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V May 2017
the next time you'll see me,
would be attending my party
as I am lowered slowly
while everyone says they're sorry
to the smiling me.
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
When I was just a child I went searching for my world,
one of sunlit days, adventure and beauty left unfurled.
Though these days were made to be the a key to set me free
I couldn’t have foreseen the cost that all of this would be.

As I look back on these memories I hoped to have it all,
I believed that love would listen and come answering my call.
I was certain love would find me as I filled my life with song.
Now I’d turn in all these moments for just the promise to belong.

At Oktoberfest with beer halls and the sound of German songs.
The mix of beer and smells of nuts floating through the noisy throngs.
Climbing  on the Untersberg up on Alpines mystic peaks
and attending cocktail parties with Gemany’s elite.

Climbing falls in Ocho Rios with some old and new found friends,
drinking coffee, eating lobster, and enjoying without end.
Driving through the darkened backroads from a day at Negril’s beach,
in a cab with songs of love and Marley counting down the beat.  

In Cancun lagoons were vivid and alive with swarming life,
seas of sergeant majors, parrotfish, and barracuda thrive.
in the Caymans packs of stingrays had become our closest friends,
as we played among them in  a world where the beauty never ends.

The fireworks over Sydney lit the bicentennial sky
while I look upon that moment now with disbelieving eyes.
Waves from the Prince of England as he sat by princess Di
when I left the land down under, well I felt like I would die.

As I watched the sun go down over Uluru’s gold peak,
and the sun rise over Daintree as we picked our morning feast.
digging oysters off the rocks by Nelligan’s foreshores,
I was certain with my best friend that I couldn’t want for more.

Remembering the ocean as I snorkeled though it brief,
in Queensland off the shore on Australia’s barrier reef.
The beauty in Belize nearly took my breath away,
and it seemed to me that God had made this gorgeous land to play.

Camping in the South Pacific beneath the skies and palms.
In the hills of South Dakota we went panning in the calm.
With the Eiffel tower, Louvre and Twilleries rounding out another day
And the visit to the gardens of Monet just made me cry.

It’s surreal to think of all the things I’ve done throughout this life,
and the blessings that I’ve gotten seem enough to make things right.
But the simplest adventure and the one I longed for most
was a man that I could count on and would love and hold me close.
All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
Violet Apr 2017
Of course we always do learn,
while attending our schools.
That should then have us concern,
how we must comprehend rules!

Do you know what “you’re” means?
It is both “you are” combined!
Those two words'd make scenes:
can't you keep them in mind?

Gosh, it's really, just so weird:
lots of folks just don't understand.
People'd need their heads cleared,
considering grammar's command!

Teachers'd teach us for sure,
having us properly study a lot.
When I see “your” for “you’re”,
my mind steams up, pretty hot!

Sheesh, guys, please stop doing that:
recognize how we need to place APOSTROPHES!
This poem is about my annoyance at how some folks can't understand "you're" and is in ABAB form (except for that sad, necessary last line/rule).
It has 100 words, as my other works do too.
Bison Apr 2017
The order never mattered
Until blood became the earth once more
My heart never shattered
Still I bore a tender sadness, two perpendicular boards

No cause nor understanding may ever be sufficient
I could not shake sleep from my tired eyes
To give hope to ending my lonesome sickness
Nor dream of peace in the depths of my loathsome mind

And the sun may have shone
On me and mine
I could never have known
For I felt no shine

This is not an ending
Merely an abeyance
I wept until attending
Forever after the abyss
I'm engulfed by freesias,
But I collapse onto this distrusting road.
Because it's easier to close my eyes,
And I hope no cars swallow my shadow.
I may wake upon devouring brightness,
For I can't rise with a hand from hope.
But I promise it's not that lovely sunrise,
I shield my eyes by falling this low.
Headlights seize my pupils,
Attending the drizzled ray of sunbeams.
My fear surely raised me this high,
The light in my eyes may not be what they seem-
All feedback is welcome and appreciated!
(Btw, the flower freesia means trust, in case this poem was confusing)
LexiSully Dec 2016
Oh the fun we had as little six year olds,
Laughing loudly and acting crazy,
Staying up till the wee hours laying on the floor watching Hairspray

Oh the hyper times we had as ten year olds,
Sipping a little too much caffeine,
Running around acting like animals in the front yard

Oh the crazy times we had as twelve year olds,
Not afraid to get down and *****,
Camping and sliding down dirt in the ravine

Oh the terrifying times we had as fourteen year olds,
Living together for a whole week,
Trying to **** each other with words shortly after

Oh the bonding times we had as fifteen year olds,
The darkest time in my life,
Where we cried and I knew we would always be friends

Oh the lively times we had as sixteen year olds,
Both getting our licenses,
Driving around everywhere just to take fun pictures

Oh the tiresome times we had as seventeen year olds,
Sitting in your car before school,
Ranting and laughing about every aspect of life

Oh the amazing times yet to come,
Attending college and growing older,
Still talking and ranting and laughing like every time before.
MOHAMED Mar 2018
At one time transfixed in front of the t.v. watching
Programs strewn trash the river mouth spewing
Shows and shows as waves on the sand breaking
Talk gibberish talks water under a bridge rushing
Unintelligible words rain on a roof pitter pattering

Now we're glued to a contraption called internet
Blasting air ways information ideas faster than jet
Good bad evil intertwining jungles without outlet
Connecting to connect to lives or lives haven't met
Inexhaustible possibilities daily sunrise to sunset

Better be a wanderer by nature gladly enveloping
Explore new world or a quiet place contemplating
What makes us what we are therefore we're doing
Cyber corrupts old fashioned family ties reflecting
May inflict affection attentively attending nothing
Eni Aug 2018
As girls dream, you'd think you'd meet your perfect boy somewhere between heaven and earth or probably just at a social gathering.
He'd be the boy under the spotlight shining brighter than sun itself or the one your friends would interduce you to each-other as the perfect fit and soon a love so easy at first sight would sparkle between your souls like you're really made for each other, for a sec it'd make you think you're celebrating NYE but this time the sparkles and the butterflies in your stomach are forever cause he is real and everything you could ever want.

But maybe you aren't attending the party and you will never notice the guy under the spotlight cause you never  believed that it'd be so easy and always thought  butterflies are overrated  and sparkles way too magical and you would rather settle for temporary **** and not never ending love.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
i really don't know how this is a connected,
but somehow it is,
you drink a few ms. ambers and
your mind just turns into an armchair,
you can unwind,
send the serpent of a tongue
into the garden and watch the show...

the original thought begins with an old
pet peeve...
   the argument...
   what was it?
          why so much evil in the world,
and so little if any divine intervention...
can you imagine the sort of
hellish world that would be,
this, zoo?
                     why i believe in free will?
well... i don't believe in
divine intervention...
   however horrid, divine intervention
is "missing", i guess,
simply because we're supposed to
live out all our potential...
however that might be...
             the heavenly has to dance
with the macabre,
   the man with the woman,
an atypical argument by the sophists...
why doesn't god intervene
when bad things happen to good people?
do you want to look at
the zenith of being given freedom
to do either evil, or good...
and not be judged in the act of doing
so? you don't want this freedom,
because some magical entity doesn't
   then you'd have a case for the non-existence
of free will...

****... did i really elevate myself
to such theological claims? guess so...
catholic education,
   i wasn't going to completely free from
the religious debate...
but that's beside the point...

the first Bukowski book i read,
i bought in Glasgow on one my psychotic
what matters most is how well
you walk through the fire
i bought it because of but one poem...
it begins
   sometimes there's a crazy one in the street.
he lifts his feet carefully as he walks.
he ponder the mystery
of his own ****.

- and ends with
when you see a crazy one walking
in the street
honor him but
leave him alone.
    there's no luck like that luck
nothing so perfect in the world
let him walk untouched
remember that Christ was also insane
while in between?
the line...
  the sane are too numerous...

but this ties in to another poem
(that one was called insanity)...
i sometimes think:
and my, my my,
what a fine way to exfoliate
the emphasis of punctuation,
but breaking lines so much...
point being, there's an upper tier
of punctuation,
primarily associated with the philosophy
and no... don't even try to read
philosophy book like you might
read a piece of journalism
from a newspaper...
  3 years to complete Kant's
critique of pure reason...
believe me, you can have your fictive
novel breezing through moment
when Kant writes out
  a schematic for transcendental
... that bit is easy...
but you can't exactly read Kant
in 3 weeks, and subsequently spew
the content, or rather, plagiarize
it, hiding behind schematics,
and the obvious a priori / a posteriori
well... unless you're a college
philosophy professor,
and much akin to a news anchor ditto-head...
then yeah... plagiarism is the way
to go...

you know what elevated punctuation
looks like?
   you read a snippet of a philosophy
book, you'd be lucky to read a chapter
in a day...
   thinking... thinking is the over-arching
punctuation from your casual punctuation
already imbedded in the script...
thinking does the punctuation
when reading this genre of books...

but it dawned on me...
aphorism XXXII, pondering(s) VIII...
just one sentence...
  (i favor Heidegger?
because he favored poets)...
             poetißing and thinking enter
into an essentially transformed,
incalculable relation.
     when & how both become manifest
as da-sein with self-altering beings,
without publicly existing and "operating"

this immediately brought be back
to a Bukowski poem,
    the last poetry reading...
****... that's not it...
it's not even captain goodwine...
whatever the poem is...
it reads something akin to:

   you're an entertainer now...

that's what i steer away from,
  indicating that these words require
a stage presence,
an oratory valor...
   a performance,
     no public performance,
no freedom of speech *******...
    no speaker's corner manifesto...

            i already signed up to the ontological
motto of...
   cogitans qua esse per se...
thinking as being, being in itself...
the fact that i might leave my mind
and instead morph it into a waggling
tongue on a stage...
the fact that these words could
make public office,
and even be deemed as, "operational"...
not so much petrifies me...
               disgruntles me...
   disincentivizes me...

  after all... i've noticed this...
once you start performing?
your repertoire suffers...
                   like all artists...
the moment you become confident with
your poetry via its public
   your creativity, your virility,
your fertility succumbing to new ideas,
drastically diminishes,
i've watch countless poetry
     with a repertoire of... 10 poems?
maybe even less...
   they start performing,
they stop exploring...
   when poetry is bound to the high
court of silence,
yet becomes visible phonetic encoding,
like... like I.T.,
signs, symbols emerge,
but there is no sound to be heard...
when no one is being entertained,
it expands...
        come to think of it...
Heidegger is quiet right...
     poetry has more to do with
philosophy than it has to do with
rhetoric, oration, sophistry,
   or Sophocles... to specify...
            poetry is about "speaking"
the truth...
   but who the ****, in public...
will speak themselves,
  speak the truth?
              let us leave that to the actors...
who... imagine themselves speaking
a truth, but certainly, not their truth,
the truth...

i want to be as close
to cogitans qua, esse as much as possible:
or rather...
cogitans qua loquitur,
   ergo loquitur qua cogitans,
qua, esse, qua est omni illud
   (thinking as being talking,
therefore talking as being thinking,
as being, being, as being all that is).

p.s. well, yeah,
poet-thinker or poet-entertainer...
i don't need a freedom
to speak, i need a free to think,
and when i equate
thinking as speaking,
but i write,
rather than speak...
      see the comments sections
for more details...
if you "think" that this is
Jay Aug 2018
coffee cups in separated apartments
attending different weddings
soothing comments from parents
longing for grandkids
a sudden empty feeling
below the chest
when stumbling over fragments of

are you also afraid  
we will not find our way back?

I miss you so.
Terri Sep 2018
If love is a religion,
And you're the God
I'd probably be an atheist

If the things you say
Are holy gospels
I'd probably burn them to ****

You're on my mind again
Attending your company
Like mass' on sundays
But I'd rather be at home
Rather than to worship
Your hypocriteness
The things you do
Doesn't match the things you say
You've made oaths, vows, promises
But that's at least what I think
You broke every single one of them
And it's ****** up, it's ******* me up;
You split my heart
Like how moses split a river
Crossing it quietly
But when you crossed
You left an unholy mark
Making it bleed, making me hurt
I have no idea what I did to you
But next time I see you,
No more, I wont;
I wont worship you no more.
Pauper of Prose Aug 2018
She pulled up her shawl and left the house
Gone to get more tea
And all the people passing by
And all the noises eating at her ear
Could not grasp her attention
Attending only to herself
Brilliant and Boisterous her thoughts
A majestic melody of their own
So how could she not be secure?
In her soul’s symphony
The strings vibrated her vessel
The horns heckled her heart
The drums beat down her darkness
And wisdom conducted alongside grace
Matching one another’s pace
Astute in one another’s ache
At conducting timelessly, never being late
It was almost as if their union was fate
Almost being key for it surely did take
Tireless effort, and sacrifices to make
The two into each other’s esteemed mate
Twigzy Sep 2018
Your children are a precious gift so innocent and pure.
At their birth you have the hope of love, lasting evermore.

You spend your waking days attending to their needs,
Waiting for the next smile and sound of utter glee,

And when you sleep you dream of them and wait until the dawn,
Rising before break of day to greet them in the morn,

Your babies grow and soon become your little girls and boys.
You exchange all their play things for larger, bigger toys.

You’ve learned about mothering and matured along the way,
But your relationship with their daddy isn’t turning out ok.

There are ups and downs and you expect that to be true.
But underlying unhappiness begins to escape through.

Daddy doesn’t seem to be all he is meant to be,
Late nights in the lounge, is he watching the TV?

Your children keep you happy though, just look into their face,
They make you smile, they make you laugh, and they fill you with grace.

But underlying unhappiness cannot be washed away,
It’s growing like a tumour, just waiting for its day.

You are not sure what it is, but this one thing you know,
No matter what happens now, you enjoy watching your children grow.

The pre-teen years are nearly over and the high school years draw near.
Then one child beckons you and whispers in your ear.

“Daddy’s been molesting me it started when I was four
All those times you were asleep, he came through my bedroom door
He put his hands all over me I couldn’t make him stop
I wanted to die many times, to fall down and drop!

He hurt me with his ***** mummy, I am so ashamed
I was too scared to tell before because I was to blame
Once, you were in the room mummy, I could see you sleeping
He molested me then and there mummy, I could hear your breathing

My heart screamed out to you mummy, but I did not exist,
My soul began to suffocate and death seemed freedoms bliss.”

The words your child is speaking echo through an empty void,
And darkness falls around you, encumbering you like a shroud.

Someone just stuck a knife into the heart of what was sacred.
Your precious children have been filled with someone else’s hatred.

You need some help, you need to grieve but who can be trusted.
The fear the shame the hurt the blame your heart is torn and busted.

You collect your shattered children and hold them very tight,
You hold them ever so-close, you hold them with all your might.

Flashes of the years gone by ignite before your eyes,
And you see so clearly, all the torment in his lies.

Time has passed you by and your children have grown
But it feels only yesterday you were crushed against the stones
This was how the my first marrage ended.
Our family has survived. My children have become brave adults, they are my heroes
Patrick Austin Oct 2018
My backpack ready for anything, I left for a voyage across the pond. As fellow passengers climb aboard I met a 27 year old traveling musician named Russ carrying his cajòn. He told me of his travels from Massachusetts and pending divorce. We related on this and exchanged CD's. Behind us sitting on the Ferry were two young girls working on a puzzle. Russ imposed himself and tried to impress them with his musical endeavors. These girls were in America from Germany attending college. One was 17 and the other was 18 but I am sure they knew better than to play into his hand. After talk of language and culture we disembarked. Russ invited me to his show that night but I had plans to meet a girl at a board game pub. I walked to the bus stop while smoking my pipe and caught the number 40 from downtown to a trendy neighborhood up north.

After I stepped off I found myself amongst the overgrown players of games and drinkers of fine beer. Brittany arrived and we chatted over IPA's. I explained my recent challenges to get the topic of divorce out of the way before we left for Mexican food. She was very open in saying I should play the field and not have a serious relationship. I agreed with her take but could not read her as well as I had hoped. She said I need to get the rebounding out of the way and explained that she too is struggling with commitment. Being 34 with no marriage or children under her belt she feels that therapy is essential to figuring this out.

We walked to our happy hour destination and shared Nacho's while drinking "Colorado Kool-Aid". Both of us having spent a lot of time in Denver we could relate on much but I felt there was an elephant in the room. Afterwards we walked to a nearby record store and browsed while talking about music and interests. She needed to leave soon having obligations to housesit and watch pets. Dog walking is her profession since her departure from the world of corporate accounting. We walked to her unkempt sedan and she gave me a ride back downtown. We talked of hanging out again but our schedule may not permit for some time. I wonder if she will entertain my company without reservation, only time will tell.

I decided to phone my old friend from Denver who lives near and devise another plan for the evening. The sun was still shining and I had no reason to return home yet. I walked to a nearby brew pub while waiting for him to meet me. I sat at the bar with another traveler named Dave. He is an airline pilot close to retirement from the state of Texas. We talked about my time in the Navy and my pending legal woes. He's been proudly married for 30 years and counts his blessings that he is still in harmony with his wife. My friend decided to meet me at a concert in close proximity to my date with Brittany. Once again I would take the number 40 uptown. Dave bought my IPA and gave me words of encouragement and complimented my persona. It meant a lot and I thanked him as I said goodbye.

While waiting for the bus I asked for information from a woman in her early 50's. She works for a tech company nearby but was happy to help as I had a more pleasant vibe than most of her young, urban, unprofessional colleagues. While unsure of my way she directed my move to get off at the next stop. I walked up the hill another seven blocks to the show. While smoking my pipe along the way another bus rider was two steps ahead named Nate. He was curious about my pipe tobacco and we gave brief anecdotes about ourselves. He offered to buy me a quick beer before my concert. I took him up on this offer as we walked into a nearby market. He purchased several large cans of domestics and afterwards we headed back down the dark boulevard towards the Abbey drinking our brew. As I arrived at the former church venue we parted ways peacefully.

I ventured into the bustling scene concealing my open container while finding my friend. I sat just as the opening act started. We enjoyed three musical performances but the star of the show was the beautiful woman from Denver that we both enjoyed during our time there. Feeling that we should explore the venue where Russ was performing we made our way there. I was sad to discover the brewery was shutting down before 10pm and the band was long gone. We decided to walk to the nearby singles bar playing music so loudly it could be heard from a block away. This strange place was crawling with many folks of the beautiful sort but nothing seemed to be attractive about it. We had a glass of wine and a shot of bourbon. I spoke to the fellow DJ for a moment but there was no dancefloor to be found. We decided to venture on.

We walked up and down the avenue and discovered another Mexican food restaurant, beaming with the young and the foolish. Our community seating was met with overly affectionate couples to our left and valley girls to our right. Our Tequila mules hit the spot with our Nacho's and late night platter. The girls spoke of Denver people which I thought strange. Why so much co(lorado)-incidence in one evening? I injected myself into the discussion and was met with friendly conversation. Unable to finish my Nacho's I knew I had fulfilled my share of fun for the night. This was the fourth time I had eaten nachos this week. We proceeded back to the urban adventure wagon and made our way to the slums of the tech-boom. My 2am slumber was met with an air mattress of great quality and woolen blankets.

I awoke at 7am to the clouded sunlight peering through the sliding glass door. I laid awake with my stomach turning from the many Nachos not yet digested. My housemates called me about needing to move my car for restriping the parking lot. Fortunately I left my keys so they were able to do this for me. I smoked my pipe on the patio while my friend "hit the gym". When he returned we decided to walk through the arboretum by the university and enjoy the sunny autumn day. Afterwards he dropped me off by the ferry where I waited an hour drinking beer at the commuter dive.

During my ferry ride home I walked up and down the passenger compartment looking for a fellow rider to play cribbage. I had no such luck and headed for the observation deck. While the city vanished behind us I struck up a conversation with a young lady from Manchester who had just returned to living in the US. We talked about the nature of selfies and the conflict of living in the moment. As we spoke a man approached me who had overheard my request for a card game. We walked back inside and sat next to an abandoned puzzle with pieces scattered about the deck. Mark introduced himself and we shook hands. It was not until he shuffled and dealt the cards that I realized this 45 year old Asian man only had one arm. His ability to shuffle and deal was impressive. His skill with cribbage was more than rusty, after one game I had a victory so great I felt guilty. He too is going through divorce and seeking a new job. It was a great way to pass the time with a fellow passenger.

As I readied myself for the porting I noticed a familiar face, a young sailor I served with in Mississippi. Our time spent together was met with sorrow as we faced similar career challenges. I had not seen him for several months but he almost did not recognize me. I had lost 50 pounds, left the Navy and become single all in a matter of a few months. I assured him I was on the dawn of newfound joy and wished him luck on his upcoming deployment. I patted him on the head as he seems like such a lovable scamp to me at this point. I exited the terminal to saunter back home. I smoked my pipe while crossing the bridge enjoying the last hour of sunlight.

I settled my belongings at home while serving myself a can of chili and a cold IPA on draft from my housemates tap. I joined him for the end of a baseball game in the den and shared a few moments with my community. I slept for a couple hours and then made my way to work. So much can happen in a day.
Not poetry, but what is life, if not poetry in motion?
How will we progress today?

Will we risk life attending Mosque,
Or have an affair with our spouse's boss?

Will we take the dog out for a walk,
Step on a landmine, use plastic straws?

Perhaps we'll play with our kids today,
Or call Amber Alert, wait scared, and pray?

Will we defy authority with a righteous tone,
Or leave our tail tucked, like a dog with his bone?

Will we gauge goods today for our Vegan menu,
Or show a distention as millions today do?

Will we drive around town for cheaper gas,
Or choose our pickings from picked-over trash?

Do you sling eggs and sausage for sub-minimum wages,
Or attend a visitation in a tortured MADD rage?

Will you tee off at eight, or do a spin class,
Or sit solitary watching the hourglass?

Did we place our script at the shiny drugstore,
Or wade across water to Jordan's fair shore?

Will we question the teacher at our kid's school,
Or play Avatar falling off our bar stool?

Did you set a reminder on your AI phone
For chicken delivery to your suburban home?

Will you lift copper tubing from construction sites,
Proclaiming your station in life gives you right?

Do I recline in my La-Z-Boy for a nap with a book,
Or teach someone to live with a line and a hook?

Will you take out your family,
Are you last on your list,
Will you reciprocate a handshake
Or raise a gloved fist?

Our words can't bind all our wounds,
Few are born with silver spoons,
We're not wrapped in silk cocoons.
A metamorphosis is coming
To this world of gloom,
A rousing group flight,
And it can't come too soon.
And I never even mentioned diseases.
Gods1son Jan 13
The same letters that spell please
Also spell elapse
There is but a limited time
That we have on earth

Don't let your time elapse
While trying to please others
Spend yours answering your own calls
And not attending to diverted calls
Deb Jones Oct 2017
February 2017

Her cousin's name was Jason
His brother's Fiancé'
Had a brother named Mark
They became good friends
Jason and Mark

Jason was attending college
His dream was to work for
A big cat rescue service
For which he volunteered.

Mark was nursing a broken heart
He had just split up with his girlfriend
Justin and Mark were both 22
Jason wanted to cheer up Mark

Jason was an experienced hiker
His Dad worked
For the Sheriff's office
As Captain of the Search and Rescue team

Jason asked Mark
To go on a day hike with him
In the snow last May
They were excited

8,000 feet up
The snow was crisp
The crunch of the ice
Was loud in the silent air

They mostly stayed on the trail
Occasionally stepping over
The barriers when something
Caught their attention

The last time was when
Jason said he knew
Of a perfect view beyond
A stand of trees

Again, they thought nothing
Of stepping over the barrier
Despite the warning signs
Posted along the trail

Mark was in front of Jason
Both walking and talking
Mark asked Jason a question

Jason didn't answer
Mark turned around
Jason was gone

Mark thought Jason was playing a game
He called his name
No answer
He called his cell phone
No answer
He screamed for Jason
No answer
He pleaded for him
No answer

He thought he heard Jason's
Cell phone ringing in the
Quiet bleakness of the snow
But no answer.

He saw Justin's footprints
Seeming to disappear
Into a darkened area
In the snow

Mark followed their foot prints back to the trail
He called the park rangers
And was told to wait there

The search and rescue team responded
Jason's father was not
Allowed to go

He drove to the site by himself

They found Jason quickly
He had fallen down
A crevice
Approximately 1800 feet deep

Without a sound to echo in the silent snow

There was nothing they could do
The fall killed him
The snow prevented
A rescue for a body

His father setup a campsite
And stayed there
With his son
For several days

Until he was forced to leave
By a heavy snow storm

The family had a moving and emotional memorial service
Of all he was
And all he could have been

The church was overflowing
With family and friends

Many Police officers
And Sheriff Deputies
Attended in full uniform
To support the parents

They, alone, filled 4 pews

Over the months
The snow melted
Unfortunately Justin's body
Was not recoverable
The crevice too deep and narrow

His mother won't accept that
Some day she hopes to have her son home.

We all pray for the same thing too.

Goodbye Justin, we all love you and haven't forgotten you one bit
This happened this past year. It seemed forever for spring to come around and to try and recover his body. Some people said they should have never went beyond the trail step-over fencing. But don't all youths feel infallible? Such a horrific death would not have been foreseeable
sunprincess Nov 2018
Some things were beautiful I've seen today
And some things not so much

There was a small and cute little Yorkie
Of course he was just a little stuffed toy in a grocery store
Yet he was pleading for me to carry him home to play
He would be perfect to love on Christmas day

And Mr. Hawk standing in the roadway large and majestic
His stately stature said, "I'm in charge"
From my distance I couldn't see
He was there attending to a hurt friend so bravely

I imagine something tragic must've recently happened
And little squirrel was accidentally ran over
Like perhaps by a herd of wild boar or migrating wilder beast
Probably by those very fast ones from the east

As I came closer Mr. Hawk carefully carried him away
Air lifting him to a prestigious hospital for intensive care
Hopefully he will be okay
And running around a tree by Saturday
Emily Rose May 2018
My fathers skin conspired with the sun to poison him
It was rumored he was so warm Apollo himself grew envious

He left us in the dead of winter, wet wood on the fireplace.

And my mom, she hasn’t been right since. She missed his warmth so much, she began to feel it around her.

Her curious gaze melted into hurried looks, a chorus of false accusations and “I know I smell smoke don’t you lie to me. It’s all burning down.”

I’ve trained my voice so soothing as water. I am the only firefighter accustomed to smothering illusions.

Even on the good days, the ones she’s entirely there, dread makes a marionette of me. I secretly plan her funeral “what flower do you think smells the sweetest? Was it that Louis Armstrong song you said felt like coming home?” “Do you really like it when I sing to you?”

I just want to get it right because she will be attending it, in body not mind or self.

A going away party for the woman she used to be- the one that raised us, who never forgot a face or a Sunday service.

They say it spreads like… wildfire
Ain’t that something?
It’ll make a faulty narrator of her senses overnight.

What’s left is vacancy
A whisper of a woman
But a lingering presence
A sour aftertaste of my entire childhood

Don’t take it personally
When her body holds her hostage and she becomes a flight risk
a danger to herself around pen caps and shoelaces.

Don’t take it personally when her maternal instinct loses the arm wrestle with the disease and open doors and arms turn to barricades.

Don’t take it personally, it’s frightening to live in a world of your own.

Mom, had you suggested even once that an arsonist is what you need, that if our world matched yours you’d feel even a moment of peace .. id set **** fires up the coastline to kingdom come.

I still carry matches on me just in case.
Lawrence Hall Oct 2018
Father Why’s Glob

              And whan he rood, men myghte his brydel here
                    Gynglen in a whistlynge wynd als cleere
                    And eek as loude as dooth the chapel belle


A famous priest takes pictures of his meals
Writes detailed notes on how they were prepared
As he airplanes around the world attending meetings
To talk about people he doesn’t like

A famous priest takes pictures of more meals
Almost cellular closeups of bits of meat
While he is flying holy in first class
And praising his cabernet sauvignon

A famous priest promises prayers (and cookery tips)
If you will send him money for his many trips
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
Bitter berry
despite your pretty, white flowers
the bitterness you hold inside
is poison with each attending try
Even your leaves singe
upon touching them
All parts of you contain
an irritant that starts in your roots
and shoots up to the oblong crimson moons
Pain ensues -
5 or 6 will make you ill
But the 2nd one done you in
Never to go back
No longer admiring
the pretty, white flowers
Bitter as the Bane
You must live in shade
Wk kortas Sep 2018
They’d found him, emaciated and tick-ridden,
Down near the docks on Smith Boulevard,
Surrounded by several fellow tabbies
Possessed of the apparent inclination to disregard any taboo
Enjoining them from enjoying one of their own as a hors d’oeuvre.
He’d weighed no more than eight pounds or so,
Closer to six if you scraped off the mats and vermin,
But he’d gotten over that in short order,
As his diet consisted of fried chicken livers
And any bits of tuna sandwich his owner might leave lying about
(Though Jerry Kiley was not a small man himself,
And philosophically opposed to the notion of leftovers as well)
So before long he became utterly Falstaffian
(As Father Maguire from Sacred Heart tut-tutted,
Why, that tom is three stone if he’s an ounce;
He gets any larger, and I’ll have to insist
You kick another two bits into the plate
And Kiley had to fashion him a bed from a milk crate
Buttressed with sheet metal
Taken from a vat at the old Beverwyck Brewery.

He’d lived well (Better ‘n me, Jerry often lamented)
Though too well, perhaps,
And he’d fallen prey to the maladies of the leisure classes:
Gout, diabetes, a wheezing which sounded for all the world
Like distant cows lowing in a fairly stiff breeze.
The vet had given him any number of pills and potions,
But it all was no match for his appetite,
And he’d ended up taking the gas before he turned five.

It was decided, in the course of conversation and consolation
At the North Albany legion post bar,
That such a kind and devoted soul
Deserved a send off befitting a noble gent.
A collection was scraped together in short order,
And a viewing-***-wake took place at Jack’s Lunch
(Just up Broadway from Jerry’s place.)
Vittles Tuomi made a jerry-built coffin
Fashioned from the now-vacant cat bad,
And John Itzo snagged some fake flowers and a crepe-paper bird
From the brim of his wife’s old hat
(They being perched on a can of tuna soldered to the box
With the intent of nourishing him on his trip to the afterlife,
Jes’ like the pharaohs, according to Vittles.)
As the services progressed, some of the boys floated the notion
That the guest of honor should (under the cover of darkness, natch)
Be interred at St. Patricks, but Father Maguire,
Attending the do as the feline’s ex officio spiritual advisor,
Gently reminded the prospective pallbearers
That His Grace the Bishop had denied burial in consecrated ground
For lesser offenses, and it was finally decided that burial
(It was assumed that he’d been responsible
For an unknown number of progeny, and it was also rumored
That he had a brother or twelve up in Watervliet)
Would be private and at the convenience of the family.
(AUTHOR’S NOTE:  This piece, such as it is, is built on the foundation of
an anecdote entitled “Langford, Prominent Cat, Dies” which appears in William Kennedy’s Riding the Yellow Trolley Car.  The anecdote is pithy and witty; this piece certainly is not the former and most likely comes up short on the latter.)
Joash Aug 2018
I first met her in the  desert across the sea,
Whilst crumbling down to lifeless light.
She wore mask, white with gems like pea
Yes, it’s the Woman in White.

She took me in, fed me and sheltered me
In a home, ancient yet strong as a tree
Along with others who seemed to have lost their way,
Or some who just needed a home to stay.

Her hair gray, and her fingers withered,
Yet she provides like a mother, truly needed
Come morning, she works for the Masters
Giving service for a few coin of coppers.

Still, she never whimpered nor whine,
Instead, she wore her mask with a pride
Aiding people, assisting, supporting,
whilst attending the masters’ whinging.

Come eve, she’d be back with presents,
That she bought with the scratch of her labors
Which we’ll share with all the others,
While she’d stand and watch like a father.

Come dark, she’ll retire to her room
Stopping in front of a mirror,
To which she’d tear on her loom
As if she witnessed a horror.

Carefully, she’d caress her palm on her face,
Dousing the mask of white and sapphire
Revealing a ghastly verse of recede
And a sorrowed Blue concealed inside.
Ken Pepiton Nov 2018
(Author note: shortline prose to lengthen the attention span framed on tracks set in a Mobius [one-side, one edge 3-d object]
intra-psychic loop of unknown origin and read aloud at ) Begin agin

The Apprentice is now a Constellation

The announcement was made when scientists of social normality said they saw in
Mickey Mouse's role as The Magician's Apprentice in the
Fantasia Eschered vision that ushered in
images of shift in medium media

message-ification, from angels to

a Disney-ification of
a Medici idea
from the TV generation's
paradigmatic bubble of re-alification…

the TV generation, the old farts in 2018,
those whose bubbles sitcoms evolved in,

the watchers saw the makings of a great game

manifested in the game fame of the idea named Trump

yew, stink. Can't trump the ***** in hearts,
I think I recall, while Zorro's dumb butler
began to signify, in black and white
Aaaiiiii, karuhmba,
clean sweep,
one roll,
I won.

the mother-facter, whoa, who has that idea who did not
need the thought taught thinkable,
though it is not thinkable
in my bubble,
let me make
straight that which he has twisted,  

magi untie knots they saw tied,
mythic youthful generals cut them,
nullifying the bond, not the entanglement

Positive Quarkish humans are as rare as rare,
imagine all possible vectors in a void

from a singularity ified known

science, the magic tecnique

Macht frei, macht mehr, macht mir

repel-ant act patient, patience, do your thing

signal, antennae agent attending, watcher watching

motive force, my god is not macht!

unprocessed information
untaken action

owe owe owe shame shame shame blame blame
pre cosmogonic potential
on the level of

me and you.
wadoo-wedo? It's Xmessage time

now, abrupt. Good news
from a far country
hope lost must
now be

Otherwise, Christmas is okeh, just not Jesus.
The season, then Jesus, okeh?
Wisemen still seek…

Who said otherwise? Fantasy enforces the wish.

I wish it were that we fit

here we do (on earth as)

true, rest a while and listen to your self if that's
the best listener you have found.

Talk to your self, make him your friend or her,
your choice,

really. You make enemies on accident,
but friends, fruitful friendships,
cost sweat and ef
effort effect
fortiffect, effortion and effection

for true fruct ification

affective prayer does act as if fervent
right, alte rechte,

right used you,
all to know

Receive it, reread what you said you knew,
stand by every word yet idle,
and act as if you know
no lie possible
new is yet
not new,

New is not imperfection?
Unfinished is not finished wrong.

A work of love is enthrallment only if the love
is mere imagery locked
in literate minds, to

Rome and its feet of iron marred with clay,
fused with clay, hero myths

etched in soft clay, made
great literature of mortality,
posing in prophecy as poet praises paid to Jah.

Tenured enthrallment in literate minds
un-exposed to the Disney ifications,
the normalizing, reversion
to the mean not
meant in the words the way the stories were told,

in the olden days. On tongues of fire.

That is true, new forever is
forever new, no one we know knows when forever began,

but before now. We know that now.
We explored that realm and realized this one
based on the AI consortium consensus of your most
heartfelt if-only desires
recorded at every
if/then gate
you jumped.

This is it, the best you could imagine being truly happy doing,
with the god of peace,

roll the rock to this point, Sisyphus,
no further was a given
after a time,
at this point

then time is un imaginable nullift, NULL-if I'd-known
one more time, living water
bubbling from my belly as
the rock rolls over
the fool who risks belief in living water
seeping from mommy's belly,

like the papless platypus,
who died at the weir
and sent that final message

Good news. Life rolls on. 166 million years for the Platypi.

At a certain point, there is no sense in pushing,
he steps aside and takes his bow
in the shadow.

Timeless imagine that, with **** in the NULL state.
You can imagine it,
but only there,
here **** is a thought thought mistaken by mortals.

Misbought, is better said, a thought mis thought
is bought with attention paid
to truth, found hidden
under standing idle word monstrosities at the
foundation of the current
wizard class

the stone the builders rejected, that
smashed the feet of clay and iron,

the rusted muddy iron feet.

All we do is watch.
seeing changes everything  seen, thus
The saying is true, beauty is in the seer not the seen.
Earlier on the Sisyphus Happy channel read aloud
Scot Feb 24
It was a sweltering desert day in the southwest island of El Paso in Texas.

A call crackled across a patrol radio to a police unit nearby.  The officers arrived at a death scene after a call of concern about the decedent's well-being.  The police found an alternate key to the victim's home and found a woman brutally murdered.

The woman  in question was a beautiful 25 year-young, blond and immensely attractive person.  She was living on her own in an apartment flat and also attending a local university.  Both through her own work.  The police officers answering the call found the body of this young woman dead and mutilated and summoned Homicide Detectives to the scene since this was a definite ******.

My partner and I were sent by our sergeant to investigate the ******.  I had conducted roughly 20 ****** investigations successfully at this point and I was a blossoming homicide detective.  

I must clearly state that becoming a homicide detective was the most serious, great, important, and spiritual job I have ever worked.  The job brought much honor to the degree that high-ranking officers would defer much responsibility and respect to the Homicide guys.  Civilians would act much differently around a Homicide Cop, because it is a vocation many want to do but never took affirmative action to achieve the role.  And what a ride it is...

My partner, Chuy, and I went out to where the body was located and discovered the victim on her abdomen and stretched out with many, many knife woulds on her back, neck and head. I thought this ****** was one of the, literally, more evil cases that I have ever worked on.  

The victim had obviously been cooperating with what was likely started as a ****, since her clothes were all taken off without a wrinkle or tear.  The victim placed her clothes almost neatly in a pile near herself showing that she had not been fighting off the ****, rather, sacrificing this ****** attack in order to survive to live another day.  The girl then submitted to the attempted ****, but something went terribly wrong.

What the nature of the event was might lead to a litany of speculation, but I believe that I gained the entire story through a solid investigation.  The body bore the marks of more stab wounds then I have ever seen on the human body:  99 times.  I saw that the victim was attacked with a butcher knife while trying to escape her killer.  Not because she was fighting the ****, but because the attacker went into a rage after what I believe to be a simple case of his own ****** dysfunction.

The subject of the investigation, named Patrick Denney, (look him up, and his brother Robert Denney as well), was a 15-year-old paperboy that attempted to **** the victim, but went into a homicidal rage thus stabbing the victim to death through a vicious expression of anger and he stabbed her with such frenzy.  I don't care if the press says there were more stabs.  I witnessed the actual count.  There WAS 99 and the entry wounds were marked off with a Sharpie marker.  The stabs primarily centered on her back, especially over her heart and lungs.  She was stabbed in the neck and head as well and her fingernail marks showed on the floor while shape scraped and clawed mightily for her very life, though unsuccessfully.

Before finding the killer, Chuy and I observed ****** paper towels that were soaked through from someone that we believed to be her killer and put then, in the garbage after the Capital ****** occurred.  A serious offense indeed and punishable by Death or Life in prison.  Everything is bigger in Texas.  Chuy and I placed possible suspects of maintenance men and paperboy on our long list of potential killers because we saw a stack of older newspapers on her living room, which caused us to think that she had a paperboy.

The paper towels were bled into heavily and made into a ****** paper mache encasement of the killer's webbed thumb area.  Our assessment at this point *** that while stabbing the victim, the killer's hand slid down the slippery ****** blade of the butcher knife and caused a cut on his hand that was fairly large and deep.  Chuy and I also believed that the subject of the ****** would be easily findable simply by checking for the cut.  Checking men's hands was our mission from that point going forward.

The first person we located with a cut on the web of his hand the victim's boyfriend, whom I'll just call Obed.  Obed, ironically, had a small cut to the web of his hand that was partially healed, however, worthy of investigating.  Many boyfriends have ***** and killed their girls friends, so we thought Obed was a good place to start.  Obed, however, was not the contributor of the blood to the towels so he was discarded as a suspect and he made a strong, direct, denial of having hurt the victim that was believable anyways.  His grief was sincere and undeniable..

The investigation continued at a rattled pace, since the press had caught wind of the investigation and was seeking daily progress updates, which the department was giving them.  The press releases did not divulge sensitive information about the ****** to not hinder the investigation, but drew intense public interest and fear.  The case broke wide open when we found that the victim's paperboy had filed a police report regarding having been attacked by some "Generic Mexicans," who cut him in the web of his hand.  Not quite believable.

Yeah, Chuy and I didn't buy that one either.  We conducted a search warrant of the paperboy and his home and arrested the 15 year old killer, Patrick Denney, who confessed to the ******, which was supported by his DNA being found on the paper towels used by the murderer to stop his bleeding.  Patrick clearly had a cut on the web of his webbed, physically deformed hands.  The case was actually pushed all the way to the Texas Supreme Court regarding the issue of whether a lawyer could invoke his/her client's rights under the 5th Amendment.

With good fortune the good court agreed with the state that the Trial Judge that the police had not erred in presenting oral statement evidence from the suspect that was made after a lawyer tried to invoke the suspect's right to remain silent after he was in our custody.  Denney chose not to be silent and sang like a bird.  While taking Denney's confession he stayed calm and cool for the entire confession...until.  Until I asked Denney the million dollar question:  "Do you have difficulty performing sexually?"  Trinity Site all over again.  Denney exploded.  How sad.  A 15-year-old murderer that has ****** dysfunction...  **** of a way for a young woman to die.

So the DA asked the court to certify Denney as an adult so he could face the charges with the full-force of the court and jury.  Denney has a genetic disorder in his hands and feet.  Denney suffered from Ectrodactyly.  Super-easy to pronounce and understand, by someone I'm sure.  That's probably why it's just called Lobster Hand Syndrome.  Indeed.

Denney's hand's and feet looked like hooves and there was a very strong sense with a demonic presence about him.  No kidding.  The hair-raising kind.  You see, this is where the spiritual side of homicide investigation emerges.  Yes, the crime was demonically evil and Patrick Denney has a demonic presence and his face often contorted in a manner indescribable.  Whether Denney was possessed by a demon is anybody's guess and I don't attempt that conclusion here.  I'm simply saying that the ****** was particularly evil.

Denney's blood said he was at the scene and by the time we went to court, the jury in El Paso was not much in the mood for Capital ******.  Denney got a life sentence. But only because the jury could not give him the death penalty, although they would have.  

Denney sits in Huntsville, Texas to this date.  Look up the case.  It's real and it was sad and discomfiting.
Real story from the real detective that worked this case; It is verifiable in news reports and news outlets:
Denise Uy Aug 2018
On a day like this, when voices are louder than the sound of trains on the train tracks
and peace is harder to find than attending to the imaginary impending doom of a Roman attack,
I look for a silent sanctuary,
and I hope to never get back.
It is silent when I come but I sit down and make my own noise.
It is noise that's always sounded better than my own voice
and noise that I've always welcomed during days of distress and comfort alike.
It is noise that blocks out reminders of a ticking clock
and a running time.
The sanctuary is not silent; it is noisy,
but it is noise that I will always welcome.
I love my noise.
Nazrana Kalil Aug 2018
He spoke about marriage like i was never part of the plan

He spoke of a wedding I would dreadfully be attending

He spoke about a wife that will hold him at night as i lay alone with my regrets.

He spoke of a person standing next to him as if i haven't fought for the love he neglects

He spoke about happiness like I've never tried to paint a smile on the canvas

He spoke of laughs he would share with a soul that wasn't mine.

He spoke about a life...i was no longer a part of.
He spoke of everything I've feard   and suddenly i see them in reality
Em MacKenzie Dec 2018
Dear Mrs. Frouin,
(atleast I think that was your name.)

For as long as I can remember I’ve always wanted to be a writer. Actually, I don’t believe I wanted to be anything, especially when I was younger,
but writing chose me.

For you see,
I conditioned myself unable to verbally express my emotions, or my thoughts, since I was old enough to have them.
I know the words I want to say when I want to say them,
but I never felt anyone wanted to hear them.
I believed my constant analyzing and emotional dissection to be a burden.
I knew most people wouldn’t understand, if they even bothered to listen at all.
And so I taught myself to alter the disease of emotions, and the curse of memories into dressed up words.
I turned my pain into similes, allegories and metaphors,
whether hidden and veiled or transparently exposed.
My pen became my bestfriend
and paper evolved into a therapist.

It didn’t always do the trick, I admit.
Especially when I was fifteen, the year you taught me,
the year I tried my first pill
and found an alternate reality I could escape to where everything felt good, all the ******* time.
And that’s where you caught me.

It seems petty, immature and egotistical to still remember this fourteen years later,
but when someone attempts to crush the only aspiration you have,
the only thing you really have felt good at,
it tends to stick with you.
Especially considering I remember everything.

As per usual, I had shown up to your class ******,
there wasn’t many classes I showed up to sober.
There wasn’t many classes I showed up to in general.
I had zoned out during your lesson, probably doodling, talking,
sleeping, listening to music, writing or staring at some pretty girl.
Everyone had left and you asked me to stay behind, and as much as I was a professional **** up back then, that wasn’t common.
You sat across from me and asked me what I wanted to do with my life,
immediately I answered “I want to be a writer.”
We talked about fiction, journalism, poetry, song writing,
the things I “excelled” in according to you,
but with softness in your voice you stated,
“I believe you have the talent, but to be brutally honest, I think you lack the motivation to do it.”
I hear that sentence every two weeks or so.
It haunts me.

I can understand your reasoning,
as I said above, I was a professional **** up.
But you didn’t bother to talk to my media and film teacher,
who personally tracked me down one day when I was cutting class in the woods getting high with friends,
pulling me aside to beg me to start showing up to any class more often,
that I had missed 84 classes in one year, and that he personally,
intercepted to principal to discuss me and stuck his neck out for me,
“You are far too unique to not make your mark here.” he said.
You didn’t bother to check that even then, when I wasn’t attending 90% of my classes,
I was still on the honour roll for English, History and Math.
And that even after your words,
and even after more partying
and attempting to **** my brain cells
I came back that next year and stayed on the honour roll,
adding 16th Century History to the list as well.

But I do see your original point,
maybe I do lack the motivation to “do it.”
Whatever that might mean,
because like all things in life,
it’s all about perception
and personal expectation
and interpretation.

You see, I can confidently say that
my writing has evolved,
and dare I say, at the risk of sounding pretentious and cocky,
it has gotten better.
And while I may not be getting paid a dime for any of it,
I have people reading my work,
for some reason,
and most importantly, I have people relating to my work,
experiencing it, and above all,
feeling it.
That’s all I’ve ever wanted to accomplish from writing;
it may have started as free, comfortable, liberating therapy, expression and self reflection,
but all I have ever wanted is to know I made someone, anyone,
feel something.
That’s all everyone should aspire to accomplish,
an act that touches a person,
makes them feel less alone.
There’s nothing more noble in this world than helping another person,
no matter how you do it.

Whenever someone has tried to show positivity or support for my writing,
they make comparisons of being the next (insert famous female writer here)
and all I ever think is that I would rather be the first me.
Almost every artist wants to “famous,”
but I have always thought that I would rather be respected than famous.
Maybe one day I will be,
but maybe I won’t,
that really isn’t the point.

You believed that I lacked the motivation to become a writer,
but I always have been one.
My motivation is used everyday to get out of my warm bed,
where dreams are the only plane of existence where I feel peace and bliss.
My motivation is used to create something from everything negative,
instead of letting it beat me down
and turn me into the kind of person who would look at a
troubled teen with a glimpse of aspiration,
and tell them they couldn’t do it.
My motivation is used to support others and if I’m lucky enough,
guide them even half a step closer to the path they want to take.

Mrs. Frouin, if you read this,
and I doubt you will
because you probably don’t remember someone who you thought you read so well to make assumptions on their potential,
please laugh at the irony at the
fact that you failed me in your “creative writing” class
and I’m still a writer.
And maybe, if you’ve read this all the way through,
the student “lacking motivation”
just became your teacher.
Yes this happened, and it’s weird it still bothers me, but hopefully I got the mic drop here.
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