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Tizzop Jul 10
ivories that are made of letters
grey skin, blackred hair, word babies
gigantic mirror, blackly glowing
psychedelic nature like 1968

apartment in the projects
hallways full of dust and spiders
uncle is smoking the daylight away
his walls covered with bulletholes

red and tired eyes, no smiling
uncle's wife killed in a car crash
dead goons are torturing him now
the memory of her dead body, stuck

past encounters like smoke in the air
red frost covers uncle's body, glaciers
a button to turn back time, fantasies
melting hours for god's sacrifices
Today is a sad day.
Tizzop May 19
the clarity of water
your disconcerted eyes
the peaceful traveller
your shade

the conscience of this page
a hustler who will die
the uplifted ego
death's arrival

exhaustion and ruin
uncle
father
the blink in the statue's frozen glimpse

a nightly graveyard-screech
the outerworld's dog
water, sand and concrete
divided oceans

the uplifted you
feelings of guilt
the repentance at the day of the feast:
it is not me
Today is a good day.
Libby Freeze Mar 26
kicked out of the house with no shoes on
walking down the highway im so far gone

wiping the tears from my face before they freeze
after all theres a thirty degree breeze

waiting for someone to slow down and stop
other than some crooked cop

sent from above an angel appeared
some guy with a very long beard

most girls wouldve ran away
but he reminded me of my uncle billy who recently passed away monday

the smell of cigarettes in his car
made the drive seem not so far
A father's kiss.
For the very first time.
On my new born face.
A Mom's dawning smile
is the very first rainbow
that I ever saw.
Hanging there on her LOVING face.
Crying bliss pours out of my infant eyes.
Mommy and daddy, you are
my forever HEART!
God has given me ten tiny fingers.
Ten wiggly toes.
This sacred,
Mommy
and Daddy love fills me up so!
Fills me up with precious
Baby girl hope.
I am alive!
Mommy and daddy!
Look at me!
I have arrived.
Protected by your Parental DIVINE.
Feeling all this permeating beauty  from my mommy and daddy expressed in giving LOVE.
After all, I am your baby girl gift from heaven above.
This is 'Ode to My Precious Baby Girl Love.'


Copyrighted 2016
I thought about the birth of my precious little niece.  She means the world to me.
Sharon Talbot Dec 2018
Old Harold lived on the second floor
In a darkened room with an old locked door.
My cousins and I used to tease him there,
And he’d chase us out, give us a scare.
I didn’t know exactly who  he was,
“He’s a mean old man,” said my favorite cos’.
“Grandma let him live here after Grandpa died.
She doesn’t even like him and we don’t know why.”
When he was out we would take a peek.
Around the ocher walls and his bed we’d sneak.
There was nothing but an iron bunk
And a glass-front chest filled with lots of junk.
One day Old Harold must have complained
About our pestering…we really were pains!
But no parent’s lecture could keep us away.
And Grandma’s yelling at him not to stay.

Old Uncle Harold disappeared for years.
We would make up stories for littler ears.
But one day my father had news of him.
He lived with “a harlot” and his checks she’d skim.
I was old enough to know what it meant
And asked Dad why uncle Harold seemed bent.
“He was gassed in the War in a field at Verdun.”
Dad told me in a tone that left me stunned;
“And was then sent around to pick up the dead.
With the gas and the horror, his mind just went.”

Now I recalled all the times we had teased
And agonized him when we should have pleased.
But now it was too late to apologize,
He was so lost, he wouldn’t recognize
His grown tormentors, when he hardly
Knew my father, the kindly mentor,
Who visited him every week,
Who paid for anything to make him last,
And reminded him of better times past;
Telling him of the time he caught a butterfly
And brought it to show the girls and guys.
How he wanted to let it fly away,
But when the boys had killed it anyway.
He cried and was called a coward then,
And as my father spoke and wept again.

Old Uncle Harold died alone
In a sterile, cold-floored nursing home.
None but Dad came to grieve
And I, only an hour away, shunned
the feeling and just felt numb,
Until Dad called and told me the story
Of Harold’s death and only then
Could I say, “I’m sorry!” to his ghost.
I should have said it long ago; the one who
Maddened him least repented the most.
If I could say “Sorry” for the times we made him shout.
I realised he’d just have yelled, “Get the hell out!”
This is about my great uncle, a casualty of WWI, who was the "bogeyman" of my youth and then the sad story of a forgotten veteran.
A small sip won’t sink the ship, no need to walk on water Peter!
Even a dark spot on a light skin is called a beauty spot,
A bottle a day keeps an uncle awake.

My drunk uncle rewrite history in his confused stories
“Moses built the Ark, Jonah ate the fruit, and Eve raised dry bones”

Maker of miracles always have a penny for a bottle
Like he turned the ocean water into wine
He never gets sober.
I believe in writing whatever I feel like and whatever comes to my mind, too often it has revealed how amazing I have experienced most things in life. There is always a light in every darkness.
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