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Coleen Mzarriz Oct 2023
Do you know I’d circle around the globe, just to be greeted by those lovely eyes of yours?
I'd cross even the sharpest nails I will step on just to hear and carry your gentle voice.

Vacillate between the warmth and the cold.
The sea and the clouds—even the steep avenue or the slippery cobblestone—just to get near you.

For I will carry all your deepest sins and cleanse them with these calloused hands—far enough to call it love.
My heart will leap from me the moment our eyes meet again for the ninth time.

And surely, the vastness of the sea cannot amount to all the words I can make up for you.
Even the most tedious piece will be turned into a faithful painting—so long in memories.

It will remain just that.
A silent, cacophonous whisper—inside of it was all the love I have stored for you.
It will remain just that.

When the time finally freezes the moment you walk in, my eyes will still be locked into you.
And I’d cross once again the sharpest nails I could step on.
I wrote something. It has been 136 days and I am still here.

Unknown/Nth - Hozier
Nickolas J McKee Aug 2023
Mom says, “You need a therapist,”
No need mama for trauma.
They can all drink ****,
Got no daddy drama.
God placed me under the shower,
So Devil can ***.
Forgiven hour,
A judgment beating drum.
Dance violent in my own dark,
Raising spirits of my own.
With demon called snark,
Other angel to pwn.
Souls to bleed and let out all sin,
Come Kingdom Come let it begin…
Be all my sins remembered,
Like all of our sins before.

The sins of my flawed father,
That I, the eldest daughter bore

Be all my sins remembered
Rather than all of my good deeds

My sins are signs of my humanity
They’re signs of my shameless needs

Be all my sins remembered
Let her name forever be twined with mine

I have tasted heaven on earth
I am hers to the end of the line
It's been awhile
Anais Vionet May 2023
Grandmère = Grandmother

Peter and I are in Paris, we arrived this morning. We’re staying at my Grandmère’s Champs de Mars residence - near the Eiffel Tower.

One of my Grandmère’s oldest and dearest friends is a Catholic Bishop. When I was little, he was ‘Monsignor Jean-Marc’ but now he’s ‘Bishop Jean-Marc.’ He’s been around so much of my life, he’s almost part of the family. I wouldn’t be shocked to find out that he has his own apartment somewhere in each of her houses.

Jean-Marc is old. I think that’s fair to say. He’s white haired and the kind of short that comes on slowly, with age. He’s a disciplined kind of thin and his deep wrinkles are tanned from years of gardening. His teeth, always visible in his salesmen’s smile, are as white as altar candles.

When I first glimpsed Jean-Marc from the hallway, he was sitting on a cream satin settee, in conversation with my Grandmère. I knew something was up because he was wearing his red trimmed cassock and red sash, instead of his usual black suit.

What I couldn’t see from the hall, was that the room was packed with matronly ladies, dressed in matronly dresses of glittering white, glittering beige, glittering yellow and glittering gold. Argh! I was wearing a white Polo tennis dress, Keds mini canvas sneakers and my hair was ponytailed. I wasn’t dressed for a social. I swiveled to give my Grandmère a sharp look, but she took that moment to be interested in the drapes.

As I’d come into the room, Jean-Marc stood and greeted me cordially saying, “AnnAAAas!” raising both hands up over his head as if he were channeling the pope. Ok, I thought to myself, this is happening. I offered my most innocent smile. “Bishop Jean-Marc,” I said, while performing an involuntary curtsy, conjured from somewhere deep in childhood reflex-memory.

I don’t like priests. Slam me, sue me, **** me. When I’m around a priest, I’m reminded that I’m a sinner and I feel guilty about not feeling guilty. It’s the worst kind of guilt for a Catholic, because we don’t earn any credit for it.

Opp! I just thought of Peter, so there’s lust, right on queue - that’s a sin. Unfortunately, Peter’s not here. He and Charles went on a chauffeured driving tour of Paris. Envy - there, another sin, I’m on the road to hell but I can’t seem to stop, one thought just follows the next. Where’s a priest when I need one? (to confess) Just kidding, there’s one right in front of me.

The bishop began asking me a string of unimaginative questions, like an old friend catching up. “How’ve you been? How's university? As he grilled me, slowly, like a steak in a smoker, the herd of matrons ambled slowly our way, closing in to listen in. It was a scene straight out of the walking dead. I wanted to escape but my Grandmère held me in place, with the full wattage of her proud smile.

Ordinary boredom is an un-experience and all you need to free yourself is a phone. High society boredom is one of Dante’s circles of hell, because you have to interact with strangers when you could be doing something fun instead. The gathering finally broke up about 7pm and I was free to go. I was starving, my throat hurt from talking (about myself) and I hadn’t heard from Peter. When I checked “find my,” it showed him there, somewhere. So I went in search.

Peter was in his (our) room, on his back near the edge of the bed, one shoe off and one shoe on. He was as still as a corpse but a soft snoring suggested he wasn’t dead. I leaned over him, his black hair was somehow more disheveled than usual and his lips, moist and slightly parted, looked invitingly ready to kiss. I didn’t do it though, that would have been asking for trouble. Instead, I smelled his breath, slowly and deeply. Cognac. Charles had gotten him drunk. How helpful.

Once I tucked Peter in, I went looking for Charles, only to find him shooting billiards with Jean-Marc. He looked none the worse for wear and the gleam in his eyes told me he knew what he was doing - avoiding me with the bishop.

As I prowled the room, trying to decide what to do, while picking up objects and weighing them as objects to be thrown, a server brought in a tray with three bowls of cassoulet,* which smelled incredible, my stomach growled, and I remembered I was starving.

Charles, sensing a shift in the mood, said, “He (Peter) needed to reset his body clock. He’s young, he’ll be as good as new in the morning.” I just laughed. Charles knew I’d come looking for him and he’d ordered me dinner. I can’t stay mad at Charles; he knows me too well.

The cassoulet was to die for.
We’ll start our vacation, for reals, in the morning.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Cordial: “in a politely pleasant and friendly way.”

Champs de Mars = “The field if Mars” It’s the name of the Park (the ‘Central Park’ of Paris) where the Eiffel Tower is (my grandmothers house is across from it).

*cassoulet = a gumbo made of white beans, pork, bacon, duck, goose and toulouse sausage in a tomato stock of garlic, onions, herbs, and goose fat. A dreamy French comfort food I haven’t had since last summer.
Anais Vionet Feb 2022
Hangovers are a back-tax on fun.

To paraphrase T.S. Eliot:
"Can last night just belong to last night?”

I’m not thinking about sins and penance
or making any bound-for-failure resolutions.

I’m giving myself a mental health break.
Close your eyes,
I whisper in your ear,
when you think of forever,
what do you see my dear,
or rather who do you see,
right through your tears,
through the uncertainty of time,
and the path you will take,
who is your partner,
your guide as you are theirs,
I asked you this question once before,
a rainy day on the second floor,
tell me your answer once again.
The last time I said I love you.
Knowing you has been a song,
familiar silence,
as we become aware of existence,
but no form of friendship,
complete empty instrumentals,
the start of us.
beautiful vocals set in,
in anticipation of what's to come,
as I fell for your smile,
only then do lyrics form,
as our story unfolds,
our song isn't finished,
but it's so distorted,
so empty now.
Regret is all I feel when I think of you
Brett Jul 2021
In my folly, of following fathers that have come before me;
I find myself lost, strewn about, and blown off course.
Teachers taught me time, in only the most linear of directions.
Yet the sins of those long past, seem to rest a weight,
Heavy upon my back.
Each of us an Atlas, on our knees before our masters.

It seems quite the contradiction, to have freedom inside a system.
Where rules are loose, in their applied use.
A game of pick and choose;
Played with loaded dice, that always seem to favor the few.
We the beast of burden, weakest first, penthouses the new-age church
Where the powers preach the verse.

Lost in our lack of direction, like southern-bound birds,
Plucked of their feathers.
Grounded in work boots, dumbfounded and resolute,
In poisoning our connective roots.
Fields of flowers and acres of pine, burning with the flame,
Stolen from us, somewhere along the line
A sinking ship, with only ***** rags to plug the holes.
Streets once paved with gold,
Forever cracked like our collective souls.
Poem should be three 6 line verses, but alas HePo loves to mangle my structure. ARGHH!
An old mind,
from thinking,
tired eyes,
from crying,
a bleached heart,
from trying,
all the symptoms of a lover.
Been diagnosed with being a lovesick hopeless romantic.
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