Hey how are you?
How have you been?
Have you forgotten your old deep promise?

There were things you set out to do.
And on the way you would give out thoughts.
The journey would be hard but you
would always
find
yourself.

Always.
Unfailingly,
you would refine yourself.
Live the life of a dream.
Yes, the life of a dream not
a life in a dream.

The difference in this is essence.
So keep that promise to yourself.
No matter how distant you get from the genesis,
the origin is still with you.
Knife cuts the scone smooth
Happy thoughts with bitter taste
Fragrant memories
Scones with strawberry jam, one of my favourite snacks!
Which does bring back unpleasant memories, but still
Lyn xxx
Tribhu Jul 12
Some scattered ink
Let me think,
If I want to write this or not.
Write about our story
Or maybe how it ended, I think I forgot.
Some blank pages
Let me imagine,
If I can picture your silhouette like before.
Eyes closed and everything went dark
Inside of me you left a mark
No, I would rather forget thy voice and chores.
With a piano in front of me,
Or the guitar strings held in my hands,
I don't want to play those tunes anymore
I might get lost into your neverland.
I know I won't be able to break free,
I will blend into thy illusion
And drown again within your delirious dreams.
And I won't wake up anymore, because I know I can't.
As I lie to myself that I will forget you,
Your remembrance is what I really demand.
You weren't the poetic one, but I just read Kaddish
and thought of you;
           of 1998 beach photo, Sussex somewhere - as I
remember you, perhaps a bit younger;
           of sweet peroxide blonde, hiding brunette. I was
naive to the dye 'til I saw 'the Hepburn shot' - that 1950
something print, you in Rembrandt light,
           or the black beehive wig in family portrait—
1970ish— dicky bows and cocktail dresses - Dad, aged
seven, in a shirt and trousers;
           of youthful snapshots: Portobello Beach, Edinburgh
(4), with parents in Kent (8), your gang of girls some snowy
place (14), painting the house with Raymond in Croydon (20);
           of latter digital images, 2012, more gaunt and wrinkled,
but ever-beautiful - seemingly ageless, as you wished;

           of care and trust and overdone vegetables, thin gravy,
brussel sprout production lines - beautiful, mundane memories
at Cowfold breakfast bar or Langley Green kitchen tops;
           of seaside trips to Shoreham, Portsmouth, Brighton, dogs
homes and holding my hand past the loud ones;
           of picking roses from the garden for 'perfume' - sticky
hands, wet floors and beautiful smells;
           of early morning rude awakenings, met only with cheer
and offers of tea and toast - I still have your butter tray
(hospitable even in death);
           of my brother's wedding, taking time to jive and seem
alive whilst everyone else was dying inside, despite the fact
that it was you, and you only, who should care the most (and
thus, if you didn't, why should we have);
           and of that very temperament, infamous tempers never
shown—at least to us—just pure, kind acceptance and
forgiveness.

           You weren't the poetic one.
           You were; the ninth child of a seaman and his wife
                              the girl with the Scottish accent
                              the wife of an engineer from Mitcham
                              the mother of three, the loser of one
                              the stern face of discipline
                              the BT telephone operator, the masseuse
                              the grandmother of three boys
                              the ageless face of beauty
                              the one I remember best

           You told me you couldn't recall your siblings' names -
I've looked into it. Ada, Jack, Edie, Emmie, Mabel, Joyce,
Raymond, Terence.
Beaulieu, France, July 2018

(to my late grandmother Margaret Rose Olga Weller)
Remembrance, a story of trying to put things together
Where the best moments drifts through floating
While I look at my hands and spaces between my fingers...

The sparks of life would make all those darkness fade
Bring light of hopes and wishes to come true
The marks of which are now completely erased...

But these are the memories I already know
Which need no luxury, no expression to show
It's all about the disappointment of just letting go...

It's based on something that can't be saved
All blatant lies, the falsity, the blame
For things have changed and they can't stay the same...

Sometimes I wonder if you're even here
For my mind refrain to speak your name
And the picture I see seems so unclear...

So, I'll just say what needs to be said
The fights are fought and the elegies are read
But for remembrance of you, my memories are all numb and dead...
@manauwer
Sarah Jun 28
I can’t remember every detail but within the darker memories-
I see happiness.
Each gray, childhood faded image brightens when I recall the love that swarmed that house.
It was a time before I feared,
Before we grieved,
Before life overtook each conversation.
Instead, every face held a welcoming smile,
Laughter was sung with each breath,
Life was nothing but the one I shared with those four people within those walls.
Those four people made those four walls, wrapping around us like an embrace,
a home.
Written 06/27/2018
You left years ago,
                                the bed still unmade
You left years ago,
                                the bills still unpaid
You left years ago,
                                the message I still play
You left years ago,
                                the beauty I still gaze
You left years ago,
                                the child I still raise
Tonight we raised the dead
In the morning buried it
Under the pillow of your bed
Never to be resurrected again
if I could                     forever                  be turned to
      art                              immortalize            ­                    me in
   ceramic.                                my story                                       have it
  submerged                      at the bottom                          of the sea.
    forever                       eroding                   ­         waiting
to be discovered and studied. Forever capturing the minds
of the historians the poets the dreamers and the ones
filled with curiosity. Have my painted life chipped
away shielded by salt and grime. Leave them
questioning and wondering filling in
the missing specks of my life.
Let them display me on
a pedestal left
to inspire.
Formatting on this one breaks on a small mobile screen
Tribhu Jun 6
Oh soul! You see, I’ve set you free,
Shall you fly far away?
Or die remembering me?
Remained thee in my heart,
Winter sky falls apart,
Yet midnight to dawn,
Memories dusted throughout desert.
Often we have to let go of certain people we want to hold so close to us, to our hearts. But we have to let them go even so. It's their choice if they ever remember us or not. And it's our choice to remember them through the dusty memories they've left behind...
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