send my warm regards
to san francisco
tell them the art
they export is beautiful
ask them what it was like
on those sixties summer nights
oh how i wish
that i'd been there

scope out a spot for me
in tokyo
tell me where
the spots are i should go
will it remind me
of inherited memories?
then say hello
to my extended family

if you stop
in new orleans
tell them i've already been
there within my dreams
i've heard so much about them
on momma's old records
i'll be there to visit
when i travel the world

carry my words
wherever you go
my message in a bottle
will be my warm hello
i cannot be there
at least not today
so let these words suffice
to send the pain away
can't afford a real ticket, so poetry will have to do for now
At the unknown station,
An old soul is waiting for the train to get back home,
After 800 years trapped on earth,
With all memories of
The 800 years journey,
That cannot be erased,
Cannot be forgotten...
.
At the unknown station,
an old soul is waiting for the train to get back home,
After 800 years trapped on earth.
The home where the far is near
And the near is far...
Where too far is sometimes really near
And too near is sometimes really far...
.
But,
"How far is near?"
And "How near is far?", anyway?
"Is far really near?"
Or "Is near really far?"...
While I'm waiting for the train to get back home at the unknown station,
I then cannot stop questioning the questions!
-KANYA PUSPOKUSUMO-
(An alien that trying to get back home)
May 21, 2018
The faintest click of a radio button
a song that I swear I'd long forgotten

and I journey back to another time
happily quiet, but humming inside

running much faster than blue dinosaurs
I Spy much more than a boy really saw

different than walking, different like flying
moving so fast they can't hear my sighing

tremours of laughter on Radio 2
then singing out loud junior choice tunes

even when songs fade away in the hills
I'd rather be here than back at home still

wary of Jenny's sharp buckled shoes
breathing in clouds from dad's old Saint Bruno

holding on tight to my cool DB5
m'Lady's pink Rolls is off for a drive

I always I Spy with my little eye
3 for a girl and then 4 for a boy

I Spy mum’s constant quick fingered knitting
row after row with Sally still kicking

then I Spy Janet swinging her feet
I Spy other kids in other back seats

I wish for grandma's baked cherry biscuits
I see the first sign that we're near Tonbridge

these are old snatches of life in the 60s
this is me looking back from my 50s

I'll sit still back here, just one back seat song
from family trips where I still belong
A sing that took me back to happy days and  a family trip to grandparents in Kent.
It’s an almost panic attack
in the hall of the plane.
Keep your eyes dry until the wine cart passes.
When the seatbelt sign turns off you can go into the bathroom and cry.

Every moment,
every time,
with tears in your eyes and Radiohead in your ears,
lips trembling, seizing with emotion.
You never cry
and now you can’t stop.
What is wrong with you?

I can’t help and I don’t want to
but what is wrong with you?

You tear the walls down only to build them up.
You fall down only to lay there and think about how cold the ground is.
You cry and whine and when someone looks at you
you’re always so fucking fine.

Help yourself help yourself.
Help yourself help yourself.
What is that saying
about you do it or you’ll die?
I feel I may be dying.
the constant feeling of wanting to disappear
that they don't get.
but it never leaves me.
the thing is:
I don't belong here
I don't recognize my ideas in these people
and no matter what I do
I'll always feel wrong,
incapable of fitting in.
my drunk and drugged
generation
without purpose or values
doesn't represent me,
and actually,
it disgusts me.
these songs and voices
sound so distant
and meaningless to me.
and I know you're gonna call me selfish
for wanting to leave
and abandon everyone here,
but I'm not willing
to give up my soul
and all my wishes.
I'm sorry.
Doing that never made you happy
and it won't make me either.
I'm gonna find somewhere new.
'cause, deep down,
I don't wanna disappear,
I wanna find myself.
and I will travel the whole world
in order to do so.
Soft thudding
bare feet leading astray.
“Nǐ hǎo” wave children, continue to play.
Alive! Life! Pulse of the night –
The Heart of Asia, a magnificent sight!

Engulfed by mountains
surrounding seas.
Tantalising fragrances
dance with a breeze.

This foreign land
surreal in a way
an expression of beauty!
A longing to stay.
Ollie May 13
There’s this song called Budapest that I like
To be honest I don’t really know where Budapest is
But I know I’d give up a house there
I don’t know why I know that
I’m in the heart of my youth
I’m not doing anything with it
That’s the astounding thing
Sometimes I wanna take it easy
Sometimes I think I really wanna just run somewhere until my lungs collapse
And laugh
And tackle my friends and punch them
Today was weird
And I don’t know why i insist on mentioning the days in my poetry because I live enough of them
Not enough to fill a lifetime
Sometimes I think I’m invincible
And then there’s days like today, when I realize drinking a two liter of coke isn’t good for me
Especially when I’m 5’0 and it’s a fraction of my own body weight
But I do it anyway
And when I’m alone in a room practicing my own performance I feel like nothing can touch me
I feel invincible
I feel like the world has to hear my scream “I AM NOT THE PERSON I WAS FOUR YEARS AGO”
Or maybe “I’M NOT AN ILLNESS AND THIS ISN’T A POLITICAL VIEW. I’M NOT A FINALIST I’M AN EXPERIENCE”
But I never do it when I’m performing
I just forget all my lines
Still made third place
Even though I talk to the universe all the time I’ve kind of realized the universe has nothing on me
It can’t even keep its own color straight
But neither can I
Between us, though
If I could choose mine would be violent hot pink
Not because I like the color
Because it represents a person
Or I’m just crazy
But I guess I kind of appreciate youth
That is something strange
If I’ve got this life maybe I should be living it
All I need now is someone to teach me how
i can’t remember what this was
Alex McQuate May 13
Great tragedy suffered,
Impossible circumstances conquered,
The warrior walks upon the field flanked path.

The warrior's armor tells a tale,
Battle scarred and partially rent asunder,
A face of stoicism that hides the haggardness underneath,
Peeking out beneath the mask of a hardened soldier.

The clouds clap ahead, preceded by flashes of light brightly illuminating the world,
Accompanied shortly after by the rainfall.

A trickle becomes a downpour,
The battered individual trudging along as the road becomes a big of mud and slop,
The message firmly planted within their mind.

Coming upon the dark outline of the castle ahead the warrior picks up pace,
Reflecting upon what would happen to those that the Warrior helped.

The pace is now fueled by a different kind of urgency.

The rain is cold upon the faces of those that it falls on,
The torn edges of metal digging in at places,
Some already wounded and tender,
As the final hilltop between them is crested.

The gates are closed,
And this loyal soldier is for the moment shut out,
A fist is raised,
The declaration of allegience given,
An angry detailing of the warriors achievements and adventures shouted,
And a challenge of one's path,
Building in anger and fury as the dam finally breaks and gushes forth,
Threatening to shatter the gate and doors to splinters and twisted metal.

A long ago promised gift to be rewarded,
For all the things endured,
Things that could be considered so cruel,
The storm picks up in force until it's akin to that of a hurricane,
As if brought forth by the warrior's grief and pain finally being released,
For the first and only time.

These things ringing out dispite the storms roaring wind,
Gathering force,
Perhaps in affirmation of the warriors words.

After a pause the gate begins to lift,
It's metal screeching,
The doors groaning as they begin to swing outward, and the warrior is bathed in light,
Taking the weight from the warriors shoulders,
As the threshold is finally crossed.
JLB May 12
My heart is skyward.
I feel light at the sound of low flying planes, recalling my home now so sweetly.

I am a wilted Trilium,
for months fed by a foreign smoggy sun, with roots longingly outstretched for rich appalachian loam,
but grasping instead at the plumes of dust left behind overcrowded buses.

Still, I've grown.
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