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Jeremy Betts Jun 7
Can't rid myself of it
There's surely no controlling it
Before I see it
I feel it
I fear it
And that fears legit
Didn't create it
Can't destroy it
So I'm forced to own it
While I own up to it
Like, "give me it"
"What is it?"
"A heart?"
"I'll slap it on my sleeve and wear it"
Though not to display it
But rather as a reminder of it
An extra warning of the dangers of it
And to call out all those promoting it

©2024
Jeremy Betts May 21
I don't want to fuuck around
I rather not find out
I don't want to hear I'm not doing what I need too
But if I don't I might never win a bout
This isn't a warning or challenge
I don't want to prove what I'm about
I've gone toe to toe with life all my life
I wouldn't mind a little mid season drought

©2024
Jeremy Betts May 2
Knuckles go white as I grip my rescue flair
Read the warning through a blinkless stare
Pressed the thing tightly to my temple,
Count to three,
To keep it simple
Hold very still,
Steady as a thimble
'Till the very last second
Pull away on the second e in "one, two, three"
And release it to the night air
At least tonight the fight's fare
I can't make it to there
If I don't end this right here

©2024
Love, a complex and ever-evolving force,
can be likened to the shedding of skin
with each passing season, rejuvenating the
spirits of the old to make room for the embrace
of new beginnings.

The ebb and flow of
relationships echo this continual metamorphosis,
as some individuals offer solace through
gentle caresses that blend seamlessly like a
poetic kiss, while others wield their words
with a sharper edge, concealing deceit beneath
the guise of intimacy.

Just as the gentle whisper
of a kiss may be heard, so too can the sinister hiss
of untruths slither beneath the surface,
reminiscent of a serpent's deceitful ways.
although there are only
blue skies overhead
i can still feel
a prickling approach
of distant rain clouds
in the air
bri Mar 11
Maybe I give myself too much credit: that I am good, I am doing better, I am great at my craft, that I have something to show everyone when in reality I am just average at best. What else do I show of myself that is worth a praise more than just “you did your best”? How bare do I have to be for people to pay attention to me? Maybe I am just having a bad day that has been going on for 182 days. But at the end of it all, I am just a mere performance worth 59% rotten tomatoes, it’s more than half, but barely fresh. At least I did my best? What other ******* do I have to say to myself so I don’t end up crying with a blade in my hand? It seems that trying is just never going to get me far, and the best I can give everyone is this: the mediocre poet who dreamed too high and fell so deep she died on sea. She had wings too weak and dreams too heavy that the only place she could reach was the clouds of 9, where she could only see from a few feet afar before she landed and died. That is the only thing I can offer.
Jeremy Betts Feb 16
Death is silent
It has no tongue
It has no voice
For it does not need to speak
Death does not ignore the pleas
It has no ears to hear them
It has no soul to feel them
It is the only inevitable
The only guarantee
It sends no warning
Most likely never see it coming
There is only false hope
A lie we all try to convince ourselves of
But feared or not
Welcomed or not
It comes all the same
Family name, from where you came
It cares not
For no other reason than it needs not care
Arriving to take away what defines the living
It can not be tricked
It can not be bardered with
No heart strings to pull
It hasn't a brain in its skull
It can not decide one way or another
For it is not given an order
It just is
But the same can be said about life
As you can not have one without the other

2024
Heidi Franke Dec 2023
After he died
Without warning,
I planted a tree
Announcing
Just as suddenly
The Serviceberry
To the others
In the garden
Each bud of a branch
  welcomed by the fresh earth
And dormant bulbs yet to burst
The Aspen as role model
Hastily, deeply
she was added
As quickly as he left
In pursuit of
Recouping buoyancy after starving for oxygen.
Consoling under her generous shade
Begging for silence of sufferings and
deep sorrows

Three years have passed
Has it been that long
There they are,
our memories,
in the control room
That cling, stab like a blade
Taking over the clock
A contagion of disorder
That eats away
like acid
Explicitly unwanted  
Clarity of that night
Frozen in time,
like the winter
  it happened.
Time ended without warning
Deaths metronome gave birth.

Uneven disbursement
Over one thousand days
Since
Asking why,
Why?
Why!
Prone and exhausted.
Drowned in tears that forged
A lake of salt
Why then
Do we not float?
What's holding us up?
And another thing,
Where does the wind
Go when its gone?
It dispatches
   without warning
Whirling in circles,
Catching conditions
Why am I
not so
shaken then?


The Serviceberry has yet
To bare fruit in its
Short life to fifty
Holding steady,
Enduring the rooting road
In the pragmatic ground
Surrounded by leaves from seasons
As messengers of compassion, companionship
At the foot of her trunk
An offering
Once again in winter, here we are
Sleeping until the sun
Bleeds more time
Why does three years
Feel so heavy and capricious
As if it were just yesterday


Will the depth of sorrow remain
After she blooms and feeds
The hungry birds,
Over 35 species,
Who love her nectar
Caring for the offspring
Obscure, neglected and hungry
Giving back, keeping the healed
From further storms of
Sudden causes
As he did for his flock
Harbored in what the doctor
Ordered.
Tender
Loving
Care

Will heartache be replaced
By forgiveness?
Like the passing bus
That descends the hill
Into a valley of green hearts
Picking up new passengers
Loving another
Forgetting the importance
Of yesterdays bus ticket that
Flew out the window
Arriving without intention
To its destination
Neutralizing the anger
That came without warning
Glancing out the window
Towards tomorrow
As the birds songs
Are sung
The unintentional death and road of recovery.
Jeremy Betts Feb 2018
Hello old friend...
Across from me he sits, fixed, his cold gaze like a winters reflection
No sun, no motion, just done
I'm not even sure he's capable of emotion
And the real man inside, he's seen by no one
Except me, I see...
I see a semi good looking, moderately attractive man
Doing the best he can to get out of **** it and I don't give a **** land
Trying to hide the brand of a misfit that's been burnt into his hand
Before it gets out of hand
Not even sure if I can, I mean he can, I mean we can
Change the plan enough to rage the river and bust through the dam
The whole things a sham
The t-top trans am and all the glam
Just put into place to hide who I really am
I mean, who he really is, I mean who we really are
He's gone to far in the wrong direction, he's lost the farm
He didn't see the harm in projecting his charm
How could he have known that presenting a false hand would lead to the loss of an arm
Maybe he thought it a false alarm
Maybe he couldn't see the danger through the swarm
Or maybe, just maybe, it was to loud between his ears to hear, confused the warning siren for a victory horn
Now the fire inside is a flicker, the passion for life only luke warm
And he's worn a grove in the floor as he passes, fighting with the desire to have never been born
Feeling like a child from under the stairs or of the corn
Forced to adorn a smile he's worn just to hide the scorn
Being ****** by life to the brink of death, almost a ***** ****
Sworn in my the devil, when the sediment settles no one will mourn
His dreams ripped from his hands, left alone to weather the storm
Cold and frightened, not even a recognizable life form
Torn between being himself or having to conform
The norm unattainable like a hunt for a unicorn
So he gave up, and who could blame him
A Titanic adventure, sink or swim, the chance of survival slim
The future grim, on unlevel ground, in need of a shim
His life a synonym for the darkness within
Told over and over again that it's up to him
Up to him to make a better life but where to begin
His light goes dim as he recalls a hymn
That use to give him hope but now it's like a dead limb
Useless as a possums survival mechanism
He looks directly in my eyes while I listen
Almost begging for advise but there's non to be given
What would you say to me? I mean, what would you say to him?

©2018
M Sep 2023
Have we all become mere automata
guided by the ring of pings and notifs?
The spray of lather from a sea of data
carrying with it wrung celebrity whiffs
have stung us with a certain aphasia...

The written thought was a lifetime ago
long abandoned by the times and all--
where once there was soundness to follow
nonsense amassed like a rising cymbal
whose crash sent reason to the gallows.

The news of the day presents a delectable entree
of a hodgepodge of this, that, and nothing much.
Wherefore we find our tongues compelled to say
something about the aftertaste or to prejudge
as if we were connoisseurs--it must've hid faraway.

Are we perhaps amusing ourselves to death?
I am by no means a Luddite to such a degree,
but I believe we have bombarded and blessed
ourselves a little too much to see...
only time will tell us reason's final breath.
Inspiration from "Amusing Ourselves to Death" by Neil Postman
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