Taking your own life...
Such a strange phrase but yet, we are strange beings
We have power in our hands
Choices and free will
Taking your own life
Life is like a candle
Once the flame is snuffed out, the light is gone and the smoke dances.
And the ones around it miss that light.
Even if we ignite the flame, its never the same flame is it?
Never the same flame twice because the first was an original...
Taking your own life...
It will never stop raining for you, Chester.
We won't ever stop raining for you...

Because
For the price of saving all the people in that dark void, you were losing yourself...





Your struggles, your triumphs, your voice... Your music is a statement that
YOU
ARE
STILL
HERE.

Hearing the news of Chester's death...it broke me. His songs got me through dark times.  Just like Robin Williams, Monty Oum and many others I adore so much, I won't forget you Chester.
Rest in piece
Harry Roberts Jul 12

I saw your face for the first time in years,
Yet I still remember that sleepy smile.
Those golden eyes,
The charisma you beheld made any heart flutter.

I remember the way you held me,
Tight against your hard body
But I felt so secure.
I remember your taste.

On my tongue, lost but still held,           I remember your scent, touch.
Fuck, I remember the way you sound.
I remember every line, wrinkle and muscle.

I still feel the moment you left,
You loved him - I learnt to forget
How you held me, loved me, fucked me best
Looked at me as less, you chucked me yes.

Blood pumping without oxygen
I'm trapped still losing him.
But he wasn't mine, and still,
He never was.

blessed be )0(
Dr zik Jul 8

A single moment spent in Your remembrance
is more precious than those spent in whole life
O' my Lord!
As the remembrance can not be donated
---------------------

Dr ZIK's Poetry
Kate Gilleo Jul 7

A baby clutches his mother’s dress
Unaware of how it will save his life
Unwary of the saving grace that will come to rest
The child is soft and clean
His name is Eugenius, the second of three
After Richard, before Michal
He is just a babe, no bigger than an infant can be

A toddler clutches his mother’s dress, the hem
Unaware of tragedy
Unwary of the Horror that awaits him
The child is frightened and shaking
His name is Gene, the second of three
After Richard, before Michal
He is just a little one, no taller than Mama’s knee

A child clutches his mother’s hand
Unaware from behind her skirt as they are herded
Unwary of the disaster to come from the cart
His name is Genie, the second of three
Before Mikey, after Richie
He is just a child, no higher than Tata’s knee

A boy holds his brother’s hand tight
Unaware of the danger he is in
Unwary that the coin from Mama’s skirts will save his life
The boy is healthy and strong, though not for long
His name is Gene, the second of three
Before Michal, after Richard
He is naïve, but soon to grow up prematurely

A prisoner holds his own shirt, unsure
Unaware of the pain that is coming
Unwary that he shall walk away nevermore
The prisoner is hurting and bloody
His name is “Gefangene,” the second of two
After Richard, before the crimson mess
He is crying for a bloody towel carried by

A handicap clutches Mama’s leg
Aware that he cannot cry as she shuffles him out
Wary that outside her skirts is the hunt
The handicap is hurting so badly
His name is Gene, the second of three
After Richard, before the new bump
He is unwilling to believe

A kaleka holds tight to his brother’s back
Aware that he is a burden
Wary that he is a load
The kaleka is waiting, waiting.
His name is Gene, second of three
After Richard, before Theresa
The kaleka is ready for release

The dziecko holds again to Mama’s skirt
Aware that he is now free to leave
Wary that he will never be independent
The dziecko is elated and mourning
His name is Gene, the second of three
Before Theresa, after Richard
The dziecko will never be the same

Sixty five years later
Gene holds Rosie’s hand tight
Aware that he is old now, having lived fully
Wary that death is imminent at last
The great-grandfather is peaceful and content
His name is Tata, Grandpa, Gene, husband, and more
He is the last one left of his war
The survivor is ready to reunite with his family
He gives thanks to Hattie’s skirts
That kept him alive though the hurts.

Eugeneus Borowski is my great-grandfather, a child Holocaust victim. I wrote this poem as a tribute to stories like his, so many gone untold. The only surviving copy of Gene’s own experience is a cassette tape of an interview he gave my teenaged mother, many years ago. I am now writing his memoir, similarly titled Hattie’s Skirts after the woman who did what it took to survive.

Tiny
flames
flickered
one by one for
someone's mother...
a promising son.
And the candle's light
soon grew so bright
it sent a message out on the night.
And death was shocked
it missed its mark...
It had overlooked the human heart.
On tear-streaked faces, Death saw smiles?
People walking hand in hand for miles
God had helped them deal with grief
Death shook its head in disbelief
and
Limped back home a jewel-less thief.

gmw '17

I wrote this after attending a candle lighting honoring those who lost their battles with cancer but left a legacy of strong love behind.

frozen coke
family matters
sack swing
hugs

at 822 Pine Avenue

late nights
pillow forts
peach cobbler dessert

at 822 Pine Avenue

headstands and trampolines
laughs
a front porch swing

at 822 Pine Avenue

wives tales & mud pies

at 822 Pine Avenue

pecan tree
bench beneath
singing in her sleep

at 822 Pine Avenue

bird fountain and basketball net
a ball needing air
popsicle stains on shirts

at 822 Pine Avenue

mining for rocks down the alley
papa's roof was dirty

at 822 Pine Avenue

birthday parties
coconut pies
drawing pictures in the front room

at 822 Pine Avenue

Geraldine stories
flash light animals
sleepovers with the twin beds pushed together

at 822 Pine Avenue

talking in her sleep
frying me bacon to eat
Sunday afternoon lunches

At 822 Pine Avenue

1 husband
3 kids
7 grandchildren
13 great grandchildren

at 822 Pine Avenue

Some of my vivid memories from my childhood at my Mamaw's house.
Brent Fisher Jun 11

rubbed their names
on paper every year,
beer glasses that clink,
girls that do your kink
for the right change,
powerkegs and pebbles,
bell chimes and devils.

breathe out, toke in,
woke up, but dreaming,
thinking it’d be better
if I was done in too,
that way, I’d join you;
all those monuments
would mean something.

but I hear voices, at night,
telling me to keep it up,
one more day,
that daily fight,
because I’m alive,
I’m remembering,
and they’re living.

so here’s to us, boys,
credit where it’s due,
one more hurrah for you,
and for me, I suppose,
as I glance out on your
neat little stone rows,
the one that made it.

Nylee May 19

Fragments of memories
like short stories
entertain me night time
when sleep take its time to come
The bits of adventure
with less thriller
lesser dramatics
and in reality , not that tragic
A smiling remembrance
giving it another glance

Jay May 15

Every poet needs a muse.

I have never forgotten.
Have you? Even once?

As I let you slip through the cracks? I wouldn't blame you if you did.
But I know that you haven't.

It's funny. Talking about distance.
because in spite of it all,
nobody has touched me like you.

Do you still feel it sometimes? Do you still feel like visiting me in my dreams? Or when I'm on top of the mountains, sipping in the beauty of the world? The need to inspire? Inspiration itself.

I do. Constantly.
It's everything I've ever wanted. The loveliest thing I've ever known.

The way you manage to make words come alive. Like air. The way you could make them dance into my lungs and rush into my bloodstream
always leaves me craving more. Addicted.

I'm at the mercy of your language.
Your fingers.
Your smile.

Your words are eternal. Taken as scripture. I bow to them every day. Praise them. Share them. Let them complete me. Give me purpose.
Reflected in pale moonlight and written in the stars.

As I look up, into the infinity of darkness,
and see the words you left there,
I am left speechless.

I mean it too. That I fell. Hard. Impossibly.

We ended quickly. Abruptly. A car accident. An exchange of information. Words hurt, but wounds heal.

I know you've continued on. Effortlessly. Gracefully as you do.
But every single night, I still go to bed, with the desire of making love with our words. Tasting your syllables. Drinking them in. I long for a touch I haven't felt since you. In every conceivable way.

I shouldn't have left. I should have begged you to stay. I would have loved a little more time with you.

I'd wait forever for it.

Maybe you shouldn't, but muses don't work that way.
There's nothing more heartbreaking than a poet without a muse.
A sky without stars.
A page without words.

I'm selfish in wanting your presence.
Your poetry.
It's cruel of me to desire something so deeply.

But nothing could be better
than knowing that
there was a little infinity
where I captured your heart
felt your soul
connected with you
and became a muse
myself.

A dream come true.
We could have blossomed into something breathtaking.

Would it be terrible if I said I think of you always?

This is still for you.
MJ Lee May 9

Our window is an ever changing frame
Left to its own devices
It never moves from its placement in our old home
Yet never shattered once
On good days, nothing but the ticking clock is disturbed
Those days of silly arguments we forgot
The moment the ice cream man begun his serenade
On bad days grey inkblots would erase that baby blue
Forcing cabin fever down our throats
At the loss of movie night
Yet there are the nights you sit alone, lost in the races
Between short lives of the rain cloud's children
Nights where you join the portrait's current mood
Our window is an ever changing frame
Capturing each moment of our existence
Replacing your trace

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