#neardeath - Hello Poetry

I'm an anterograde amnesiac per se, But I remember what you did say.

0

Dec 7, 2024

Dec 7, 2024 at 12:58 PM UTC

Atul

Strange Memories

I'm an anterograde amnesiac per se, But I remember what you did say.

2

These hands Written on by life Will write With only my words This death I’ve died A thousand times Is mine alone This skin That stood out in fields Alone That has drowned in sees Alone That has scarred from Words and glances These veins Pumping through This life force The blood that brought The marrow to the bone That brought a life That was never mine Into the fabric of this body Into the struggle, the effort The wisdom, the peace The day I was launched off my feet Sleep crawling To side lines That I might never leave The debris Has scattered into memories Forgotten Even by themselves These lungs Have whispered prayers Bellowed poems And swallowed pride Choking on the ghost of death One last time These bones have set In crooked ways A skeleton That’s lost The art of support Stiffened from Bracing for impact From the very day That I decided That if I can’t shine I’ll slay Support myself in every which way Support this weight That I’ve hoisted on my shoulders These boulders That I’ll stand up These feet Leaving no trace But the distance between us, Will go Where no-one will find me Will dance through ditches Curve into corners Coast out of questions Throttle and choke The fear

0

Jun 8, 2022

Jun 8, 2022 at 2:40 PM UTC

aw

Archive

These hands Written on by life Will write With only my words This death I’ve died A thousand times Is mine alone This skin That stood out in fields Alone That has drowned in sees Alone That has scarred from Words and glances These veins Pumping through This life force The blood that brought The marrow to the bone That brought a life That was never mine Into the fabric of this body Into the struggle, the effort The wisdom, the peace The day I was launched off my feet Sleep crawling To side lines That I might never leave The debris Has scattered into memories Forgotten Even by themselves These lungs Have whispered prayers Bellowed poems And swallowed pride Choking on the ghost of death One last time These bones have set In crooked ways A skeleton That’s lost The art of support Stiffened from Bracing for impact From the very day That I decided That if I can’t shine I’ll slay Support myself in every which way Support this weight That I’ve hoisted on my shoulders These boulders That I’ll stand up These feet Leaving no trace But the distance between us, Will go Where no-one will find me Will dance through ditches Curve into corners Coast out of questions Throttle and choke The fear

64

Seven years old I’m playing outside A girl I’ve been next door to for two years Wears a cape like mine Red Red like the blood that screams As it desperately tries to force its way to my brain A metal slide I used to have Holds my cape prisoner Struggling dreams of if it would look like I was flying If only it flew up and caught the wind Instead of sink down and grasp my neck Her mouth is open Tears in her eyes I can’t hear her screams Over the helpless gasping of mine As vision begins to fade a silver flash escapes the backdoor My grandma darts down the stairs Eyelids descend like time in an hourglass My body rises to the heavens I think this is it “Grandma?”

0

Jul 17, 2021

Jul 17, 2021 at 10:11 PM UTC

Figuringitout

Super Hero

Seven years old I’m playing outside A girl I’ve been next door to for two years Wears a cape like mine Red Red like the blood that screams As it desperately tries to force its way to my brain A metal slide I used to have Holds my cape prisoner Struggling dreams of if it would look like I was flying If only it flew up and caught the wind Instead of sink down and grasp my neck Her mouth is open Tears in her eyes I can’t hear her screams Over the helpless gasping of mine As vision begins to fade a silver flash escapes the backdoor My grandma darts down the stairs Eyelids descend like time in an hourglass My body rises to the heavens I think this is it “Grandma?”

22

It was July of '64, I think not long after a bunch of ******** sick with greed, hate and vengeance masked as patriotism blew the President's head off I was trying to hold onto my childhood at 9 it became rather difficult after that I saw that famous news guy take off his glasses and weep before the nation on our 25 inch black and white Zenith I looked at that guy like a dog looks at something completely askew something not at all normal that has just entered it's world I was outside, behind my house in Southeast D.C. Anacostia playing along the incline where the coal made it's way from the old apartment building's basement window opening there was always some that they would spill when loading up to feed the giant furnace Tommy Arthur, who had criminal written all over him at 16 his greased back jet black hair, Banlon shirts, baggy grey slacks and high-top All Stars walked by with a friend stopped to light his Lucky Strike and asked me to show him how I could jump from one tree to another I had done it 100 times, no big deal my chance to show off for the town's bad *** I reached the top and took my usual look around there was the roof of my house, Sam's Market on the corner, Baby and her brother Stinky playing on their porch Baby still had the cast on her leg from the car that sent her flying She was running across U Street to make it safely to base during a game of 'hide and seek' Stinky...trust me, you don't want to know why he has that name. I turned toward the tree limb belonging to the tree that grew alongside this one it was an easy jump really, not more than 4 or 5 feet perhaps I was a bit too cocky after all, this was Tommy Arthur other than the upper half of my 2 middle fingers on the right hand and even less of the left, nothing touched limb I was woefully short I saw ground coming quickly laced with broken coal chunks and little else I smacked the hill face first awkwardly twisting slightly to the right just prior to impact Tommy and his friend, mouths agape respectfully asked if I was allright just before leaving instinctively smelling trouble blood was shooting from an opening above my left eye at the upper corner of my forehead just below the hairline my white tee shirt was quickly soaked and bright red It was quite a relief when the cobwebs cleared and I realized I was alive and even more incredibly, suffered no broken bones as far as I could tell seeing that I was facing no more than a few stitches to close a head wound my attention now turned to what good use I could make of my horrific appearance besides having a great story to tell my buddies I started walking towards the backyard gate which was just a matter of 20 or 30 feet I thought about what I'd do once I reached the house but it all played out perfectly as I climbed the steps to the back porch and slowly made my way to the kitchen just inside I see Mom with her back to me and she's frying chicken I slowly enter and remain poised just inside the kitchen entrance after a minute or so she turns with a pan of frying ******* wings and thighs she sees her youngest son with a fully bloodied tee shirt and blood spewing from his head a chicken wing flew past me and I believe cleared the porch other chicken parts and grease were strewn about the kitchen, dining room and hallway I was shown little sympathy for my wound and after some very intense cleaning up was taken to Dr Phillips for stitches Dr Phillips was never surprised to see me The scar remains after 53 years I returned once or twice and drove past the house and looked at those trees I had climbed so many times on that July day in 1964 I had fallen nearly 3 stories landed head first into hard ground and walked home with no more than a cut all logic says I should have broken my neck but in my life logic plays a very small part

0

Mar 1, 2018

Mar 1, 2018 at 11:27 AM UTC

RoyDeckard

Tommy Arthur and the two trees

It was July of '64, I think not long after a bunch of ******** sick with greed, hate and vengeance masked as patriotism blew the President's head off I was trying to hold onto my childhood at 9 it became rather difficult after that I saw that famous news guy take off his glasses and weep before the nation on our 25 inch black and white Zenith I looked at that guy like a dog looks at something completely askew something not at all normal that has just entered it's world I was outside, behind my house in Southeast D.C. Anacostia playing along the incline where the coal made it's way from the old apartment building's basement window opening there was always some that they would spill when loading up to feed the giant furnace Tommy Arthur, who had criminal written all over him at 16 his greased back jet black hair, Banlon shirts, baggy grey slacks and high-top All Stars walked by with a friend stopped to light his Lucky Strike and asked me to show him how I could jump from one tree to another I had done it 100 times, no big deal my chance to show off for the town's bad *** I reached the top and took my usual look around there was the roof of my house, Sam's Market on the corner, Baby and her brother Stinky playing on their porch Baby still had the cast on her leg from the car that sent her flying She was running across U Street to make it safely to base during a game of 'hide and seek' Stinky...trust me, you don't want to know why he has that name. I turned toward the tree limb belonging to the tree that grew alongside this one it was an easy jump really, not more than 4 or 5 feet perhaps I was a bit too cocky after all, this was Tommy Arthur other than the upper half of my 2 middle fingers on the right hand and even less of the left, nothing touched limb I was woefully short I saw ground coming quickly laced with broken coal chunks and little else I smacked the hill face first awkwardly twisting slightly to the right just prior to impact Tommy and his friend, mouths agape respectfully asked if I was allright just before leaving instinctively smelling trouble blood was shooting from an opening above my left eye at the upper corner of my forehead just below the hairline my white tee shirt was quickly soaked and bright red It was quite a relief when the cobwebs cleared and I realized I was alive and even more incredibly, suffered no broken bones as far as I could tell seeing that I was facing no more than a few stitches to close a head wound my attention now turned to what good use I could make of my horrific appearance besides having a great story to tell my buddies I started walking towards the backyard gate which was just a matter of 20 or 30 feet I thought about what I'd do once I reached the house but it all played out perfectly as I climbed the steps to the back porch and slowly made my way to the kitchen just inside I see Mom with her back to me and she's frying chicken I slowly enter and remain poised just inside the kitchen entrance after a minute or so she turns with a pan of frying ******* wings and thighs she sees her youngest son with a fully bloodied tee shirt and blood spewing from his head a chicken wing flew past me and I believe cleared the porch other chicken parts and grease were strewn about the kitchen, dining room and hallway I was shown little sympathy for my wound and after some very intense cleaning up was taken to Dr Phillips for stitches Dr Phillips was never surprised to see me The scar remains after 53 years I returned once or twice and drove past the house and looked at those trees I had climbed so many times on that July day in 1964 I had fallen nearly 3 stories landed head first into hard ground and walked home with no more than a cut all logic says I should have broken my neck but in my life logic plays a very small part

76

i held a life in my hands today and tried to give it back but could not she had fallen too high into the light and my breath fell short perhaps she paused perhaps she knew i see her face again when she was young when she was who she was and it will always be there framed in light pure as breath alive with the promises of youth

0

Feb 27, 2018

Feb 27, 2018 at 11:06 AM UTC

RoyDeckard

a life in my hands

i held a life in my hands today and tried to give it back but could not she had fallen too high into the light and my breath fell short perhaps she paused perhaps she knew i see her face again when she was young when she was who she was and it will always be there framed in light pure as breath alive with the promises of youth

16

Putik na nabuo mula sa luha at alikabok. Bulaklak ng damo na tumubo sa puntod. Isang munting uod. Isang butil ng pulang buhangin. Bato sa kabundukan na tinutunaw ng hangin. Pulubi sa daan na namamalimos sa mga matang piniringan. Asin sa basong walang takip. Panyo sa upuan na pinakupas ng tubig-ulan. Munting ilaw na sumisilip sa silid-piitan. Isang sulat ng pamamaalam na nakaipit sa pintuan. Pahina ng kalendaryo na nakaligtaang pihitin. Kandila sa dilim na nakikipaglaro sa mga anino. Kabibe sa tabing-dagat na walang laman. Mga tunog na walang huni at nagsisilbing musika para sa mga bingi. Hibla ng buhok sa ibabaw ng gitara. Antipara na nakapatong sa lamesa. Pakpak ng tutubi na tinupok ng gasera. Isang tuyong dahon na sumabit sa bintana. Langaw na nabitag sa sapot ng gagamba. Kutsara sa tabi ng basag na pinggan. Mga basang uling sa hulmahan. Katahimikan. Usok na humahalik sa kalawakan.

0

Aug 18, 2017

Aug 18, 2017 at 12:22 AM UTC

KRRW

Lakbay-Diwa

Putik na nabuo mula sa luha at alikabok. Bulaklak ng damo na tumubo sa puntod. Isang munting uod. Isang butil ng pulang buhangin. Bato sa kabundukan na tinutunaw ng hangin. Pulubi sa daan na namamalimos sa mga matang piniringan. Asin sa basong walang takip. Panyo sa upuan na pinakupas ng tubig-ulan. Munting ilaw na sumisilip sa silid-piitan. Isang sulat ng pamamaalam na nakaipit sa pintuan. Pahina ng kalendaryo na nakaligtaang pihitin. Kandila sa dilim na nakikipaglaro sa mga anino. Kabibe sa tabing-dagat na walang laman. Mga tunog na walang huni at nagsisilbing musika para sa mga bingi. Hibla ng buhok sa ibabaw ng gitara. Antipara na nakapatong sa lamesa. Pakpak ng tutubi na tinupok ng gasera. Isang tuyong dahon na sumabit sa bintana. Langaw na nabitag sa sapot ng gagamba. Kutsara sa tabi ng basag na pinggan. Mga basang uling sa hulmahan. Katahimikan. Usok na humahalik sa kalawakan.

86

God waited for Abraham's arm to be actually starting down, the biceps fully tensed. Nothing short would do; in extremity, we learn what's true. With a good job, a good marriage, a fine son, I had everything one could expect. And yet there was a lingering dissatisfaction; a malaise. It seemed, deep down, that I didn't really feel or believe in anything. ......... On Saturday morning, August 11, 1990, my three-year-old son and I rounded the corner at the south end of the block where we live. We were out for a walk. (He had been born through in-vitro fertilization, everything else had failed -- including several previous in-vitro attempts.) He was riding his tricycle -- it's amazing how fast a three-year-old can go on a tricycle with big wheels. . . . The house next to the corner had tall bushes growing right out to the sidewalk. As we passed the house, my son speeded up. My attention was diverted to men working across the street trimming trees. Their chainsaws drowned out the sound of a car backing out of the driveway next to the house with the bushes. The car was moving slowly and I can see in the slowest of slow motion -- I screamed, but I'm not sure just when (there's no sound track to this movie) -- the car backing into the left handlebar of the tricycle, tilting it over to the right, my son breaking his fall with his right hand. (As low to the ground as he and the tricycle were, they could not be visible in the driver's rearview mirror at this point.) And, then, the car stopping. Did the car stop because of my scream? Or had the old man driving the car seen my son at the last second before he disappeared behind the car? ....... I learned instantly with the terrible weight of that tire inches from my son's head, that I wanted with a giant, horrible wanting for this boy to grow up healthy and to have children of his own who would, in turn, have children of their own, and that having my wife hate me for losing him would be unbearable. All the unfairnesses I had suffered in life -- ALL of them -- instantly became meaningless. Everything was clear. This is what I wanted; this is what I believed.

0

Aug 1, 2017

Aug 1, 2017 at 2:14 PM UTC

lucius-furius

What's True

God waited for Abraham's arm to be actually starting down, the biceps fully tensed. Nothing short would do; in extremity, we learn what's true. With a good job, a good marriage, a fine son, I had everything one could expect. And yet there was a lingering dissatisfaction; a malaise. It seemed, deep down, that I didn't really feel or believe in anything. ......... On Saturday morning, August 11, 1990, my three-year-old son and I rounded the corner at the south end of the block where we live. We were out for a walk. (He had been born through in-vitro fertilization, everything else had failed -- including several previous in-vitro attempts.) He was riding his tricycle -- it's amazing how fast a three-year-old can go on a tricycle with big wheels. . . . The house next to the corner had tall bushes growing right out to the sidewalk. As we passed the house, my son speeded up. My attention was diverted to men working across the street trimming trees. Their chainsaws drowned out the sound of a car backing out of the driveway next to the house with the bushes. The car was moving slowly and I can see in the slowest of slow motion -- I screamed, but I'm not sure just when (there's no sound track to this movie) -- the car backing into the left handlebar of the tricycle, tilting it over to the right, my son breaking his fall with his right hand. (As low to the ground as he and the tricycle were, they could not be visible in the driver's rearview mirror at this point.) And, then, the car stopping. Did the car stop because of my scream? Or had the old man driving the car seen my son at the last second before he disappeared behind the car? ....... I learned instantly with the terrible weight of that tire inches from my son's head, that I wanted with a giant, horrible wanting for this boy to grow up healthy and to have children of his own who would, in turn, have children of their own, and that having my wife hate me for losing him would be unbearable. All the unfairnesses I had suffered in life -- ALL of them -- instantly became meaningless. Everything was clear. This is what I wanted; this is what I believed.

12

. The menace emerges from the shadows, a barked order, but unintelligible. Then the soft steel kiss slicing through flesh into entrails. A fist connects with a crunching face, legs buckle with pain and blood-loss. And the Darkness of Death takes me, like a comfort blanket of soft wool. My Temple violated and de-sanctified, the blade withdraws with a whisper. Darkness cuddles and welcomes me with a smile. The morphine haze keeps me inert and motionless, but makes my mind giggle. It wanders aimless through psychedelic chapters … This place is sterile, white, drab. My eyes move slowly left. There is something in a doorway. The door. … my head flies to a Poets Banquet, where I am the bones thrown to the dogs. And the wood grain in the door moves, a cascading chocolate fountain, over and over again, flowing, melting like molten lava. They taught me to write, then cut off my hands. Obscurity is purity; fame is pain. So I penned a letter to the dead. My eyeballs are all that move, floating in mid-air, but still connected and transmitting drug induced images. I remember the assassin, the blade, the darkness, the sirens, but no pain. Images but no feeling. They move right to a cold bedside table, and then I think I cried. Somebody Knows me. No chocolates, no flowers. Somebody Knows me. No fruit. No magazines. Just … a pen and a pad. Somebody Knows me. I did cry, someone remembers me. And each teardrop contained a thousand images, a thousand stories, a thousand poems. Inspiration. Illusion. Insight. And the Darkness of Sleep takes me like a comfort blanket of soft wool. The morphine haze retreats further into my mind and I dream … of ambulances and white walls of green gowns and bright lights of scalpels and scissors and surgery of needles and nurses and nightmares … I dream of Poetry in colour. I see worlds in the sky and words painted on clouds. A kaleidoscope of teardrops dripping images into my mind. A fountain of mist cascading, seeping into a memory sponge. And I feel; somebody who Knows me gently wipe away the tears. © Pagan Paul (04/06/17)

0

Jun 4, 2017

Jun 4, 2017 at 7:14 PM UTC

PaganPaul

Letter To The Dead

. The menace emerges from the shadows, a barked order, but unintelligible. Then the soft steel kiss slicing through flesh into entrails. A fist connects with a crunching face, legs buckle with pain and blood-loss. And the Darkness of Death takes me, like a comfort blanket of soft wool. My Temple violated and de-sanctified, the blade withdraws with a whisper. Darkness cuddles and welcomes me with a smile. The morphine haze keeps me inert and motionless, but makes my mind giggle. It wanders aimless through psychedelic chapters … This place is sterile, white, drab. My eyes move slowly left. There is something in a doorway. The door. … my head flies to a Poets Banquet, where I am the bones thrown to the dogs. And the wood grain in the door moves, a cascading chocolate fountain, over and over again, flowing, melting like molten lava. They taught me to write, then cut off my hands. Obscurity is purity; fame is pain. So I penned a letter to the dead. My eyeballs are all that move, floating in mid-air, but still connected and transmitting drug induced images. I remember the assassin, the blade, the darkness, the sirens, but no pain. Images but no feeling. They move right to a cold bedside table, and then I think I cried. Somebody Knows me. No chocolates, no flowers. Somebody Knows me. No fruit. No magazines. Just … a pen and a pad. Somebody Knows me. I did cry, someone remembers me. And each teardrop contained a thousand images, a thousand stories, a thousand poems. Inspiration. Illusion. Insight. And the Darkness of Sleep takes me like a comfort blanket of soft wool. The morphine haze retreats further into my mind and I dream … of ambulances and white walls of green gowns and bright lights of scalpels and scissors and surgery of needles and nurses and nightmares … I dream of Poetry in colour. I see worlds in the sky and words painted on clouds. A kaleidoscope of teardrops dripping images into my mind. A fountain of mist cascading, seeping into a memory sponge. And I feel; somebody who Knows me gently wipe away the tears. © Pagan Paul (04/06/17)

72

We had stopped at Bennys I got him some fries A nice day for a drive not a cloud in the sky We got in the truck I checked his seat twice I’m forever greatful for my wifes advice The diesel engine purred as I shifted gears To my grandmas house no thoughts of fear I hear a bang and in a flash We rolled and rolled crash and bash I count the hits one two three windows exploding around me I swing out the door hung from my belt We hit dirt and highway the hardest ive felt Time seemed to pause or maybe just slow With the earths every trouncing blow Upside-down truck upon my head How the **** am I not dead Around my ribs i feel the steels bite The crash is over but now is the fight My son is alive I can hear him cry He is to young to remember goodbye I must get to him i must pull him out Steel digging deeper as i struggle about My breath is laborious I’m struggling for air The pain is hellish too atrocious to bear Then she laid on the road infront of me A woman who was scared but strong for me I coughed up blood and gasped for air She squeezed my hand and said a prayer Blood flowed and filled my eyes and ears The world turned red as blood met tears Slowly a silance began to loom Another sign of an ominous doom She screamed the trucks are coming they are on their way Oh lord oh lord don’t take this man away You stay with me you stay with your son You can’t leave now his lifes just begun My body shudders as it gasps a wheeze I feel a cold chill i hoped was a breeze It has been too long since I’ve taken a breath What lays ahead life after death.

0

Jul 6, 2016

Jul 6, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC

wanderingtowardlachesim

The feel of death

We had stopped at Bennys I got him some fries A nice day for a drive not a cloud in the sky We got in the truck I checked his seat twice I’m forever greatful for my wifes advice The diesel engine purred as I shifted gears To my grandmas house no thoughts of fear I hear a bang and in a flash We rolled and rolled crash and bash I count the hits one two three windows exploding around me I swing out the door hung from my belt We hit dirt and highway the hardest ive felt Time seemed to pause or maybe just slow With the earths every trouncing blow Upside-down truck upon my head How the **** am I not dead Around my ribs i feel the steels bite The crash is over but now is the fight My son is alive I can hear him cry He is to young to remember goodbye I must get to him i must pull him out Steel digging deeper as i struggle about My breath is laborious I’m struggling for air The pain is hellish too atrocious to bear Then she laid on the road infront of me A woman who was scared but strong for me I coughed up blood and gasped for air She squeezed my hand and said a prayer Blood flowed and filled my eyes and ears The world turned red as blood met tears Slowly a silance began to loom Another sign of an ominous doom She screamed the trucks are coming they are on their way Oh lord oh lord don’t take this man away You stay with me you stay with your son You can’t leave now his lifes just begun My body shudders as it gasps a wheeze I feel a cold chill i hoped was a breeze It has been too long since I’ve taken a breath What lays ahead life after death.

40

Ten months ago today You fell. Your head Smacked and cracked on my surface. My hard and rough surface. I made you sleep, But you didn't wake For days. They removed your skull, They removed your hair. They removed you from your dignity. There's nothing that you can do But wait for the results. You finally wake up, You remember a lot, There's also a lot that you forgot. Rage, frustration, the "hurry up and wait" system, Surgery after surgery after surgery after surgery. The scar they left, Slicing your head open so many times. It's tender and inflamed. It's never going away. There's something I have to say. And that's I'm really really sorry I did this to you.

0

Jun 23, 2015

Jun 23, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC

hopeless-wonderland

10 Months

Ten months ago today You fell. Your head Smacked and cracked on my surface. My hard and rough surface. I made you sleep, But you didn't wake For days. They removed your skull, They removed your hair. They removed you from your dignity. There's nothing that you can do But wait for the results. You finally wake up, You remember a lot, There's also a lot that you forgot. Rage, frustration, the "hurry up and wait" system, Surgery after surgery after surgery after surgery. The scar they left, Slicing your head open so many times. It's tender and inflamed. It's never going away. There's something I have to say. And that's I'm really really sorry I did this to you.

23

The drive From Orange County to Los Angeles Had never been so long. Broken wipers Black drugs Psychotic episodes Wet roads And “This is it.” (I thought) “I’m going to die this way.” High Too thin Frightened And Without a Home He continues to speed North Trying to get his emotions to go South And I’m frozen in the passenger seat I smell of dirt *** And blood Spiraling into the abyss I tried to remember his eyes Inside the elevator I stared his way, But only the drugs gawked back I prayed to a God I’d never seen Begging to be saved from My own decisions. The demons pounded on the van Some more They weren’t going to rest Tonight. Tonight We were dressed in black The van shrouded in it Tonight We belonged to them “This is it” I inhaled the fumes And surrendered.

0

Jun 8, 2014

Jun 8, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC

alice-7

The Interstate

The drive From Orange County to Los Angeles Had never been so long. Broken wipers Black drugs Psychotic episodes Wet roads And “This is it.” (I thought) “I’m going to die this way.” High Too thin Frightened And Without a Home He continues to speed North Trying to get his emotions to go South And I’m frozen in the passenger seat I smell of dirt *** And blood Spiraling into the abyss I tried to remember his eyes Inside the elevator I stared his way, But only the drugs gawked back I prayed to a God I’d never seen Begging to be saved from My own decisions. The demons pounded on the van Some more They weren’t going to rest Tonight. Tonight We were dressed in black The van shrouded in it Tonight We belonged to them “This is it” I inhaled the fumes And surrendered.

42