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Chris Saitta Apr 2019
Her hand is a bookmark in my heart,
So many smoothed pages ago.
Muhammad Usama Apr 2019
Come, Friend.
I'll show you around the house and tell you all the trivial things that remind me of her.
(Here in the hallway)
These stacked, empty shoeboxes,
That I now keep my poems in,
These bare walls that I suppose,
She could make a better use of,
(In the living room)
This monochrome vintage tv,
That she'd have thrown out,
My books lying haphazardly on the table,
That she'd have cleared up,
My guitar that hasn't been restrung for 7 months,
The pictures of Dutch tulip fields,
The multilingual posters on the wall behind the TV,
Like a pretentious polyglot,
(Now,the kitchen)
And this bitter fragrance of tea leaves,
This divine scent of cardamom,
Rising from a hot cup of tea,
The rattle of kettles,
These dying rose petals,
Parmesan and cheddar,
The cheesier the better,
All of that pickled food,
According to my mood,
The battle of spices,
Those gingerbread slices,
Everything-
Everything reminds me of her.
"She's but a figment of your imagination,friend."
She's but a figment of my imagination, friend?
Oskar Erikson Apr 2019
i burned into myself a way to remember your laugh
flushed cheeks that raised flags red to your eyebrows
skimmed over in the heat of thinking "this is it"
and it was
nothing more than the sounds of joy for milliseconds
that echoed for years in one's head
it was like the sea had flooded my cranial cavity
i was drowning cerebrally
Marley Fritel Mar 2019
By: Marley Fritel

Surprise surprise gleamed her honest eyes,
for a day of bliss and love shot by.
I’m the target down range, yet far from the center.
Whos pessimism looms like the fly.

Surprise surprise morns my solemn mind,
as that day drew colder so did I.
In life's game of questions, I carefully mention,
That just part of us can die.

Surprise surprise with a taste of time,
Your happiness turns to a crumbling climb.
To whom you owe the greatest debt,
Be those in deaths sublime.

Surprise surprise echoes natures chime.
It’s choices governed in sanctioned lines.
For all who read will reconsider
Their path will change with time.
Oskar Erikson Mar 2019
the taps rusted over
but i'm yet to know if the beer tastes any more bitter
than trying it as a child.
sat in a dingy leather seat
with the ribbons of cowhide at my feet
after some animal had
its way.
where the people perspire through conversations
about the weather
and the tax man
and the never changing politic.
staff and regular alike
do not remember my mothers name
like the stint she pulled was lost to myth, my name
meant nothing.
maybe that's why i sat in the pub my mother used to work
once upon a time,
to see if the atmosphere could conjure her
like the football brought fleeting happiness
five rounds in.
Ronnie Mar 2019
She was a stray airplane in the sea of stars
An imposturous glimmer of hope
With no true end or destination
Destined to float among the lights, alone

Or so she thought as she wrote it down
Sealing the edge with the sad remains
Of wasted birthday candles
The final goodbye to the golden days

Prodigy at first, prodigal at last
A soul lost on the way to find a meaning
Searching for the faintest sign of a beginning
With her writ of passage left behind

The death of the author means
A rebirth for all things familiar
The return to a garden of thought
And the flowers in full bloom.
Attempt at an elegy. I was told to stay away from the abstract, but I couldn't help myself.
Tiffany Mar 2019
I'll think about you as you were
And who you would've been
Look back at all our memories
And who you were back then

I'll think about you at the beach
As the waves come crashing in
The water always meets the shore and one day we'll meet again

I'll think of you as my sister but also as my friend
We've been through so much together
And stood through thick and thin

I'll think about you every day
And try to smile instead of cry
Because I know we'll meet again one day
But for now, this is goodbye.
AE Feb 2019
I speak to your silence; philosophies and my darkest dreams
I speak to the velvet petals that sink into my skin at the slightest touch
Or to the glittering sea as sunlight showers down its grace
I speak to your sadness; songs and glorious days of remembrance
And we get lost in enchantment, or somewhere along the shore
You tell me fake stories and I listen to them with all my heart
I tell you about sad songs, and you take me away from my guilt...

I speak to your memory; things I’ve never had the courage to say
But now you’re lingering on the surface of ice
And I’m a thousand miles away
Jack Shannon Feb 2019
I remember days spent rocking to and fro on a boat with no particular place to go, just waiting for the next race, sandwich in hand which is somehow filled with sand, though none is in sight. The massive grin as I almost fall in, and a look of disappointment as he realises I’m not completely soaked to my skin.

I remember nights spent under electric lights, rolling bowls down an artificial green, and seeing him clap and cheer if I got anywhere near.

I remember piles and piles of meat being grilled, Ivor looking perfectly chilled as the barbecue flamed around his ears, always calm and happy to be cooking, ribs and burgers and sausages and steak, always burnt a few by ‘mistake’ which just happened to find their way to the dog.

I remember him smiling.

I remember singing with him in the car, on our way to do something somewhere, voices raised high, without a care for the tune, or pitch, and even the lyrics were mostly substituted with anything we came up with at the time. Belting Les Mis together for the 42nd time that trip because we had forgotten to take any other CD’s.

I remember how proud he looked when he showed me the first Potato he took home from the new allotment, trying to justify the days of work digging and toiling, plowing and boiling in a summer heat that couldn’t seem to keep him inside, for the sake of more courgettes than you could shake a stick at.

I remember crying, and him telling me it was okay to feel this way, that it just means we cared, and not to be ashamed to let the tears fall.

I remember watching him sit in the garden, Toby at his feet, content to just watch the world go by, only the occasional fly to bother him. He just sat, a small smirk on his face, happy with the pace of the world as it was, the afternoon sun just starting to sink. I wish I could remember what he said as I joined him.

I remember him as he was, as he will always be in my mind and my heart.
A poem I’ve written (and still editing) for my Step-Dad’s funeral next week. Pretty depressing, but I felt like I wanted to get this out now, rather than bottling it up.
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