your thighs like a petrified miracle
Tormenting my eyes,
They close that I might drown
The other senses between them.
A painful tenderness in your body,
I make love to an Angel.
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
Here in the dusk of the day I dilute
Myself into anything:

I am a hummingbird and I go fanning
The flora of the forest,
I move in a slow motion when I watch
Myself fly,
However I am also the wind which carries
Each feather in a flight of fancy,
And soon the Luna dances into my
Fluttering wings and I am lit
By the mist of living water as the moon
Makes them tiny falling stars,
A galaxy is lost in my wings,
And soon I am the rain in the night
As I cover the earth in liquidity
With my falling ways
Giving life to life,
And while the rain I covered
My sad human form walking in the
Afterthoughts of the hummingbird,
As I move into the darkness,
And I remember I am afraid
Of the shadows.
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