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Martin Bailes Mar 2017
Dappled             smooth

marble stones

onto a heap of feathers

A train of bones.

Sharks ...

                             swift & deadly.
Mio Seanachaidh Jan 2017
Your memory is a monster; you forget - it doesn't.
It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you - and summons them to your recall with a will of its own.
You think you have a memory; but it has you!

Memory can be protection; a defense to shield you from trauma
Memory loss can in fact be a type of healing for the mind to further heal itself

Memory, O memory how human yet divine thou are!
Memory is mystic, spiritual, and strange
Memory is a force; a divinity in its own right
Memory is memory
TKO Oct 2016
The storm settled,
Gentle winds clear the streets of
Fragmented ~~           
Cocktail      ~~       Memories
             ~~                       ~~

There were one too many,
For one too many,
                                First Dances &
High Stakes.

Lingering emotions
                                        Faint Recollections
Snapshots of Regretless Mistakes.
Denisse Perez Apr 2016
My mother asked me what was my best and favorite year.
I said 2002.
Because in 2002 I was a happy 6 year old. My father was the only man I loved and my mother was my best friend. The only stress I had was getting up early to go to school.
Money didn’t mean anything to me. Survival wasn’t important. The media was just a loud picture box. And opinions were irrelevant. Just Saturday cartoons and the world being the color baby blue.
From 2002 and so on and so forth, everything started to change. Baby blue was turning to a less charismatic gainsboro; and then a Spanish gray.  
Before I knew it. It was 2006. The loud picture box was now a god. 2010 is where Mr. Washington and Mr. Lincoln were now looked as tickets for treasures. Second to last is 2014 where you'd get awarded for taking a **** and then forgotten that same week.
Now it's 2016. Far away from the baby blue. Far away from the pastel pink sunsets I use to gaze upon my second floor apartment balcony.

Tired is now a common word.
Napping is a blessing.
Stress is all too familiar.

And as everyday goes by, the farther I feel from ever having that 2002 feeling again.
Fill my glass
  of vintage
  top it til the
bubbly overflows,
   as memoirs
    & recollections
     beyond lucid
   hungover midst
       an endless
         toasting of
Cheers, have a great weekend!
It must have been thirty five years ago now,
I remember the kid as clear as day
His name was Eddie, or Timmy or something
Remember him clear as day, I think it was Eddie
Well, this kid was sure something
A true believer in his ability to play the game
He really loved it, ****** at it, but the desire
You could see it in them brown eyes of his
Or were they blue?, no matter...they might have been brown
Anyways, kid had desire, no talent, but desire
Played third base for me, thought he was a pitcher
But, he played third...that I'm sure of
He didn't have speed enough to move anywhere else
And I think he was blind in his right eye,
So, he could only move left
Good kid, Timmy or Eddie
Had an arm like a rocket
the ball would just explode out of his hand
I never knew where it was going
And truthfully, I don't think he did either
But, went fast, wherever it ended up
Kid actually made it rain one day
Just because he threw the **** ball so high into the clouds
He was trying to throw to first, but hell, it went high
Always smiling this kid, always...
don't know if he was just happy
Or if his jaw hadn't grown right for his teeth,
But, he was always smiling
couldn't hit worth a ****, had a nice swing
But, that blind eye....couldn't see a pitch until it hit him
Cooled us down on the bench though
Made a hell of a breeze when he swung
He was good for that,
lots of wind from Eddie, or Timmy
He did get a hit once or twice, I remember that
Scared us, scared him too I imagine
But, he did hit it, and it did go a long way
Problem was it happened so infrequently
He always forgot to run
And when he did, he ran like a duck
*** wobbled all over, arms flailing, head still
Quack, Eddie, I'd yell
He'd smile, and take off,
couldn't see where he was going
But he'd run....and he'd stop only when he felt like it
I remember he was Mexican looking, or Spanish
There, brown eyes...knew I'd remember
anyways, he got called out for swearing once
Knocked the **** cover off the ball
then he stood there and watched it go
By the time he started to run,
He'd Holy ******* at least three times
And got tossed by the umpire
I argued, but, the ump would draw the line at two
Three holy *****...that's a little much
But, he knocked that ball into the next county
He'd probably throw it there too if he tried
The kid had desire, no talent,
but a smile and desire
Got tossed after striking out once too
Struck out a lot, once he let loose with a barrage
And I mean a barrage of swear words ....In Italian no less
I always thought the kid was Mexican or Spanish or something
But, he swore in Italian in front of an Italian ump
Poor kid, three holy ***** in another language
And he got tossed,
If I could get him to stop at two....he'd be fine
Eddie was a good kid, I liked him
He tried, he smiled, and he was terrible
couldn't hit water if he fell out of a boat
But he didn't care, and neither did I
But, Eddie, or Timmy, whoever he was
Was a good kid,
I hope he remembers me as fondly as I do him.
Connor Mar 2015
I slumped to the type-writer on a foggy December morning,
recently broken up with a pretty girl, Allison.
She was 32, older than me and
had long dark hair, pale skin and a habit to chew her fingernails.
Outside, the trees were bleak and jagged, raw from the latter-year chill.
My TV had been left on from last night, displaying re-runs.
Re - “I’m sorry about last night”
re - “It’s fine, look. I’m coming back to pick up my stuff later today, don’t go anywhere”
Re - “Okay”
Previous girl, Wendy, she was nice, worked at a grocery store in town. She could play the flute, though not very well. Sometimes she’d make horrible noises and call those sounds what we were, messy and all over the place, but that’s what made us “work” eventually she moved to Arizona to get back together with her ex from high-school.
“Explain what it is I’m doing wrong?”
“Excuse after excuse you’re always away, off in your own mind. Yet here you are, in the same ******* house all the ******* time”
Girl before that was Emma, she had a great singing voice, taught yoga and owned two dogs, one was named Oliver and the other Pam.
Pam died very young, nobody figured out why.
Emma cared about her dogs a lot, said she needed some space so she ended things.
Time to sort through life.
“Sort through these boxes, would you? There’s one of Pam with my mum, she looks so cute in this one”
“I met all sorts of people at class today, this one girl, Tracy, wants me to go out with a few friends later, is that alright?”
“Yeah.. yeah sure that’s fine”
I think I was sitting in front of that type-writer to begin something,
something passionate,
fresh and new to spice up the mornings..
Maybe I’d go for a walk.
I had some boxes of Allison’s things beside the door, it stunk of her perfume and was full of clothes and shampoo, some pictures, too.
Staring at the type-writer was a blank page, Jesus, five minutes I hadn't written anything.
I began with
“Chapter One”
Before getting distracted by those re-runs on TV.

— The End —