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III Sep 2014
They said your name on the announcements this morning, but you weren't around to hear it.  
They spoke it just like anyone else would, but the tone they had was all wrong.  
The curves in the letters of your name -much like the curves of your hourglass figure- did not drip off the announcer's tongue like they should have.  
They were summoned from the front of their brain rather than the inkiest depths of their heart.  
They said your name flat, grim and thin like dull graphite.  
They read you prayer, but I'm not quite sure what it contained, because the moment they spoke your name on the announcements this morning, the floor rushed up and up and up until the crack of my head met the vanilla scrubbed tile.  
The room blurred and the room buzzed and the announcer continued to talk in his unsharpened pencil rasp, and I hoped and hoped and hoped some more that they played our song at your burial.
Frank Ruland Nov 2014
.     Hello, friend. Recently, it's come to my attention that some of you think I am "narcissistic, egotistical, smug, snide, self-inflated," and an otherwise giant *******. From one poem and my profile bio that's limited to some 1,000 characters, you have seemingly amassed my entire life story. How absolutely thrilled I am concerning your fine sleuthing skills! Well done, friend. You have me found out. I have informed the President that you are America's best hope in finding ISIS's leaders, locating Jimmy Hoffa's remains, as well as inditing Bill Cosby on **** charges.
     Now that your reward has been put into motion, I'd like to get down to why you don't like me or my Public Service Announcements? You say I'm sarcastic.
     And I am hurt. Truly. I just spoke to the Pope after his long day of fighting off legions of undead Commies rising from their graves in Vietnam, and he shook his head and had no idea what you were talking about. Alas, if I've come off as sarcastic, I apologize. I promise you I will bring up your concerns at 2015's Apathy Convention that will be held on February 29 in the city of Miami if you wish to attend.
     But, it does appear to me as if you just don't seem like happy people. I don't know why, but I will do everything in my power just to make you as jubilant as I. My efforts will include ensuring you receive the very first jetpack upon its creation by scientists in the future as well as a basket of German chocolates and kittens.
     On top of this, I am providing a link to a Cheerios coupon for you to print off at your earliest convenience. Somebody has apparently urinated in your cereal, and you're obviously in need of more. Here is your link, friend!

http://www.cheerios.com/coupons

     So friend, if there is anything else I can do for you, please feel free to leave me another loving comment below! I wish you peace, harmony, and bowlfuls of cereal free of excrement and *****.
This was written in response to some very pointless hateful comments I received on my very first Public Service Announcement. I'm not as much offended that you insulted me as I am by the fact you insulted my friend The Girl Who Loved You (aka Just Melz). Hate me all you want, but don't you dare bring her or any of my friends into this. Take your uninspired hate mail, shove it where the sun does't shine, and go find a better use of your cognitive surplus. Thanks, my Dark Friend.
g Sep 2013
I watch tv with the sound turned off just so I don't have to hear anything that reminds me of you anymore.
Chest down, I'm trapped against the ceiling and I'm flirting with the impossibility that limbs so heavy could take me this high.
Neither of us know what day it is, one of those afternoons before December that never really rises and I am keeping the lights on just so I can promise myself that you're not really here.
You see, I get the usual 'I can't breathe without you around', but I can't float, even with you standing over me.
I lead-lined my lungs with both our insecurities, tied my tongue so that I can only make my eyes speak. I can't cope with mourning the lost words that hang in the air everywhere other people have been and I choke on you every time I speak.
And my bones break like insecure scaffolding every time I stand,
they tell me I weighed myself down with all these useless metaphors,
that they never had all four feet on the ground.
You pushed me off balance. My joints could never hold out long enough to hold the both of us up. My bones are like the wood that didn't get enough water:
I break under your touch. I crack when you speak.
You're still telling me you're leaving.
grace beadle 2013
Ugo Aug 2013
Soulless,
We quenched our dreams with thirst;

bought the heavens,
Waving a country of radio love

As fee,

United under one Internet
Two Chocolate paper ******* announcements
And $6 New York Halal meat.

The mortal man always drinks his sea--
So ask your doctor about Nixon
And lift the verbs off your skirt
For Nemo
who replaced Icarus
And now twerks at synods
With ******* oven oil glued
To his left fin;

The same one God used to bet Satan over the soul of man.
Neville Johnson Sep 2016
Rachel and Adrian met at a barbecue
Kate and Jake at summer camp
Marlin and Samuel have been together since second grade
All of this unplanned
True love arrives and once there
Turns into forever

Garrick went to the home of a childhood friend
Meghan was there
Seven years later they married
Amy and Wayne met through mutual friends
You just never know where and when it will happen
Somehow it always does

Then there's Emma and Benjamin,
She went on 116 dates, almost a lost cause she thought
It was only his third date off the internet, but they took
These are announcements in the newspaper on this very day
How the married couples met
To the world they are now united
This is about the get
They went all the way

Meet Nora and Samuel, who both worked at a sandwich shop
They took off in a car to see the states, platonic at the start
A first kiss led to many more, now they are of one heart
It was a dinner party for Kelly and David
Nathalie and Max met at Georgetown U
So the only question remaining
Is when it will happen to you?
Love romance relationships marriage weddings
L E Dow Jul 2010
Just like any other town, except the middle school is in an old strip mall, selling free education. The bank advertises a “Kalachi Festival” and nothing else, not low interest loans or free checking. The streets are lonely, but then again, it’s Sunday morning and most are at church. Where I’m headed, riding passenger, just for you. I hate riding passenger, but I’ll let you wear the pants today, I’ll stick to my fifties inspired floral skirt and clichéd pink teddy bear sweater. We arrive. Nine-thirty on the dot. Right on time, you say “I told you we wouldn’t be late.” I roll my eyes and breathe deep as I open your car door. We walk across the gravel lot to a low lying building. Church. No loud music or free coffee to hide behind. No large crowds or jumbo screens. Just people. We go into a classroom. Read from the bible. Meet people whose names I promptly forget. But that’s okay, they forget me too.
We finish on the gospel of John. And take a bathroom break, I take a while, not willing to endure the awkwardness that is sure to occur if I exit before you do. I stare at my reflection and regret my eyeliner. I’m glad I wore flats, not heels, and feel a bit overdressed to be honest. I exit, after using hand sanitizer as hand soap, realizing, then proceeding to wash my hands again. You’re talking to an elderly woman, she’s small, fragile. I hug her awkwardly, I’m terrible at meeting people. Another deep breath. Your father comes into view. What if he hates me? What if you realize you’ve made mistake? What if I accidentally say ****? ****. ****. ****. Deep breath out. Shake hands, smile and greet awkwardly, yet again. Meet Pearl and Ruby. The Two Jewels of the church. Meet Leonard. Joke with leonard, Think of my grandfather and how I should call him. Mentally punch myself in the arm. Greet your mom, get told I’m pretty, laugh, not knowing what to do.
I sit next to Alanna and the *** Smoking boyfriend, Scott. Sing. Pray. You do announcements. Everyone takes communion, Myself included. You pray, with such conviction and belief I’m confused. I put on the pious face for the congregation. Look innocent. Observe. Sing again. No instruments, only robust voices, all together. Your hand is in mine for the sermon. Finding it hard to concentrate, I notice the approximate age and décor of the church. Probably mid-late seventies. The Mauve carpet reminds me of my mother. She loved mauve in the 90’s, when it was popular. Exposed beams make it feel more like a chapel. They remind me of my church at home. There’s a choir section, making me realize it could have been another church at some point, you don’t have choirs. The sermon’s finished. Your hand has left red marks on mine, small ovals that you fuss over. We make our way out of the church. The last to leave. Following your parents home.
You lived in the country. In a wooden house that reminds me of my first house in Perry. Covered in dark wood. Your kitchen reminds me of my mother, covered in sunflowers, her favorite. You give me a quick tour.  The art that covers the walls of your home is yours and your siblings. I’m amazed. We clomp down the stairs; “they’re extra steep” you warn. Your mother’s preparing lunch. I contemplate offering to help, but don’t want to look like an *** if she says yes and I mess something up.
We retire to the living room with your father. He asks about my family. My parents, an Engineer and a Marketing Director. He asks about their expectations for me. Asks me if I live in the country, No, I reply, I live on the golf course. His eyebrows raise further. ****. I should have left that out. He thinks I’m wealthy. I’m not, neither are my parents. Mercifully we get called in for lunch. Roast, salad, corn, cantaloupe, potatoes, I love home cooking. You peer pressure me into cheesecake. Your father suggests you take me to the pond. You think twice. Taking in my shoes and skirt. We go anyways. Kiss as soon as we’re out of sight. I wish we could just lie down beneath a tree and sleep. We walk back to the house. Collect groceries and money, Even me. We go to the car. Drive away. You’re tired. So am I, we fight a little on the way back, mostly joking. We fall into bed and sleep away the morning. Which you say went well, I’m still unsure.
Copyright 2010 by Lauren E. Dow
JJ Hutton Apr 2013
we, mistakes made in groping dark,
ironed and cheekkissed happy accidents,
told we arrived by love, and our purpose forward: to love.

we were chocolate milk runners.
we were completion grades.
coloring sheets of MLK and jagged cutouts of billy goats.
we were girls in sequined jeans with scraped knees.
on the basketball court we pushed pigtails to concrete.
rumors of us kissing in the lobby waiting for our rides
did circulate.

we, skinny white girls of Moore, Okla.,
skipped supper and laid at the feet of TV-watchers
like bleached branches of fallen oaks garnishing their standing brothers.

we were doorbells.
we were passenger seats.
peeking in the teacher's edition and handshaking answers in fluorescent bathrooms.
we were the first ones on the bus and the last ones off.
knees to chin, untied laces on heater's ****, winterlong sweat factory.
rumors of us agreeing to go to prom over fourth-period lunch
did circulate.

we, writers suffered writers' morality,
disregarded right, wrong, norm; lounged, waiting to be under the bus,
suffering for the story. tense matchstick lovers --  dim light for a moment and then.

we were someone else's *******.
we were someone else's hairpins.
as whatever ran so hot in us cooled, dried on thrift store comforters,
so did we. ceiling fans and ***. fingernails and boxed wine.
rumors sustaining.

and so it came, after announcements, after invitations,
after subbing in one bridesmaid for another, we were getting married.
we were grooms with empty pockets and full of sound advice.
our fathers took us behind the church,
chaplipped our foreheads,  and said,
"I know, we promised you were made from love and to love.
But I gotta be real honest here. You were made from whiskey.
And there's always the distillery."


we were jobless in wrinkled suits.
we were brown shoes; black belts.
and this will look good on your resumé. and this will look good on your resumé.
translation: how about ******* this ****? or how about this one?
a resumé was one page. we couldn't fit all the ***** on one page.

we, beardheavy and deodorant-streaked,
lived in dream houses in Ulysses, Kan., drove dream Tahoes,
watched dream Netflix, next to  portly wives who looked like
QUEEN MOTHER OF ALL THE BROTHELS OF THE LOWER MIDWEST.

we were childless.
we were wanting.
after consulting a physician and a bottle of whiskey,
we lifted and pinned the sagging belly of our wives with
a wooden board. one good **** in. one borrowed pregnancy test.

and so it came, the weddings of our sons. behind the church,
we took them aside and said,
*"I know, we promised you were made from love and to love.
But I gotta be real honest here."
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
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Blue Flask Feb 2016
Looking around the web
trying to find a way to publish
and I started to think of what name to use
and I remembered I gave you
The Blue Scarf
and I know I'm Blue Flask now
but ****, did that scarf mean something back in the day
and hopefully it wasn't all in vain
but yeah, I'm looking around to publish
thanks for everything folks
I wouldn't be looking if you are didn't read these words
so thank you all
William A Poppen Jun 2015
Nature's contributions cascade along the steep trail.

Numerous white patches and yellow splotches

set on a blanket of green

amid immense coverings

so blue that it seems parts of the sky have fallen.  

Pinks protrude like boulders in a creek

while reds try to hide around rocks and crevasses.

Faded petals,

past announcements of spring

now reside alongside signs of birth,

buds seeking an identity.

Arrays of mature blossoms parade full and ripe

along a path of short lives and slow deaths.

Fallen relics, grey and mossy

display across the emerald carpet,

a memory of another time.
I cleaned out an old drawer
of odds and ends.
    paperclips and the door to a battery case on some remote
    an orange candle stub, from Halloween I think
    batteries and four flashlights, though only one worked
    and parts of things I'm sure made sense to keep at the time
          I have no idea what they are now

I cleaned out an old drawer
  of things forgotten
      my daughter's picture in a setting unknown
      a letter of gratitude from a friend, for what?
      a postcard from Barcelona
      graduation announcements for a friend's child
           I don't think I sent a gift

I cleaned out an old drawer
  of memories and my past
     a ticket stub from an evening with Isabel
     a newspaper clipping of my son in scouts
     old mother's day cards from the kids
     New York City subway map from October 2001
         Memories of adventure and affection

I cleaned out an old drawer
  and sorted, discarded and remembered
     batteries went together in a small box
     old fortune cookie notes in the trash
    memories dusted off and replaced
        out of the drawer and back into my heart

My life has cabinet drawers
   stuffed with junk and trash mixed with treasures and tools
I think I'll clean my cabinet more often
     To organize things that I've needed
         like my mom and dads enduring affection
         kind and playful  friends'
     Throw away useless things
          like anger, resentment, and regret
          to make room for treasures
    And to be reminded of what has been
         a real childhood of play and discovery
         magical children  and the wonder of them
         my beloved's steadfast love and respect
I cleaned out an old drawer
        and found some peace.
Caitlyn Morton Mar 2015
Dear Everyone,
       One day, you're going to find me lying there, not breathing. Or you will receive a phone call, or you're gonna hear it on the morning announcements. Maybe the principal will arrange an assembly. You're going to look up the signs, and think "all the signs were there. I should have known." You'll talk to someone about it. They'll tell you it wasn't your fault. That you couldn't have done anything to help me or stop me. And that's true. But what you could have done was just listen to me. That's all I needed. Now, it's too late. I can't say that I'm not happy that I'm about to remove myself from this earth, because I am more than happy. I never meant to hurt any of you. But y'all have to understand that when I needed you, you were not there.

Dad. The last thing that I want is for you to think that I left this world hating you, because I didn't. Yes, I resented you for many reasons, because at first you refused to believe me about what Tyler did to me. He hurt me. You refused to give me the protection a father is supposed to give. I'm not saying that you were a terrible father, because everyone makes mistakes. I also resented you for cheating on Janie-- and I'm not saying that it was all your fault, because I know that she did the same thing, but you still had your part in it. Our family wasn't perfect, but it was good enough, and that's all that mattered. But your careless decisions ruined everything. For all of us.

Mom. As much as I want to hate you for leaving us, I can't. Because whether you want to accept it or not- you are my mother. I didn't think that's much to ask for. I just wanted you there. And you weren't. And you can't possibly know how hard that is for me. I'm 18 years old; you have missed my entire life, and now all the sudden you need more chances. One chance is enough. Maybe two. But now it's too late because after this letter, I won't be here. I could go on and on about how I feel, but the letter would never have an ending.

Chase, (biological brother) you abuse me in every way possible. You treated me like an animal. Ripped off my wings, and still expected me to fly. I want you to know, with all my heart, that no matter what you did to me, there is still a place in my broken heart for you to fill. You are my brother. And I'm not sure that what I'm about to do will hurt you, but if it does, I'm sorry, but I can't keep living like this. You are my everything, Chase. And I don't want to hurt you, but I don't want to hurt me anymore either.

Amanda, (dad's girlfriend) You cheated on my dad back in 2014, after all my family has done for you. We provided a home for you and your three kids, a car, everything. I wouldn't say that we regret any of it, but we didn't deserve what you did. But I want you to know that I forgive you. As for dad and Chase-- I can't speak for them. I love you and your children with my whole heart, and I wouldn't change it for the world.

I know that this is the most selfish think anyone can do, but if that's what it takes to end my pain, then that's how it has to be.

Tyler, I want to thank you for putting me through what you did, because it made me who I am-- well, who I was. It hurt, yes. You holding me down, ****** me. The pressure you held me down with was unbelievable. You burning me with a hot curling iron in places you'd never imagine. Introducing me to drugs, and shooting me up with them. April 17, 2011 was a day of nothing but torture. You are legally psychotic for what you did to me.  No one in their right mind would do something so drastic, so painful, so real. Especially to someone you're supposed to care about. There's only one explanation for why you did what you did. You don't know how to love. You try but you show it in the wrong ways. For years, I've put the blame on myself. You know why? Because you just don't do that to people you love. Yes. I said it: I loved you. Sometimes I think I still do.

Corey. (step brother) I tried not to hate you for making me play those games with you when I was 7. Doctor. I hated that game.. yet you still forced me to play. Now, I always think "why would you do that to a child. Much less your sister. Just think about that when you're visiting my grave. If you choose to spit on it, then do it. I can't stop you, I'm six feet into the ground.

Kaylin, you were my best friend and I told you everything, from my abuse as a child to now. I chose drugs and Tyler over you. And you turned your back on me, leaving me without a best friend. But you don't deserve what I did. You've been there since day one, and I'm sorry it has come to this and I'm sure it won't be easy for you-- or any of you at that. I'm really sorry to say this, but killing myself will be easy for me, because it's all I've ever wanted to do, all I ever hoped for.
"Goodnight" you said.
"Goodbye" I said.
And you never thought twice about it.
Aseh Apr 2015
Her eyes, your solemn witness
are so unlike mine

I am untamed!
a loose humanoid chained
in gold
always spinning
under high beams
like it's no big deal

(while you reside
in your mind)

but why
can't I dream too?
I wanted you
to stay
you energized me

(every contact
left me broken yet intact)

Hallelujah!
You're outside!
Traced your face
in refracted light
Stand-still silhouette
Crop her
out
Fill the void
with blackened foil
while she makes nasty
public announcements
(and loves the attention
creating irrelevant banquets
and barbecues)

This was never my war
so hold fast to us
or crawl or
meet me at the door--
Wherever the blame feels
a little less
and confess
I was the one
you were looking for
Alyssa Aug 2015
Last night I was
experimenting empty body with twin bottle.
Spewing colors out of mouth,
like it's a ******* celebration.
Whispering "happy birthday"
for every friend I've had to put in the ground.
Whispering "happy birthday"
for every time I've wished I was one of them.
I was mumbling existence
until I became unconscious scientist,
collecting data,
hoping if i continue to announce births
that we'll all be born back to flesh
that feels like home, that sings
like porch light wind chimes
that stops the announcements of deaths.
Or at least, strings together
those who want to cut their ties.
Happy birthday.
Research shows my edges
were strung a little too tight,
holding needle in hand,
i plucked away the stitching
until I was all unraveled, stay spilling over
at the seam. Everything seems low.
6 feet under, making poppy flowers
out of freshly turned graves. Happy birthday.
My vice is bath tub overflowing with drunk bodies,
leaking love into the crevices of laughter.
Testing out the theory that arms
can be used as medicine.
Turning experimental phases
into investigations. You know,
people can be placebos too.
Happy birthday.
Happy birthday.
Happy birthday.
anastasiad Jun 2016
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Carrie Partain Jun 2019
Have you been searching for that perfect gift?
Want to say something special, give someone a lift?

Are you popping the question?  Is it someone's birthday
But you're just not quite sure of the right words to say?

Is the one that you love feeling lonely or sick?
If a card or a letter just won't do the trick...

Pick up the phone call Poetically Correct
With our help, you'll achieve the desired effect

Just give us some details, and in a short time
You can send someone special, a gift that's sublime

Anniversaries ~ Apologies ~ Any Occasion ~ Baby Dedications ~ Bachelor/Bachelorette Party ~ Birth Announcements ~ Condolences ~ Congratulations ~ Eulogies ~ Father's Day ~ Get Well ~ Graduation ~ Holidays ~ Love ~ Proposals ~Reunions ~ Roasts ~ Secret Admirer ~ Special Friend ~ Surprise ~ Tell 'Em Off ~ Told U So ~ Valentines ~ You Name It
Anyone else interested in this kind of work, writing for the paying public, please let me know. I'd love to work with you.

So many people have the desire to send something deeply personal, but lack the ability or inclination to write for themselves.

It's a niche market that's under served.

I am disabled and looking for work I can do with my physical limitations.



This is what I propose.
CharlesC Oct 2012
returning
to the place..
to remembered beds
and nourishing breakfasts..
home of
our growing years..
this one nestled
in imponderable
Animas mountains..
these reflections
of an autumn retreat
now daily receding
into November bleak..

a white bench
vantage by streamside
afforded absorption of
the stream's flickering lights..
and later reflected
by a ridgeline full moon
decorating the dining..
life friends together
celebration and renewal
of many good years..

a white bench
also gathered reflections
from distant heights
where nighttime chills
painted evergreen and aspen
setting lanterns aglow..
the glow casting shadows
on the valley's red cliffs
those red markers of our
formative days..

a white bench
now gathered the sounds..
an old train's
whistled announcements
evening and morning..
a reminder of time
enclosed in this
valley of stillness
which we were favored
knowing once more..

a white bench
gathered the guests
from distances afar..
their life glows
and shadows
in conversations revealed..
overlaying past
with present..
end and beginning..
Logwood
we returned...
polarityinplay.blogspot.com for photos..
Prabhu Iyer Nov 2012
Roses and jasmines. All vowels extended until you barely make the words out,
approaching, then rushing and receding past, early mornings. The flower boy;
Wake up calls, admonishments, family fights and announcements, old stories,
dire oaths, colourful threats, affected love, who, this loud mouth? Lady next door;
Squirrels that shriek like birds, competing for turns to puncture the solemn silence;
Paperboys and milkmen, school vans and church bells, pressure cooker whistles,
whish of reed broom on jagged floors wet with cleaning water, motor noise, aircon:
Two years: that vanished like a dancing drop on a hot pan: beauty hiding the pain
Ending like the slowly turning reflection of the halting fan on my breakfast bowl:
Ja..asmi...ines and ro..oses, squirrel shrieks, now familiar story of the family next
door, wash whish, silence: who is that faint spectacled figure on the cabinet glass?
You arrive at a new place...sounds and smells, all new. Years rush by and suddenly it's time to leave. Everything has changed, but things are also the same: the flowerboy, lady next door, birds and animals...you have changed!
alyson Aug 2013
"LOST: A GIRL'S SPIRIT
Was Last Seen
When the Sun Still
Shined, and the
Breeze Still Blew.
Is Probably Somewhere
in the Mountains,
Surrounded by Love.
There Would be a Reward,
but I Have Nothing to Give.
Please Help,
I'm Desperate."
Suitcases get tagged, prepare for jetlag
  As you mount the stairs to the plane
Four layovers on your way over
  You hope it doesn't drive you insane

Announcements vague as your house slips away
  Leaving for another country
You flew the globe and moved your home
  Five times before you were twenty

Now the transit stays just can't faze
  Your ******* travel attitude
You never feel sick with the seats you pick
  And adjust well to the altitude

But something inside nags and asks why
  You're always in constant motion
You wonder how it would feel now
  If you'd never crossed that ocean

You forget the feeling and just quit dealing
  With memories left behind
But the thoughts come back, you've got some packed
  In the luggage of your mind
Dr zik Mar 2020
Deep dark night
Helpless, state
Miserable plight
Cool and bleak
Wintry landscape
Unknown faces
Cruel blow
Strange air
Poisonous water
Stinging earth
Strange paths
Motionless movements
Voiceless calls
Senseless imagery
Weeping cries
lyrical emotions
All jerks, activities
Noises, announcements
Agreements, decisions
Every deal and done
Heartless, motionless
Helpless state
Miserable plight
Voiceless calls
All with my pangs
Only calling You
Make the all norm
With the warm sun
Illuminating rays
Eliminate darkness
The Merciful Lord
Dr Zik's Poetry
A Prayer to get rid of Covid-19 A pandemic of 21st Century
Book: Simple Words
Poet:  Dr Zafar Iqbal Khokhar
Christina Lau Dec 2015
Someone’s world jumped
onto a cold set of tracks
at Jamaica station
early last week.

Someone’s world jumped
into the universe next door,
leaving us all for
being too human.

At the time,
I was trapped at Penn Station.
A pain spread
about my stomach
like a pen pressed against
a sheet of looseleaf.

MTA officials made announcements,
calling it a mechanical malfunction.

9 to 5 businessmen in
deep black suits with bluetooth headsets
groaned and bargained
for passage home,
ready to ride
through a stranger's graveyard.

Little kids ran through shops,
fingers sticky with frozen yogurt
and popcorn- surprise treats
used as pacifiers.

I sat in a well known coffee shop
pondering life and death.

The word suicide didn’t hurt
like it used to, but I felt
connected to this stranger.

I thought about
that person’s lover,
that person’s sister,
that person’s mother,
that person’s friend.

I thought about how
all of their galaxies stirred and switched gears.
A planet of theirs- tremendous or trifling in their own imagination-
collapsed and changed the course of everything.
I wondered if their galaxy halted and
each star and planet mourned or
if their galaxy smoothed over the craters
and dodged all the meteors and
didn’t even blink.

My galaxy shifted and
clouds laid thick.
Stars dimmed their lights in harmony.

A few years ago
or even a few months ago,
I would’ve cried
and thought
about following this
stranger to train station heaven.

But now,
I thought about
my sister’s galaxy,
my mother’s galaxy,
my best friend’s galaxy.

Now,
I felt sadness
but I also felt love.
an old poem re-written
Jim Sularz Jul 2012
© 2009 (Jim Grant Sularz)

With my first soulful breath,
it was mother’s eyes I saw.
She counted my tiny fingers and toes,
leaned gently, to kiss my brow.

Announcements sent out right away,
my name chosen, so carefully.
The name, I think, a famous general’s claim,
was now the name, I’d call my own.

My first birthday gift,
sweet cake smeared across my face and lips.
The first steps I took, outside mother’s reach,
she sprinkled fairy dust, to help me fly!

Each year, with each measured line,
mother made my mark along the door.
But, I always tried to fudge a bit,
with tiptoes on the floor.

Bumps and scrapes and crying soothed,
some ointment, she’d kiss away the pain.
Everyday, I’d come running back to mother,
for hugs and kisses, anyway.

First day of school, anxious cries at home,
an endless day away from mom.
“Draw me a “choo-choo” trains,” she said,
and I drew them - all day long.

It was through mother’s eyes, that I glimpse the World,
both good and bad were explained.
But only good would make it past mother’s eyes,
and the bad was chased fast away.

Warm summer days, family picnics at the lake,
corn dogs and ice cream on a stick.
Cold snowy nights, white frosted windowpanes,
making snow angels, with half-frozen fingertips.

First school date, first Christmas dance,
where cinderellas and princes pranced.
But, the eyes I noticed now,
were no longer just my mother’s.

Long years of school, drills and rules,
a foreign shore, a sweetheart missed.
And through it all, there was always mother’s voice,
calling me home from a war’s abyss.

Wedding bells rang out crystal clear,
those other eyes I noticed, were now adored.
The years flew by, our children grew,
and mother grew older, too.

Thanksgiving feasts around the table,
children born, toasts, and loud celebrations.
Birthday gifts, songs, proud graduations,
and mother’s bright eyes, began to dim.

In her quiet manner, with a solemn look,
mother smiled and held my hands.
“Upstairs, there’s a jar behind my easy chair,
go there - when the time is right.”

When death arrived, in wait for mother,
with a chilled silence, on the darkest night.
Mother reached out for her last embrace,
then was wisked away, bathed in light.

Mother never washed off my marks along the door,
saved a flower from my first Christmas dance.
Framed her collection of my “choo-choo” trains,
next to a portrait of General Grant.

Grand children loved to dress up at “great granny’s house,”
where cinderellas and princes pranced.
And upstairs - mother left me her fairy dust,
to help them fly!
I wrote "Soldiers Called" to honor my father , Henry.   "Through Mother's Eyes" is for my mother, Virginia.

Jim Sularz
My grandmother used to bake pies
in the kitchen where I lived as a boy.
She would spend all day mixing
          and kneading,
singing her old lady songs to herself.
I would get to lick the bowl.
This was my prize.
Back when the world was psychedelic
and hippies wandered the streets.

My sister and I would play outside
        almost every sunny day.
Magic kingdoms made of mud and bricks.
Toy soldier citizens of mock empires.
Barbie doll victims of terrible wars.
Bubblegum music from the top forty
       traced the pattern of our lives.

Our country had a new flag and boys
         in school still had short hair.
Little girls wore skirts and dresses and
pony tails were still the normal fashion.
Black and white television set turned to
the latest American sitcoms. We would
laugh at Granny and marvel at Endora.
Mr. Sullivan would present the latest rage,
the latest quartet or singer from England.
Back when the world was psychedelic
and hippies wandered the streets.

We wore peace buttons on our coats,
and drew "smiley's" on our books.
We talked about what we were going
to do to make a difference in the world.
We admired the Fab Four and worshipped
        at the altar of glorious possibilities.
We knew it was going to be beautiful,
because that is what we were being told.

Every morning at school we would sing
"God Save the Queen" and "O Canada",
say The Lord's Prayer and
      hear the announcements.
Teachers talked about the future
       as if it was a land of possibilities.
We did not know the black and white visions
would be transformed into colour horrors.
We had no idea that the dreams of peace and love
were going to be forgotten. Who could predict
the grey soul of adulthood? Where have
         all the beautiful people gone?

My grandmother used to bake pies
in the kitchen where I lived as a boy.
Back when the world was psychedelic
and hippies wandered the streets.
glassea Feb 2016
here’s kind of a funny story.

they knew i had hearing loss when i was eight. what followed was doctors and operations and more doctors and the funny thing is that they still don’t know why i can’t hear out of my right ear. what’s not quite as funny is how i treated it. how i thought that this was something to be ashamed of and hidden, how i thought that it was weak, somehow, to not be able to hear.

it’s hard in class, sometimes. if we’ve got some kind of discussion going and people all over the room are talking and i’ve got to turn my head, whipping around from person to person, trying to get my left ear pointed in their direction. i never make it every time so it’s always a cut, disjointed thing, the tail end of a sentence that i don’t have the context for. sometimes there’s background noise and that makes it worse. loud air conditioning or people whispering and i can’t focus, can’t hear, even when it’s just the teacher talking and i’ve gotten my left ear set up in their direction. i’d love to tell them to shut up but i’m pretty sure they think i’m aloof because sometimes when they talk to me i don’t hear them.

asking teachers for closed captions is hard. going up to them and pretty much telling them hey, i can’t hear, change your class for me, is something i don’t think i’ll ever be good at. and sometimes they don’t know what i’m talking about. sometimes they ask the class to fix it and oh god that’s embarrassing because i know it’s nothing to be ashamed of but i still am. ashamed, that is.

there are these old movies from the eighties that we watch in history class. they don’t have captions. the ones about china are my favorite because it’s like, that’s me. that’s who i could’ve been. and the movies, they’ve got these interview segments. people speaking in Chinese, their first language, and us listening. they turn down the volume on the Chinese and lay over it English translations of whatever it is they’re saying and maybe for other people that’s a good thing but for me it’s not. for me it means that the Chinese that i don’t really know but can guess at fades into this muddle of sound, English and Chinese and cheesy background music all mushed together in something that i can’t hear.

i still don’t know what they say on the school announcements and i’m done caring.

sometimes i’m sitting in the audience of the auditorium and i don’t really know what’s going on. school assemblies are the worst. rapping and fuzzy mikes and so much background noise that even if i wanted to hear the stage i wouldn’t be able to. all i can do is cover my left ear and try to ignore the faded feedback from the right. because it’s not rude if you’re not covering both ears, right?

(i can’t stand not knowing so it’s better to cut that off at the beginning. to make sure i know that i won’t be able to hear them with three-fourths of my hearing gone. it’s less disappointing, that way.)

i can hear the people i need to. it takes a while but if i know someone’s voice well enough, if i care enough to learn it, it’s easier to understand, even if i only catch an intonation of a syllable instead of a word. and they know. they know i can’t hear so they walk on my left side and i love them for it. if someone won’t walk on my left side when i ask them to i know that i won’t learn their voice.

someone tell me why it’s the twenty-first century and people still think “deaf and dumb” is a definition instead of an outdated relic. someone tell me why it’s the twenty-first century and audism runs rampant through people who would rather label us than know us. someone tell me why it’s the twenty-first century and there are still people who think deafness is an illness. that my hearing is something that should be cured. that it’s stupid, ridiculous, to be proud of a “defect.”

someone tell me why my ASL teacher didn’t stop to ask the class if someone had trouble hearing. wait, no, you don’t need to tell me. i know why. it’s because you assume hearing until you’re wrong and that’s so strange to me, because i haven’t been hearing in years and it’s not like i’m trying that hard to hide it. you’d think that someone who knows ASL would realize if one of her students had no idea what was going on.

the first thing someone asks me when they learn i’ve got hearing loss is whether i read lips. i don’t read lips. take away the sound and have me stare at a silent video and i’m helpless. but i can supplement. i can take what i’ve heard and match it up with the movement of the lips, the throat. is that an R? yeah, it is. did they say elephant? yeah, they did.

it took me a long time to tell myself that this was okay. that not all communication is verbal and how, exactly, is this an exception? maybe people think i’m strange for staring at their mouths when they speak but if they don’t know why it’s not really their business to know.

someone tell me why it took my whole life to realize that i don’t care whether i can hear or not as long as i understand the world around me.

that’s why math is my favorite class, i think. no lectures or explanations necessary. just me and the numbers and mathematical notation.

math is a class that i don’t need to hear in. and i’m most comfortable with the silence.
this is long and pretty much nonsensical but poetic more than anything else.

i'm not d/Deaf/HoH, fyi. just hearing impaired. but i know a bit about Deaf culture and pride and it's awesome.

...hopefully i didn't offend anyone? this is personal. i'm not trying to force my emotions and misconceptions on anyone.
Amy Perry Aug 2016
We are a generation,
Indeed, a nation,
Raised upon foreign warring.
Scapegoat aggravation.
Bushes and *****
Clamoring for horror and hoarding.

Conspiring against a population,
I watch through youthful aging.
With my childlike eyes, I see
The target they're blaming:
Afghan families having more
in common with me,
Working class American,
Than those transparent heirs
With the world's wealth and arrogance,
Ordering for the villagers' obliteration
Through boys from our nation.

We are a generation raised
On media sensation
Of militarized devastation;
Animal exploitation;
Technological manifestations
Providing privacy infiltration.
Material attainments;
Mental frustrations;
Fiat debt enslavement;
A nation entranced by
Senseless parading.

Tempting decadence and
Announcements with no evidence.
The September bounty of edifice
That fell with no hesitance
Still echo its unfounded,
Preemptive pretenses.

This murderous reign;
this senseless parade;
Advertisement cyclical
in their game of charades;
Dog on a chain;
Famine causing no pain.
Permissible opinions
To be solely maintained.

The damage, the waste,
The heinous race and class chase.
Oppression remains thoughtlessly dangerous,
As moral responsibility brings no attainments.
Chowing down on maimed millions
Bellowing from enslavement.

Fortunately, elder,
Rothschild, Rockefeller, or
Those above them whom
Remain blackened, faceless:
Resistance shall come
From all places, all ages.
Such as this generation of mine
Inheriting increasing complications,
With the type of America
You wish to keep in rotation.

I'll carry the flag containing
Your mistakes as a symbol,
To remind those behind me
What not to rekindle.

To the Boomer who stews
In your white collar suit,
Still refusing to shake
Your destructive pursuit,
Still asking me to lick
Off authority's boot:

Growing up in this nation,
With childhood innocence,
I grew increasingly aware
Of the land of such ignorance.
I had such thoughts since
Early adolescence,
I was not blind to larger lessons.
Only since supported by
Actual, factual supported confessions.

To the Boomer tied to his convictions,
Now will you see-
That isn't going to work
For us or for me.
I'll bring to this world
Whatever I please.
Which so happens to be
Truth, justice, and peace.
Sincerely, the Millenials
Miko Feb 2013
Unattended
please disregard
my altered announcements
are extended
because understanding the reason
is not something I recall
and I'm too far gone
absent
I fall
into normality
conflicted in the frictioned chaos
it is implied
but unspoken
25...
When you were a kid you thought that you would be married by now
Have it all figured out
The career
The home
The car
The kids
Now you're here and *******...
Do we ever really figure it out?
Adulting is hard
Your Facebook feed is filling up with engagements and baby announcements
but your reading the newsfeed in the liquor isle of Safeway
Beer or wine tonight? Hmm maybe *****?
"Psh who wants to be a boring married couple"
That's what you think to yourself
Trying to convince yourself that it's okay
Drown out that little voice in your head saying "you're gonna be alone forever"
It's like walking on a tightrope
One side you have it together and the other side you still might as well be that 21 year old college student ordering shots at the bar
If someone has this figured out- hit a homie up
Until then, I'm just doing me and I guess I'm doing fine
There's a box down in my basement
It's not hidden far away
It's a box that's full of history
things from, well....another day
It sits there like a statue
Never opened, all forlorn
Holding pictures and their secrets
from a time when I weren't born
It's blue with brass side stapping
It takes up two cubic feet
It just sits there in the corner
Yelling...OPEN ME....but, be discreet
Love letters and photos
unfinished projects from the past
Newspaper announcements
Lots of things you want to last
It's a box that is worth sharing
Stories living in a box
It sits there closed and oh, forgotten
It sits there closed, there are no locks
There's few around who've seen the contents
Even less who know the names
Of people in all the pictures
It's not just sad, it is a shame
The box is full of untold stories
A love story that should be heard
It's written in two lovers writing
No need to translate, not a word
It is the tale of two fine people
Parents of my wife, they say
This box tells of Margaret and Charlie
They both are gone, before this day
It's musty when you smell it
But, isn't that how things should be
There's school reports and lockets
A father lost when she was three
I think of them when I look at it
Artifacts stored for none to see
I never met them, but I miss them
They'd be proud of who she came to be
this box is Megan's life force
It helped make her strong and proud
It shows she is an Edwards
The contents scream it really loud
there is a box down in my basement
It' a box of writing, reams and reams
I look forward to our meeting
One quiet night inside my dreams
The people who filled up the inside
Are my family, though we've not met
I'd like to take this chance to tell them
Their girl is safe, they need not fret.
This is not fictional. The box does exist in my..OUR basement. Megan is my wife and the daughter of Charlie and Margaret. Charlie passed away when Megan was three years old and Margaret, when Megan was fifteen. They would surely be proud of her, as I am.....now, where to move this box?
They really do not have a clue
about the likes of me and you.

The standard of living up by 0.4 percent
what the ****,
does the City gent have any idea of
what it's like to be down here,
I think not.

Vote for what you think is right but
0.4 percent
is
*****.
Dark n Beautiful Jan 2018
Funerals for him is killing loneliness
He sets the alarm clocks in time for the announcements:
If familiarize with the names of the dearly departed:
he lights up like the light on Broadway:

The dearly departed is at rest: his struggles with reality,
of how the world runs: is unsettling:

the funerals arrangements is always the same:
The tone of the announcers : slow and gloomy,

Black and white would always be the traditional attires,
and the hymn ash to ashes will echo in ones ears,
so long as the tears flow slowly throughout the services:

As they lower the leveler into the ground,
they are gone but not forgotten:  R.I.P

Poet and death titles,
Death shall have no hold on me,
Death shall not make me sad,
I refused to mourn death: and that's the truth about me

Drinking and eating after the services: Is it a good gesture?
From soak tissues to soggy appetizers: the crowd pleasers
From the wet cemetery: to the living rooms floors

Poets feel and see the irony:
As they sat in their black and white attire, eating and drinking
Mount Gay or cold Banks beers:

The colorful graveyard welcomes another tenant:
Funeral for him is killing loneliness
He set the alarm in time for the announcements.
Fear man, not the dead: we two are so incompatible

**Regardless of whom you are or where you’ve been
You can be what you want to be. W. cement
july hearne Jan 2019
kevin was 45 and a loser

his now deceased father
had been a man of money
rather than a man of patience
for his extrovert son
who had spent the first 18 years of his life
not lifting a finger

before being kicked out at 18

once he was on his own
the years went by and soon kevin
found himself single at the age  of 45,
impatience being his only inheritence

kevin could often be found at his desk
singing his favorite gin blossoms or offspring songs

he could also be found walking around the office
at other people desks,
or back at his desk asking me how to save microsoft office documents or how to spell certain words

kevin made daily announcements:
on monday, he was a writer
on tuesday, he was a non-conformist
on wednesday, he asked me if he could write a book about rock&roll
on thursday he announced that he had to take out a personal ad;
no one had a response for that

because a week or so later he was glad to be single and have no responsibilities or commitments to anyone

i can't remember what he said on friday,
but i do know that he spent his christmas break
battling  his 6 year old nephew

once kevin confided in me he was sick of trying to improve how things were done at work. he had a lot of ideas, but no assistant
to implement them. kevin was a collections agent who called customers about past due accounts.

another time he told me he was 20K in debt
because there was this girl
and all these uber rides he had to pay for

a learned man, he had been a poly-sci major
so you could often hear him loudly bellowing in the office
about Trump and Russia and how terribly wrong it all was

i always wanted to ask kevin
if he was lone courageous dissenter in seattle
during the 2012 presidential debates
when everyone was laughing at Mitt Romney
for saying Russia was America's greatest geopolitical threat

but I never did
because kevin was the kind of guy
that everyone felt sorry for

at first.
Blue Flask Sep 2015
"I'm back,"
I whispered into the night
I lost myself
What was important to me before?
Not what I've been doing
To fake, to real
When everything changed to quickly
The only remedy for a broken heart
Was to fall in love
And continue the never ending cycle
When life moved to slow
and the mind races to fast
boredom with the interesting things
thoughts that wouldn't seem to fade
"I'm back,"
I whispered into the wall
drifting off to sleep
getting over a new sickness
and shedding off a new one
I lost something this summer
something I don't think I can ever get back
All I can do is move on
And promise to myself to never let the sickness back
I need to get the help I always needed

I'm back,
The real me this time
and for once, I am here to stay
Serge Belinsky Apr 2015
You are still keeping heavy arms,
You did not stop explosive devastations,
The earth is clamings trials – not once,
Have troubled vital forces for whole nature,

United Nations orders been ignored,
Intrudes feeling free for invasions,
Increasing wars revising what agreed,
Incoming time inclining independence,

Indifference for all asleep,
Discourage poll possessions intentions,
Remaining backwards countrys in need,
Would left among nations in faceless,

Despite foggy announcements on stand,
Among the stars would shine the planet,
Don’t leave your children on the sand,
And face cold judgments for a wild,

Pretending for the future bright,
Its hard to watch hearts children crying,
Forgiveness doesn’t have a chance,
Missed way to all the human kind
Within a second, the bright autumn sky burned into a dark, smoky nightmare.
7 more hours until school got out,
but only 4 more crashes till the world falls apart.
While cookies and juice were in my hands,
The nation had a situation in theirs.
When I arrived home,
Daddy was staring blankly at the TV.
Mommy hit the couch before her shoes hit the floor.
I sat down with her and watched.
While I enjoyed the movie,
My parents feared the truth.
We watched one building fall
just as fast as my mother's heart.
We saw the second building fall
half as fast as my father's heart.
When the third plane hit the pentagon,
the sudden sound of sadness flooded the apartment.
And as the final plane fell in Pennsylvania,
the night died in silence.
The next autumn morning felt cold and misty,
and I drowned in my thoughts of the movie.
The announcements came on at an unexpected time,
and silence flooded the school
like it did in my house the night before.
This refers to my experience of 9/11. At the time, I was only 6 years old and in first grade. I barely had an understanding of the things that were happening that day and all I can recall is that I thought it was a movie.

— The End —