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At breakfast on our second morning
I noticed she'd taken the same items as before
from the vast and sumptuous buffet and
perhaps foolishly asked if
she didn't want to try different things

'they've got smoked salmon, and eight types of bread,
honey from their own bees
and there's an egg station!'

she said: 'once I've made my choice I stick with it
it just keeps things simpler'

jokingly: 'I guess the same goes for your men too'

stupid, stupid boy

ladies and gentlemen, that
was my ex-wife
Acută Cocolita!
Tu voi să înțeleagă lumea…
Eu voi recita K-lumea.
Tu: De vorbesc, scurtează… poezia n-o cripta!
Eu: De amăgesc, rimează… pana mea!

În inimă înrădăcinat:
Dintotdeauna focusat, pe a găsi,
Cel puțin oferi un sens vieții.
Așteptat din interior, deși mort fără tine mor,
Neașteptat din exterior, puicuța mea... te ador!

Acestea oare?
Idilicul ce doare,
Flux simbolic,
Paradox logic,
Realul ca alinare.

Lună și soare,
Colți și gheare,
Creți dar/și drepți,
Jenă și pasiune,
Frișcă și căpșune.

Ce întrebare…
Există multe alte elemente,
Adunate, îmbinate—
Toate suficiente?
Urmează multe alte evenimente.

Copii…
Crescuți din agonie,
Trăim în armonie.
Al tău pe vecie,
Draga mea excepție!

Ca atare:
Rezonanță mai adâncă;
Decât în muzică,
În sfârșit *** afirma:
Este soțioara mea!
Poem written in Romanian, dedicated to my now wife with love to our marriage.
Since you have been gone
         I miss your company
                      Your warmth
                                   Your humour

Now you are no longer here
         I miss your laughter
                        Your intellect
                                      Your passion

Because you have been taken away
          I miss your caring nature
                          Your artistic abilities
                                        Your positive attitude

As you can never return
           I will miss your hugs
                            Your kisses
                                         Your love

I miss you, you were my wife, my life my reason to be
           I miss having someone with confidence in me
                                 I miss you
                                            I miss you.
Veera Jun 28
Bric-a-brac high on a shelf, it might fall
On a floor with no carpet, might break and be gone.
It may slither, get lost, or be taken away;
Nevertheless, it just can't walk away.
It may gather dust, be moved, kept in hands, or removed
Somewhere else when the owner does not want to look.
Bric-a-brac is sometimes boring; it stands there so still,
Does not change by the hour its colors or kin.
It stays in one place with ease and a smile,
Happy to be someone's honor and pride.
It exists with no thoughts or dreams to become—
It is what it is, no less and no more.
After sunset, it is all the owner could want,
But by sunrise, sometimes they are gone all day long.
Bric-a-brac is still there; it's excited to be,
Unaware that the world might be cruel to it.
One day they could get used to it and throw it away,
Or resell for a penny, yet it's priceless, per se.
As for now, they admire its thinnest white skin:
It looks shiny afar, but too dull from within.
Bric-a-brac's just a vessel; it's hollow inside.
It contains what is gifted, spills back multiplied.
There are rainbows and lights if it's given some love,
Yet it is moved by an inch only once in a while.
It took ages to get in possession and own;
More time, too, has passed to trust in return.
Expected to be now a quiet trinket on a wall
Instead of a purpose: to be someone's all.
29.01.25
Joss Lennox Apr 14
A million different jobs.
A million different personas.
As an adult, it's hard knowing,
"what you want to be when you grow up."
While considered "normal" in your twenties,
not so much in your thirties and beyond.
In a world that's consistently changing from one day to the next,
why aren't we allowed the same respect?
We, as parents, wear many hats in order to provide,
they label it multitasking, we're doing it to survive.
Trial and error is the only way to truly be happy in life,
otherwise you're just committed to a career you despise.
That doesn't make one irresponsible, just more knowledgeable.
Two things can be true; you can have a stable career,
and still be a writer on the side.
You can follow your dreams,
and still support your family.
I wrote this about a time I was criticized for waiting to be in my 30's, deciding to work on becoming a writer/poet still working another job while being a wife and mother. Though, I feel like most of us have a job and creative outlets. We don't always figure out who we are or what we want to do in our twenties or younger. Some of us don't have the privilege. Best not to judge, when you don't know the circumstance.
Nichole Legg Apr 8
When the sun welcomed the night, I was sure it would never rise again
The cold crisp air reminded me of the warmth I lacked
Meeting you was like reuniting with an old friend Nostalgic in its familiarity, my soul recognized yours
You guided me to the light, promising I would never be cold again
An undeniable reflection in your eyes, I saw myself warmer than I'd ever been
It was then that I realized morning had arrived after all
I grew up in the shadow of my mother’s cries,
a symphony of pain echoing through thin walls.
My father’s rage was a storm I could not calm,
locked away in my room, a prisoner of helplessness.

I trained my ears to listen for the silence,
for the absence of that horrible sound meant safety.
In the sweltering heat of summer,
I turned off the fan, closed the window,
sacrificing comfort to keep my vigil.

The stillness was my shield,
my ears scanning, always scanning,
for the sound that shattered peace.

I wondered, if my mother had been different—
empowered, independent, unyielding—
would she have escaped the blows?
Would I have been spared the scars of witnessing?

But no, her submissiveness was not the crime.
The fault lay in the hands that struck,
in the heart that chose cruelty over love.

And yet, I confess, I dream of a submissive wife.
Not to dominate, not to harm,
but to prove, to myself and to the world,
that gentleness deserves tenderness,
that softness is not a weakness to exploit.

I will love her properly, care for her deeply,
respect her fully, treasure her words like a melody,
and hold her thoughts as close as my heartbeat.
I will be kind without condition.

For if I do not, it would be as if I blamed my mother
for the sins of my father.
And that, I cannot bear.

Yes, I celebrate the empowered, the independent,
the women who rise, unbroken, against the tide.
But let us not forget:
a submissive woman is not a flawed woman.

She, too, deserves love, care, and kindness.
She, too, deserves to be safe,
to have her voice respected,
her opinions valued,
and her dignity upheld.

For the fault of abuse lies not in the victim,
but in the hands that wield it.
And in my hands, I vow to hold only gentleness,
to break the cycle,
to honor my mother’s tears
by creating a world where no one has to cry.
In Defense of Gentleness
This poem explores the trauma of witnessing abuse and the desire to break cycles of harm. The term 'submissive' is used not to endorse traditional gender roles or power imbalances, but to reflect a personal commitment to treating gentleness and softness with the love, respect, and kindness they deserve. It is a call to honor the dignity of all individuals, regardless of their nature or behavior, and to hold abusers accountable for their actions.
FormlessMars Feb 11
The space between us is not just miles—  
it’s the ache in my ribs when I breathe,  
the way my hands forget their purpose  
without the weight of your hips to hold.  

I am a house with no windows,  
a room where the light refuses to stay.
  
The world feels like a poorly written script—  
everyone else is laughing, but I can’t find the joke.  

I want to kiss you so badly it feels like a crime,  
like the universe has locked your lips in a glass case  
and hung a sign that says Do Not Touch.
  
But I would break every rule,  
shatter every law of physics,  
just to feel the warmth of your mouth on mine.  

I miss the way your voice wraps around my name,  
how it sounds like a prayer I didn’t know I needed.
  
I miss the way your laughter spills into the room,  
a symphony I’d trade my silence for in a heartbeat.  

I want to marry you—  
not in the way they show in movies,  
with the white dress and the perfect vows,  
but in the way that feels like coming home,  
like finding the missing piece of a puzzle  
I didn’t even know I was solving.  

Without you, the world is a grayscale film,  
a song played on a broken piano.
  
I am a shadow of myself,  
a half-finished poem  
waiting for your hands to write the ending.  

Come back to me.

Or let me come to you.
  
Let me close this distance,  
this unbearable, infinite space  
that feels like it’s swallowing me whole.  

I am not whole without you.
  
I am not anything.
The love of my life.
Sara Barrett Jan 31
Four centuries pass, yet echoes remain,
A woman’s cry met with silence again.
Laws were written, inked with good grace,
Yet bruises still bloom in the same hidden place.

The chains are less visible, but still they confine,
A whisper, a threat—unwritten lines.
Justice pretends to be blind and fair,
But turns away when she’s gasping for air.

She flees, she pleads, but where can she go?
The system still asks what she should have known.
“Why did you stay?” they say with a sigh,
As if love was her crime, as if she chose to die.

Four hundred years, yet history repeats—
A woman still fights to stand on her feet.
On January 31, 1641, the Massachusetts Bay Colony’s Body of Liberties declared that a married woman should be “free from bodilie correction or stripes by her husband.” It was one of the earliest legal protections against domestic violence in what would become the United States—a recognition that a woman’s body was not her husband’s to wound.

And yet, four centuries later, how much has truly changed?

Four Hundred Years and Still is a reflection on the persistent cycles of abuse, the systemic failures that allow them to continue, and the way society still asks women to justify their survival. It speaks to the echoes of history, where laws may evolve, but the lived reality for many remains strikingly familiar. This poem is for every woman who has been asked, “Why did you stay?” instead of, “Why did he harm you?” It is for those who fought, who fled, who survived, and those who didn’t.

Because four hundred years should have been long enough.
The sun and stars in the heavens
stand only as a reminder of the depth of my love for you,
my sweet Cathy.

But their luminescence is but pale in consideration
of the brightness of my love and the beauty
that you possess.

Though great is the effort of the constellations
at the dawning of the night
To eclipse thy beauty and my love,

My love for you and thy beauty only grows stronger
and shines brighter, that the stars must shine
for all eternity in effort to match.

You are my Sun and Stars Cathy
One of many poems written for my wife Cathy
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