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Life is so amazing;
We humans have different marks on paper or a computer that we can understand and we move our mouth to make different noises that we understand as well. And having different noises in a row that sound barbaric to people that don't speak that language. There's even different languages that people developed over the years...
Then we talk about our ways of life.
There are some people out there that are starving and dying, and then there's people that have so much money and food, they don't have any room for it.
Then we move to our technology.
From dirt and rocks to make weapons to **** for food, and living in caves, and not talking like a normal human being, we came to having houses made of the wood of trees and bricks, and having 3-dimensional beings in a little portable device. And having stop-motion pictures, and 3-D TV's, and computers that have different websites that have completely different stuff on them.
Then we move to music.
Music is so old... probably started when the cavemen started to talk English or something. And there's so much songs about so many different things, and none of them have the same beat or notes in a row. There's probably like, quadrillions of songs out there.
Now for the sciency stuff.
I just think it's so incredible that there's people like Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson. I mean, imagine where we would be right now if it weren't for Benjamin Franklin. Thomas Jefferson wouldn't be famous, that's for sure. What about if neither of them existed? Where would we be know? Then there's the people that came up with the idea that there's life that is so small, we can't see it. Then someone invented the telescope so we could examine the moon better. All the constellations out there that tell stories about the Gods and Goddesses. And it's just so astounding how big the Universe is. All those planets out there, we can't be the only living things out there, you know? There is just so much in the world that still needs yet to be discovered. Just think how long it will be until we have teleportation! Then we could teleport our space rovers to different planets and not worry about it getting hit by a meteor.
And people say "The world's not that old! This is only 2015!" Yeah. After the birth of Jesus Christ. Jesus was on Earth 2015 years ago. Before that, people didn't have the system of keeping track of time. Scientists can only tell how Ancient Egypt or Ancient Greece was like because of people writing down their religions. To think if there will ever be some sort of apocalypse and no one wrote anything down and humans came to life gain, it would be exactly like caveman times all over again unless we write down our thoughts anywhere and keep it anywhere. That's what diaries where originally invented for! And if you never thought of thinking of the world this deep before, it's only because you're most likely an outgoing person. Don't ask how I know that.

Well, this closes my thoughts.
"JUST THINK" LIKE IF YOU AGREE
All winter the fire devoured everything --
tear-stained elegies, old letters, diaries, dead flowers.
When April finally arrived,
I opened the woodstove one last time
and shoveled the remains of those long cold nights
into a bucket, ash rising
through shafts of sunlight,
as swirling in bright, angelic eddies.
I shoveled out the charred end of an oak log,
black and pointed like a pencil;
half-burnt pages
sacrificed
in the making of poems;
old, square handmade nails
liberated from weathered planks
split for kindling.
I buried my hands in the bucket,
found the nails, lifted them,
the phoenix of my right hand
shielded with soot and tar,
my left hand shrouded in soft white ash --
nails in both fists like forged lightning.
I smeared black lines on my face,
drew crosses on my chest with the nails,
raised my arms and stomped my feet,
dancing in honor of spring
and rebirth, dancing
in honor of winter and death.
I hauled the heavy bucket to the garden,
spread ashes over the ground,
asked the earth to be good.
I gave the earth everything
that pulled me through the lonely winter --
oak trees, barns, poems.
I picked up my shovel
and turned hard, gray dirt,
the blade splitting winter
from spring.  With *** and rake,
I cultivated soil,
tilling row after row,
the earth now loose and black.
Tearing seed packets with my teeth,
I sowed spinach with my right hand,
planted petunias with my left.
Lifting clumps of dirt,
I crumbled them in my fists,
loving each dark letter that fell from my fingers.
And when I carried my empty bucket to the lake for water,
a few last ashes rose into spring-morning air,
ash drifting over fields
dew-covered
and lightly dusted green.
judy smith Apr 2017
So you know you’re looking at two very different styles of dress, here. But precisely what decades? When did that waistline move back down? What details are the defining touches of their era? How long were women actually walking around with bustles on their backsides?

Lydia Edwards’s How to Read a Dress is a detailed, practical, and totally beautiful guide to the history of this particular form of clothing from the 16th to the 20th centuries. It tracks the small changes that pile up over time, gradually ******* until your great-grandmother’s closet looks wildly different than your own. As always, fashion makes for a compelling angle on history—paging through you can see the shifting fortunes of women in the Western world as reflected in the way they got dressed every morning.

Of course, it’ll also ensure that the next lackadaisically costumed period piece you watch gives you agita, but all knowledge has a price.

I spoke to Edwards about how exactly we go about resurrecting the history of an item that’s was typically worn until it fell apart and then recycled for scraps; our conversation has been lightly trimmed and edited for clarity.

The title of the book is How to Read a Dress. What do you mean by “reading” a dress?

Basically what I mean is, when you are looking at a dress in an exhibition or a TV show, reading it in terms of working out where the inspirations or where certain design choices come from. Being able to look at it and recognize key elements. Being able to look at the bodice and say, Oh, the shape of that is 1850s, and the design relates to this part of history, and the patterning comes from here. It’s looking at the dress as an object from the top down and being able to recognize different elements—different historical elements, different design elements, different artistic elements. “Read” is probably the best word to use for that kind of approach, if that makes sense.

It must send you around the bend a little bit, watching costume adaptations where they’re a bit slapdash. The one I think of is the Keira Knightley Pride and Prejudice, which I actually really enjoy, but I know that one’s supposed to have all over the place costuming-wise.

Yeah, it does. I mean, I love the BBC Pride and Prejudice one, because they kept very specifically to a particular era. But I can see what they did with the Keira Knightley one—they were trying to keep it 1790s, when the book was written, as opposed to when it was published. But they’ve got a lot of kind of modern influences in there and they’ve got a lot of influences from 30, 40 years previously, which is interesting to an audience and gives an audience I suppose more frames of reference, more areas to think about and look at. So I can see why they did that. But it does make it more difficult if you’re trying to accurately decode a garment. It’s harder when you’ve got lots of different eras going on there, but it makes it beautiful and interesting for an audience.

The guide spans the 16th to the 20th century. Why start with the 16th century?

Well, partly because it’s where my own interest starts, in terms of my research and the areas I’ve looked at. But more importantly in terms of audience interest, we get a lot of TV shows, a lot of films in recent years—things like The Tudors—that type of era seems to be something that people are interested in. That time is very colorful and very interesting to people.

And also because in terms of thinking about the dress as garment, obviously people wore dresses in medieval times, but in terms of it being something that specifically women wore, distinct from men’s clothes, I really think we start to see that more in the 15th, 16th century onwards.

Where do you go to get the historical information to put together a book like this? What do you use as your source material? Because obviously the thing about clothing is that it has to stand up to a lot of wear and tear and a lot of it doesn’t survive.

This is the other thing about the 16th century stuff—there’s so little surviving. That’s why that chapter was a lot shorter and also that’s why I used a lot of artworks rather than surviving garments, just because they don’t exist in their entirety.

But wherever possible, you go to the garments themselves in museum collections. And then if that’s proving to be difficult, you go to artworks or images, but always bearing in mind the artist will have had their own agenda, so they won’t necessarily be accurate of what people were actually wearing. So then you have to go and look up written source material from the time—say, diaries. I like using letters that people have written to each other over the centuries, describing dress and what they were wearing on a daily basis. Novels can be good, as well.

Also the scholarship that has come before, the secondary sources, works by people like Janet Arnold, Aileen Ribeiro. Really well researched scholarly books where people have used primary sources themselves and put their own interpretation on it can be really, really helpful. Although you take some of it with a pinch of salt, and you put your own interpretation on there, as well.

But always to the dress itself wherever possible.

What are some of the challenges you face, or the constraints on our ability to learn about the history of fashion?

Well, the very practical issue of trying to see garments—some of them I did see here in Australia, but a lot of them were in the States, in Canada, in New Zealand, so it’s hard to physically get there to see them. And often, even when you can get to the museum, garments are out on loan to other exhibitions or other museums. That’s a practical consideration.

But also, especially when I’m talking about using artworks and things, which can be really helpful when you’re researching, but as I’ve said they do come from a place where there’s more interpretations and more agendas. So if someone’s done a portrait and there’s a beautiful 1880s dress in it, that could have been down to the whims of the person who was wearing it, or the artist could have changed significantly the color or style to suit his own taste. Then you have to do extra research on top of that, to make sure that what you are seeing is representative.

It’s a fascinating area. There’s a lot of challenges, but for me, that’s what makes it really exciting as well. But it’s really that question of being able to trust sources and knowing what to use and what not to use in order to make things clear for the audience.

Obviously many of these dresses were very expensive and took a lot of labor and it wasn’t fast fashion—people didn’t just give it away or toss it when it fell out of season. A lot of times, you did was you remade it. When you’re looking at a dress that’s been remade, how do you extract the information that you need as a historian out of it?

I love it when something like that comes up. I’ve got a couple of examples in the book.

Well, it can be quite challenging, because often when you’re first looking at a piece it’s not obvious that it’s been remade. But if you’re lucky enough to look inside it and actually hold it and turn it round different angles, there’ll be things like the placement of a seam, or you’ll see that the waist has been moved up or down according to the fashion. And that’s often obvious when you’re looking inside. You can see the way the skirt’s been attached. Often you can tell if a skirt’s been taken off and then reattached using different pleats, different gatherings; that can give you a hint that it’s then been remade to fit in with a different fashionable ideal.

One of the key ways is fabric. You can often see, especially in early 19th century dresses when they’ve been made of these beautiful 18th century silks and brocades. That’s nice because it’s the first obvious clue that something’s been remade or that an old dress has been completely taken apart and it’s just the fabric that’s been used. I find it particularly interesting when the waist has been moved or the seams have been taken off or re-sewn in a different shape or something like that. It can be subtle but once your knowledge base grows, that’s one of the most fascinating areas that you can look at.

You page through the book and you watch these trends unfold and there are occasional sea changes will happen fairly quickly, like when the Regency style arises. But how much change year-to-year would a woman have seen? How long would it take, just as a woman getting dressed in the morning, to see styles just radically alter? Would you even notice?

Well, this is the thing—I think it’s very easy, when we’re looking back, to imagine that in 1810 you’d be wearing this dress and then all the frills and the frouf would have started to come in the late 1810s and the 1820s, and suddenly you would have had a whole new wardrobe. But obviously, unless you were the very wealthiest women and you had access to dressmakers who had the absolute newest patterns and newest fabrics then no, you wouldn’t have seen a massive change. You wouldn’t have afforded to be able to have the newest things as they came in. You would have maybe remade dresses to make them maybe slightly more in line with a fashion plate that you might have seen, but you wouldn’t have had access to new information and new fashion plates as soon as they came. To be realistic, there would have been very little change on a day to day level.

But I think also, for us now—it’s hard to see it without hindsight, but we feel like we’re fairly fluid in wearing the same kind of styles, but obviously when we look back in 20 years, we’ll look at pictures of us and see greater changes than we’re now aware. Because it happens on a slow pace and it happens on such a subconscious level in some ways.

But actually, yeah, it’s to do with economics, it’s to do with availability. People living in towns where they couldn’t easily get to cities—if you were living in a country town a hundred miles away from London, there’s no way that you would have the resources to see the most recent fashion plates, the most recent ideas that were developing in high society. So it was a very slow process in reality.

If you have a lot of money you can change out your wardrobe quicker and wear the latest styles. And so the wealthiest people, their clothes were what in a lot of case stood the best chance of surviving and being in modern collections. So how do we know what working women would have worn or what middle class women would have worn?

Yeah, this is hard. I do have some more middle class examples, because we’re lucky in that we do have quite a few that have survived, especially in smaller museums and historical collections, where people have had clothes sitting in their attics for years and have donated them, just from normal families over the years.

But, working women, that’s much more difficult. We’re lucky from the 19th century because we have photographic evidence. But really a lot of it will come down to written descriptions, mainly letters, diaries, not necessarily that the people themselves would have kept, but there’s examples of people that worked in cotton mills, for instance, and people that ran the mills and their families and wives and friends who had written accounts of what the women there were wearing. Also newspaper accounts, particularly of people who would go and do charity work and help the poor. They often wrote quite detailed descriptions of the people that they were helping.

But in terms of actual garments, yeah, it’s very difficult. Certainly 18th century and before, it’s really, really hard to get hold of anything that gives you a really good idea of what they wore. But in the 18th century—it’s quite interesting, because then we get examples of separate pieces of clothing worn by the upper classes, like a skirt with a jacket, which was actually a lower middle class style initially and then it became appropriated by the upper classes. And then it became much fancier and trimmed and made in silks and things. So then, we can see the inspiration of the working classes on the upper classes. That’s another way of looking at it, although of course that’s much more problematic.

It’s interesting how in several cases you can see broader historical context, or other stories happening through clothes. Like you point out that the rise of the one-piece dresses is due to the rise of mantua makers, who were women who were less formally trained who were suddenly making clothing. Are there any other interesting stories like that, that you noticed and thought were really fascinating?

There’s a dress in the book that a woman made for her wedding. I think she was living on her own, or she was living with a servant and her mother or something. She made the dress and then turned up to her wedding and traveled quite a long way to get there, and when she arrived, the groom and all the guests weren’t there. There was nobody. So she went away and came back again a week later, and everyone was there. And the reason that no one was there before was that a river had flooded in the direction that they were all coming from. She had obviously no way of finding out about this until after the fact, and we have this beautiful dress that she spent ages making and had obviously gone to a lot of effort to try and work out what the latest styles were, to incorporate it into her wedding dress.

Things like that, I find really interesting, because they talk so much about human and social history as well as fashion history, and the garment is the main way we have of keeping these stories alive and remembering them and looking into the kind of life and world these people lived, who made these garments.

Over the centuries, how does technology affect fashion? Obviously, we think of the industrial revolution as really speeding up the pace of fashion. But are there other moments in the history of fashion where technology shapes what women end up wearing?

One example is where I talk about the Balenciaga dress from the early 1950s—with a bubble hem and a hat and she would have worn these beautiful pump shoes with it—with the introduction of the zipper. Which just made such a huge difference, because it suddenly meant you’d have ease and speed of dressing. It meant that you didn’t have to worry about more complicated ways of fastening a garment. I think the zipper made a massive change and also in terms of dressmaking at home, it was a really quick and simple way that people had of being able to create quite fashionable styles on a budget and with ease and speed at home.

Also, of course, once women’s dress started to become simpler and they did away with the corset and underwear became a lot less complicated, that made dressing a lot easier, that made the introduction of the bias cut and things that sit very closely to the natural body much more widely used and much more fashionable.

I would say the introduction of machine-made lace as well, particularly from the late 19th, early 20th century onwards where it was so fashionable on summer dresses and wedding dresses. It just meant that you could so much more easily add this decadent touch to a garment, because lace would have been so much more expensive before then and so time-consuming to make. I think that made a huge difference in ordinary women being able to attain a kind of luxury in their everyday dress.

That actually makes me think of something else I wanted to ask you, which is you point out in your intro the way we casually use this word “vintage.” I think about that with lace. Lace is described as being a “vintage” touch but it’s very much this question of when, where, who, why—it’s a funny term when you think about it, the way we use it so casually to describe so much.

Oh, yes. It’s crazy. I used to work in a wedding dress shop and I used to make historically inspired wedding dresses and things. And brides used to come in and say, “Oh, I want something vintage.” But they didn’t really know what they meant. Usually what they meant is they wanted something with a bit of lace on it, or with some sort of pearls or beading. I think it’s really inspired by whatever is trending at the time. So, you know, Downton Abbey became vintage. I think ‘50s has always been kind of synonymous with the word vintage. But what it means is huge,
Alex Hunter May 2016
sunrise, sunset
birds fly, land, and fret
doctors mend, treat and heal
write wake, write and feel.

sunrise, sunset
the fish swims while the parrot pecks,
the bees nestle back into their hives
as the moon lifts, and the sun dives.

sunrise, sunset
the diaries cease to forget
when all go back to rest
with the sunrise, sunset.

so as the babies mumble and the children cry,
the world lives and nature thrives.
the mother yawns and resets
with the sunrise and the sunset.
my first poem ever
Nothing Personal May 2012
We were born writers,
insane already when our mothers were aching
to sent us out in the world
relieve their personal catharsis.
Little did they knew
that this was the beginning of their pain.

Their suffering, starts from childbirth
and lasts till the moment they die.
Our girlfriends will make the same mistake
as our mothers;
falling in love
believing in the ***
in the future entwined
around us
and
some,
at least one will make
the statutory mistake of bearing our child
the trojan horse for the end.

We, are like parasites
we **** food, water, shelter
we nourish in beauty, warmth and care
and yet when we find open exposed skins
floating on blue, timid waters
we have nothing better to do.

words are our weapons,
our friends, our nemesis
our route to fame and
the very real lack of it.

We smash everything around us,
people ****** into day jobs around us
suffer
forget the daily bliss of life
if they share a conversation
forget more
if they dare share a kiss
a personal intimation.

Besides, we are depressed souls.
Repressed
sexually charged
impotent
and
ugly, repugnant
narcissists.

We sit in coffee shops
with our personal diaries
and create and destroy the future
of the tomorrow
that reads,
believes in us.

Every inch of caffeine
makes us **** out hate
and
spill out so much guts
that people who read us
squirm like acid burns.

We create hypes,
fool around with Nietzscheian ideas,
existential crap
but all we are doing
is creating a device
for shameful procrastination.

The world was not built around us
No world will
Whatever we think
we scoop up earthly dust
our jobs are but the
position of glorified
janitors.
Kathleen D Weibe Nov 2009
Many preserved memories
places hidden tucked away
unforgettable loves we once had
the heart is like unread diaries

People come and go so swiftly
names are barely mentioned
untold confessions never surface
pictures placed so neatly

Crimes of passion never told
secrets not spoken of
stories that are whispered
these moments we can only hold

A strangers heart is a deep abyss
for we are one in the same
it holds powerful feelings
yearning what it once miss

Freely without reservation
give to be broken
receive to be whole
lives for ones attention

It bleeds crimson tears
beats with love
knows no boundaries
having very few fears

Hello is a good place to start
maybe in time we can share
in a place where we want to be
in each others strange heart.
Rae Mitchell Jul 2014
don't love a writer
unless you can handle the truth
of the way they see your very existence
in the eyes of a poet,
a novelist,
a songwriter.
unless you, yourself, are willing to hear
the pencil moving to your name,
exposing secrets that only you two shared,
revealing hurt and laughter in rhythm and rhyme.
unless you know about the love letters
written to you but never sent
to express their yearning to hold your hand,
to kiss those lips,
to fall asleep next to you throughout the chilling night.
unless you know that your name isn't bob or joan,
or eric or melissa,
but that's how they wrote you in their novels,
marking the day you both met.

don't love a writer
unless you can handle the ache they feel
when they see you with someone else.
when they hear you laugh from afar,
but never with them.
when they allow themselves to be broken by you,
and you will never read their diaries written on napkins.
when they know you love another,
and yet still they want to hold you in their arms,
to kiss you,
to love you,
to write volumes about you.
when they promise themselves to stop writing
because the love poems have shadows of pain
and their novels go on, never ending.
when they break their hearts for you,
and let it bleed over paper and stitch it with words
to handle another day without you.

don't love a writer
until you've read their heart.
Ottar Apr 2016
Dear Life
The Continual Condition,
Alive at the Center, and
Into the Wild,
On the Road,
Double Lives

Tortured Wonders
Writing
No Other Book
My Name is Art and I Am,
Bicycle Diaries,
The Book of Myself,

The Book Thief
and 7 Minutes With God.
Titles from my shelf - spine book poetry, see here's the thing, do not ask if I have read every one of these or the many others, my answer would make both of us cry
Robin Carretti May 2018
I don't really know if this is cut out for me. I rather go to Colorado in my singing voice* how I wish I was your lover please_ let's respect one another....

Here are the
stage lights
If you cannot
stand the heat
Bud light
Other seasons
The Four Seasons
Sherry Baby

Delicacies
Diva and Don Perion
Dressed
Navy and bloodshot
Eyes maroon
The fire desire
Only made them
Moon up higher
legacy
The voices
appetizer

Pina Colada
Fireworks Bella Diva
Gondola
Sunrise Prima Donna
Between the Diva
Fireworks outside
Of Lady Madonna

(Moonstruck)
Havana
Fireworks at
her breast
hot singer
editorial
Designer Hermes
scarfed $
Diva she raises
money
Fill in her gaps
Gap Navy
So savvy Honey
Oh! Jesus
Another
genius
Fireman
Rifleman
Joplin
Baby baby
Baby

She stepped
away
from reality
What about
me Robin
I am a singer
World became
my Godly
duty
Miss Mom Judy

The music
All trends
addicted to
shopping
Men %% $
Those  Poppins
Pop stars
Robin bob bobbin
along
She's chicken
Avocado
Comando
Chief Fido

Fireworks top
crooks
The safe box
She cooks
crock ***
Aluminum Clad
Potheads
Australian lads
All spread out in
Chickenpox

Egg Foo young
Cream say cheese
Lox Hip Hop
Sugar Daddy
Pops
Collegiate
Quickie talk
((Chatterbox))
The made hit
singers paradox
Calm me, Colorado
Endless voice

Eldorado
Diva had too many
Stars at the sing sing
of Rosy®
At the check coat Sassy
Tommy can you hear me
Her mouth
mento mints

Extreme bossy
Deep-throat
(Juicy Pineapple
Dole) her

The singer sways
all over him
Dancing Glove pole
If this is the
last thing
we ever do

Designed for a
Diva with
Jimmy Choo, it's
not a
better life
for me and you

******* coo
Lana Turner,
Turntable 4 the record_
Tina Turner
What does
loving a Diva
got to do
with this!!

So tramped on
Diva devourer
He's the observer

Maxwell millionaires

Tantalizing tongues
The Canaries
Yellow Solo
Not the goddess the
Diva Luv-a sun
{Ralph Polo]
Little darlings
Vampire
Diaries
The mad
librarian
BLT Diva VIP
The hell of
tinnitus

D=F ****-Fun
in" D"
Devilology
Diva Fireworks
sanitarium
Disney
aquarium

My sign the
Aquarius
So Forestal Crystal
Forest Hills US
open tennis

We are the
champions
The  sexter pistol
wedding ring
Go, Crystal
He compelled her
Divas revolver
Wild thing makes
my heart sing
And his boxers
make me  
so closer

Diva solver
Frenzy firecracker
pleaser
Who is ready to vote
Songs wanted
love pusher

Diva's eyes
  Maybelline
Maybe all lined
Stadium of voices
titanium
The Diva to
be resold

Too many songs
were sold
Wife trophy
Platinum had
a voice tone

Diva Grand
Marnier
He's the
connoisseur
of mouth's
experimental

Mentally
He tricks you
Singing horse
you just know
won't trick you
A singer is like
a horse

Wizard of Odd
Moms many colors
performances
This land is your
land from
California but
the Diva Islands
flipping
Las Vegas

Nothing is
guaranteed
((Lady GaGa))
Your out
Haha
Stay upright
lights down
out of sight

*Brooklyn Blackout

Cake Ebinger
We were eating
Singing and Guessing

Diva sucker
lollipops
Panic at the disco
To run him over
What R the odds
Getting even road
Steven the Cosmos

The singing
highway
project
Robin was
from Bayview
Project
All Adultery
Bills
Clintons Mastery
No Susie
homemaker
Hilariously singing
Shining like the
shoemaker

Sitting at
the pub
She ordered a
hot steaming
Spa voice
The Egyptian
grains
of love sand
Medler
Fergie Google
Ben Stiller
Singer just
pill her
burlesque

So Cher-like
if I could
change back
the time I would
do it anyway
Jumping Diva
Kangaroo  pouch

Too much Diva
Ouch----
Joe DiMaggio
fireworks of *****
Big wiggle
Opera
Marilyn Monroe
The Phantom
Of *** appeal
Propaganda

Blowing off
competition
nails

But__ dying inside
like a deadlight
Sparkle me
*** lights
That voice
signals
"Neon Nights"
ooh la the
Eifel tower
bowed her
Moonstruck
striking
wallet high Kicking
wages
Got her voice back
to be shot in stages

Her revolver
eight days a week
The real voice
never take
for granted

Genie
The Diva Luv
in her SUV
She was still
singing
And he wasted
his
whole
dinner

But I got
my voice back
Singing
She let her heart out
He turned his head
He said  what a stunner
Why on earth would anyone want to be a Diva what are the benefits?
Are they the ones with the best views I rather gather all my info and I have a sweet tooth. I just love those ladies with the (Charleston chews) they really know how to chew your ears off
Robin Carretti May 2018
We hate all the
lovey-dovey
Stop being the
baby Huey!!!
No-one should
be tongue
stopped  & So on

To hear her voice
Smells of
Strawberry
Juicy Lips on
The Meds
Tired-Tongue Dr. Who
bossy
The painted tongues
The yellow Canaries
Ancient Rebel-ly
tongue diaries

The cat's tongue
Park and recreation
The hot tongue
Invitation
Huey smokes
and Brooklyn
Girls go broke
Me. Green's
lifeless weeds
She has the will
of good deeds
Gooey
She is beachy
Tongue long map
_

Hitching
a ride
Sultry Saltwater
taffy
The loving
chewy
So fit to be tied
The tongue
Lips hot thousand
words Tour Guide
*
Time and stop
Our tongues
Still licking
Gooey-
Lollipops Huee-y

I know
tongues
have
many
languages

Deathly
killer tongue
morgue
And what did it
mean to say
Before someone
took its life
Could have been
your wife
Smoking a
peace pipe
When you made
love
The wrong road
Dark business
All stripes

She has guts
The Grunge, $ tongue's
please, God!
To kiss a toad
Tongue Car
slippery

The Viper Inquiry
Her moans
and sighs
The  wet dew of
Meadows Poohs
Meeting too many
widows of Winnie
Those meddlers
The Peak tongue
of Honey hard
to handle

Queen Bee's
high
Territory
Our tongues
meet
in the
middle she cut
her tongue!! ouch
Snake swizzling
Tongue twirling
Movie

((Tongue Huey Gooey)).

Twin lounge Tongue
twister
What a dump
Right in the
dumpster

I am waiting
to hear
what you
have to say
The tongue is the most amazing thing but when we get tongue-tied that's when the  Twin of terrors begin. Take a seat make sure your tongue could stand the heat
Katie F Fitch Jun 2013
It's 2:14 in the morning right now. The soft chatter of a commercial plays in the background. I can hear the gusty wind but it surely won't bring me down tonight. I have watched five episodes of Carrie Diaries in a row and I have mixed feelings about the show but MY GOD ARE ALL THE DRESSES JUST PERFECT! Anyway, my left eye is starting to see fuzzy and I feel I should give in to some sleep for once. I began to think about people and things and how that's all there was to it. I am a person and this is a thing! To be completely honest, I thought about you and how I really don't want us to be anything more than friends I don't feel that way about you. I thought about you, a fleeting yet the very best of my friend whose return wasn't guaranteed. I wish you didn't have to leave. I thought about the new guy and how my mother seemed genuinely happy today. I'm happy for her. I thought about our plans for tomorrow and the promises that we had made. I hope you won't break them. I thought of it all yet only a couple minutes seemed to have passed me. As I laid back on my extremely childish heart-covered pillow and sheets, I realized that for just now, I'm okay.
A little short what-I-was-thinking-at-the-moment entry.
We’re drift dots...

Our bodies are bulletins behaving badly, running when we feel free– [afraid of our news feeds]...

With nowhere to hide, we’re learning psychological acrobatics to climb ahead of us inside...

With half our child’s eye missing, we’re mending and pretending, eyes set on our marvel...

Here, these humble bumble bees, clumsy and dignified, redefine...
Because there is more to us than our dull diaries suggest; than these pressured, parasitical playgrounds repress...

As we’re turned into clones in these city messes, we’re reminded of home in the simplest of places...

Our hyper-perceptive, cybernetic surge is tearing through us, and we’re drift dots searching, scattering timeless new love.
Anksy Oct 2019
Paper, it even sounds cool
Remember Paper Mache at school
Paper is a versatile beast
Paper can be folded and creased

Paper can hold your chips and cod
Paper holds the words of your god
Litmus paper turns a different hue
Paper you use when in the loo

Newspaper to get all your lies
Paper comes in many a disguise
Paper anniversary first year gone
Blank paper ready to write on

Sand paper’s rough but smooths things out
Paper cuts, paper tickets from a tout
Paperless office never to be
Remember paper comes from a tree

Rice paper, sugar paper, paper that’s embossed
Printer paper, blotting paper will absorb the cost
Carbon paper, gold leaf paper, cotton papers too
Origami, baking paper just to name a few

Paper for your love letters, notes to her indoors
Old discarded wallpaper to line your chest of drawers
Paper table cloth and napkins, paper plates and cups
Paper when your computer fails you, just for your back ups

Paper planes, Christmas decs, sticky labels to remind
Envelopes and stamps, paper roller blinds
Wrapping paper for presents, to make someone’s day
Fivers, tens and fifties, to help you pay your way

Paper mills keep turning, magazines and books
Paper muffin cups for bakers and for cooks
Paper bags to shop with, bunting to celebrate
Fancy tissue paper, paper to laminate

Paper for all of mankind, paper pocket diaries
Paper trails and shredders, papers for your enquiries
Paper in the wastepaper bin, paper piles so high
There’s nothing like a piece of paper 1,2 or 3 ply
Robin Carretti Aug 2018
Hearts another beat a second
A+ made the grade rare meat
Why is everything told to
us in a heartbeat
This is getting way too sweet
"Lips took Beeswax" bittersweet

Someone got stung B-
Strong sound muffler
Joyride Owl Hoot clever
Sweet and sourpuss
honey babe

Her mustard lips of custard
Hot temperature rising
The spicy lady opening
up new horizon gate

Too many sad rides
empty plates last joyride
Gas empty blame the county
Why did we call this joyride
without knowing
your fate

The others are more noticed
Fashionably they came late
Dine and the Wine joyride
romanced money upfront
advanced

Lips like jewels left their stale
You were the chosen one taken
for a ride from
a crooked male

Like bushel big loot basket
Rock the Kasbah rocket
Golden joyride ticket the
pickpocket
Getting away with ******
****** lips in the gasket

The joyride so beat looked
disheveled new love
unraveled
So messy but **** neat
looking, Lexus,
She looks mighty fine like
Venus, I beg you to zoom

And the love after all the treats
Sherlocked in his room
The devil made me do it
All flushed and deep red
Hearing his joyride of beats
What was really going
through her head
Hard rock ambient
painter deviant

The holiday like racing hot rod
Harvest Halloween of a joyride
Two peas in dark maze pod
Igniting a hot fire
Her lips need to decide
Who was underneath the
fumes of his fire

The coffee taste accelerating
Do we feel the pulsing beat
What a high anxiety peak
High intense flavor
You waiting for his joyride
Christmas and Hannukah
Tree to decide that's easier
But wait for true love above all
the gifts to deliver
Like bedrock meeting
Monster ride plant-eating Bug
More slugs my chinch
Inchworm of books at Joyride
College Dorm horn alarm
Manifestation enjoying
her joyride
What a conniver
Greece with my niece
vacation
Basil New rival tea
Pomegranate Cherry-bomb
Blonde Bombshell
Culture novelty joyride
Ring my servant bell
Met their sanity tomb

Her hand's dainty they shine
and sparkle
Her lips know how to jingle
Arace for hearts of stories
and memories
Always the death hand takes
a ride to the winding road of
the cemeteries
Just stay for the moment
think about the
Joyride forth of July
Our firecrackers went off at
the same time
Brie cheese favorite time
English tea and crackers
Like two lips sublime read
her diaries in his designer dockers

Going to the end of the earth lips
light up New York City galleries

Needing the fresh corner
Sunset taking lowrider Boulevard
Hollywood Oh! No world
Wildly satanic or the carefree type
Her joy smile he's sold on skype
Benevolent triad remembering
The mad magazine
MLM Maserati longevity Master
Of the joyride gun blaster
"Lips build like a Pyramid"
Becoming irresistible
Not to humble

Lips race Joyride to gamble
Nothing weakens to crumble
Baking a crumb cake its
doable stays together but
things unnamed not like
a marriage

We get blamed joyride
got damaged
We become gullible
What becomes of the broken heart
someone isn't reliable
Lips are not responsible
Leadership has you cornered  
To stumble upon her lips
Rendered steamboat surrender
How he tumbles
Mr. Grey Poupon Mustard seed
He plants her like his
only joyride
In need
We are all Jupiter the moon
joy to the world
All the boys and girls being
taken for joyrides

The Beach boy's video games
Spy lips whose to blame
Phillip screwdriver
But they take a ride
All you could pick a hot buffet
feasting she is still wearing
hot lipstick
Men have their choice of
they're next
Joyride Bride about the money
Wall-Street cars of hobbies
investing
Yeah right?
Lips take a joyride can we all please take a moment lets decide what we will do.
Is it really up to you for the road always him light that fire trim lips glow joyride fires out you tell the world what it is all about?
M Nov 2013
There are boys that cry,
There are girls who have dry eyes.

There are boys that dance or play volleyball,
There are girls that wrestle or play football.

There are boys who drive VW Bugs,
There are girls that drive trucks.

There are boys that bake,
There are girls that shred.

There are boys that like the Notebook,
There are girls that like Transformers.

There are boys that are romantics at heart, looking for love,
There are girls that aren't into flowers or love songs.

There are boys with hair to their knees,
There are girls with shaved heads.

There are boys with diaries and journals full of memories,
There are girls who have no desire to write down all the details.

There are boys with names like Aubry,
There are girls with names like Sam.

There are boys with insecurities about their bodies,
There are girls who don't weigh themselves ever.

There are boys with eating disorders,
There are girls who work out for the ideal 6 pack.

There are boys that prep endlessly for a date,
There are girls who take 5 minutes to get out the door.

There are tidy, neat boys,
There are messy, whirlwind girls.

There are boys in dresses,
There are girls in baggy jeans and a pullover.

There are boys who shop endlessly,
There are girls who can't stand the mall.

There are boys that talk about their emotions,
There are girls who would rather not.

There are boys that look after the kids,
There are girls that work full-time.

There are boys who are nurses,
There are girls who are engineers.

There are boys who cook,
There are girls that change the oil in the car.

There are boys who are complacent and subordinate,
There are girls who are dominant and overpowering.

There are boys with no desire to get it in on the first date,
And there are some girls who wouldn't mind if they do.


And those are all okay. Gender stereotyping only limits what you can and can't do. Let the boys cry and write poetry and eat chocolate when they're sad and talk about their feelings. Let the girls be aggressive and wrestle their buddies and play ball and drive sports cars. Let people do as they please. You're born as you a are, you can't decide what gender you are. You can decide what you do with your gender though, or rather what it won't keep you from doing. Your gender is only an aspect of who you are, don't let it dictate your actions to appease a society that has deemed what is and is not okay for you to do simply because you're either a guy or girl.

There are boys and girls that can grow up to be what they please, do as they wish and speak as they will. Don't be the one to tell them otherwise.
Ammar Aug 2017
Her
You are red blue and colorful
with that green hijab of yours
You are ice cream and kulfi
burgers and fries
You are the edges of that pizza
(the extra cheese was mine)
You are journals
and diaries
poetry and prose
mascara and eyeliner
books and novels
gulab jamun and chocolate boxes
music and sunset
tip toes with kisses
hazel eyes
crazy smile
stretch marks (tiger of mine)
you are apologies and cries
sad and destroyed
warm and silent
hurt
you are hurt too

you are all of my time
either 2 hours ahead or 12 behind
you are more than a memory
forever of mine
perhaps I will always be in love
with the thought of you being mine
Hijab: a head covering worn in public by some Muslim women.
Kulfi: A desi icicle made with milk
gulab jamun : desi sweet

//I know you can't get over me
You are still and will always be mine//
Jawad Jul 2017
Minimal
Live could be more optimal
If you let go of things, trivial
And focus on the real capital
Time and space, the memory
Of experiences, friends, and family
Nice gestures and charity
The joy of clarity
The depth of sanity
A better grasp of reality
More options through more money
By spending on what matters

Minimal
To love people and not things
To be who you are and not what you own
A tidiness in hindsight, in the mind
A sense of being light, feeling right
Another understanding of freedom and slavery
The slavery of things
When you don’t own things but things you
Because things hold you back and therefore
Freedom comes from less stuff, not more

Nostalgia?
But here is the thing
Memories might die
If you cut off their wings
If you capture them in things
And lock them up in dark closets
They live in your mind, not in items
They need to be free
Fresh, revived, preserved
Through presence, not hoarding

Memories live
Through pictures
Digitized in devices
Always in your pocket
Cherished in your mind

Memories live
Through words
Written by you
In diaries worth keeping
Which take you back in time
But don’t fill up your space

Memories live
Through stories
You tell others and others tell you
Face to face and soul to soul
With some coffee in-between

Minimal
Clutter is not optional
Get rid of worthless stuff
Boxes and countless little toys
One zillion paper clips
Sad chairs and old clothes
And all the dusty things
That occupy your life
And turn it into junk

Spend less
Less things
Think more
Be free
Live life
Minimal
Trying to gradually become a minimalist. But minimalism is more than decluttering. It is a better understanding of things in our life.
Ugo Jul 2012
The beauty of comatose can only be seen through
the eyes of a wizard in a blizzard
strutting in garlic slippers,

or Christ with knees bent at the tabernacle
peeling bananas and kicking prayers
farther than eternity with each gapping second,

or like Basquiat slumped back to the wall,
with ounces of speedball dancing through his veins,
eating 80’s free-based fried chicken *******  

as his eyelids paints beautiful nightmares of lemon flowers
and Bacchus bacon over a glycopyrrolate desert
of flagrant cuckold buffoonery.

Or like leprechauns burning chocolate ******* candles
on the mantle of Zion, sipping oatmeal sprinkled
with Staten Island malt liquor bacon.

or like Tupac reading the thoughts of Mother Shipton
through the daze of California cannabis
and hearing the ominous voice of Plutarch sing death assignments

from heaven to Assassins on horsebacks goggling ***** water
to wet the dry bones of their throats as they prepare to fulfill
the gospel of self-fulfilling prophecies of being fell by ***** bullets.

Or like sophisticated wallets of spice and kitchen characters in a bald head
cooking chemical kisses and 18 February nights under Moloch’s skin,
where constitutions are written in charcoal diaries with Egyptian ciphers and razors.

“I had rain sowed into the pockets of my sneakers and composed 1310 eulogies
at the basement of king David’s tower,” said the Kraftwerkian caricature,
as he dangles cigarettes in remembrance of Klaus Nomi and philosophizes on the proliferation
of poetic vandalism at urinals where modernism failed under the phosphorescence of coloration at the avenue of no trees where Picasso's "Guernica" **** Lies All.
http://www.amazon.com/OLAF-Nothing-Above-Fiction-ebook/dp/B009XZ9OVY/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid;=1353822133&sr;=8-1&keywords;=olaf+last+king+of+nothing
Arcassin B Mar 2015
By Arcassin Burnham

I'm losing touch with everybody,

I'm losing touch and you can't stop me,

Suffering for far too long,

I'm facing all the trials and writing diaries,

I don't wanna see nobody,

As long as write words in poetry,

I won't be losing touch with all my sanity,

Losing touch with everybody.
27.
James Tyler Feb 2015
On the third of November in '73, a stranger found his way to my door. He had traveled many miles: the shore out of site, his home but a distant memory. Through wheezing and tears, and a gleam in his eye, his shaking hand reached towards me gripping tightly to a letter.

"This… This is for you," he said still trying to catch his breath. "I'm so sorry, I read a line and knew it not my place," he continued, "please forgive me."

No envelope, no mailing address, no return. The smell of brine shot from the damp, yellow paper. Blue lines running towards black, water-colored ink. I reached towards him, without saying a word, and brought him inside for water. He had traveled far.

We sat down in the kitchen and I began to read:

"I have been away for what feels to be quite some time: admittedly I have lost track. My mind burns with strife. Should I just give up? Should I hold out hope? I try every day to remind myself the date. 'May 27th, 1965, is the day it began. September 16th is my birthday, and I am now 28. The current date is April 11th, 1971.' This is the date I am writing you this letter. I need you to know that I have not forgotten you. I have not let this existence strip you from me.

I still remember the way you held my hand so awkwardly in the grocery store. The way your smile, that time we drove to the Grand Canyon, made getting lost for two days worth while. We didn't even see the **** canyon, but that didn't matter. I remember the feeling I got deep in my stomach when I was on your arm. The way you were proud to show me off and the way I was proud to simply be in your light. I can taste the dinners you would cook me, and your breath at night, how it tasted like our favorite scotch. When I close my eyes, I hear your voice reading me passages from Tesla's diaries, because you knew it put me to sleep.

I can feel your warmth in this cold, desolate room, keeping me safe and watching over me. The sun breaks through a crack in the wall. I press my face against its rays and imagine them as your eyes, beaming down on me in the morning while I'm nuzzled on your shoulder.

I feed the birds crumbs of stale bread that fall off the rolls they bring me, and let their songs shower me with happiness.

I do not know where I am, but the thought of you has kept me strong. Please do not despair. I will always be with you. I will always be in your heart, as you are in mine. And I pray to whatever God is out there, that when this ordeal is over, I can watch as you live out your days in our home. My love, I need this letter to find you. Maybe the bird has heard my plea.

I will wait for you on the other side of this life. For I know I have many more with you.

Yours always, never failing;
Lenore."

It had been over eight years since I last saw my wife. We had stopped for gas ten miles outside Carlsbad. She had gone in to get cigarettes and a 40oz grape slushy (her favorite). And I...I had taken my eyes off of her for simply a few seconds to check the nozzle and…

I began to weep uncontrollably. For years I knew she was still alive, I knew when no one else would believe. I felt her holding on. I too, looked at the sun and felt as though she was looking down at me. My dreams were ransacked with memories of that failed Canyon trip, yet every morning I awoke with the largest smile on my face, simply from remembering her.

The feeling went away in the summer of last year, just months after she had apparently written me. My tears mixed with the paper, causing the ink to run even more, creating a gray blend where my tears, the ocean, and her love collided.

The stranger made his way to the bar-cart and grabbed the scotch. He poured me a double and made himself a water while I thanked this kind stranger profusely for allowing me such closure.

He had not spoken as I read. He had not spoken as I wept. He simply offered his hand on my shoulder for comfort, and a glass of scotch for remembrance.

As I took another sip from my glass my vision fogged and the room it span. This stranger I had thought so kind was standing behind me with both hands now on my shoulder, pressing down hard. Through my tears and confusion I managed to question:

"What did you do to her? What did you do with my Lenore? How did you find me? What is…" Every word growing weaker and weaker with age. And through the haze I heard him whisper, his voice different than before,

"A little birdie told me…"

And I was out. Never would I see this stranger again. My wife's last words now rest heavy on my chest. She was away, but never far. Her captor was here, but far away.

He never gave her a choice, but I have mine. And I choose to go silently into the ocean's wake, eyes wide at the stars, until I slowly drift under. I will see you again.
topaz oreilly Dec 2012
Peter windowsill had a one track mind,
crystalline thoughts vexed him
a  suede  fringed woman had him smarting, but he's not the worrying kind.
Oh to be a Postman the best things come as future vermilion diaries
but birth mother's never recall their clams,
she's as attentive as a Cuckoo
sounding her new hatchling.
Peter window shop resounding
a chip off the old block
gabby Apr 2020
and one sunny day
i ll just dissapear
but leave all my diaries
behind
so all of you
will know why.
i want to be happy. i want to be somewhere else. i am tired of feeling so low because of others. i leave it all behind and be myself anywhere away from here.
Pallavi Goswami Jun 2016
For my 4 A.M musings,
i prefer going back to that night
when you left me
in middle of
my undressed state
and satiated mind.

You said, "Darling! it's business".

Your leaving was dispairing ,
Your umpteen kisses could not fare well,
more than me,my wrinkled bed sheet was going to miss you.

That night, i could not sleep
lying in my bed, bare
i kept staring at the ceiling
the fan was waiving at me
and airing
my undone sentiments.

I dozed off helplessly,
not my fault
the night moved her fingers through my hair
while touching my forehead, gingerly.

I was in trance,
i walked on path dusted with silver ash
and stars hanging from mysterious trees
some alone, some in group
some were floating together
exactly how a constellation would be.
The clouds were nestled in tiny spaces,
they too must have given in to the night
at this hour of spree.

Just before i had woken up
i had seen a silver silhouette at the end of the path
So as soon as my eyes fluttered open
you were just there, like a fake mirage.
lying beside me ,
on your favorite pillow
staring at my books,
which you said were boring
at my pens and diaries
which made you think i am scribbling
poems on you.


And today , at 4 A.M
i am sitting where you left me
hoping this wait would be over soon.
I have opened my diary,
holding my pen like a gun
hoping to slain you,
with my words
again and soon.

Through open window
crept in your favorite bougainvillea
bathed in silver rays and brilliantly beaming,
i looked above at infinite deep blue sky
While the stars were stroking
my cheeks with lights
and singing their favorite lullaby.

But today,i could not sleep.

So i decided to hold on,
and wait for sunrise.

When sky will retain its brilliant lush
when clouds will look dramatically pink
when birds will thrum the morning rituals
when sun-rays will creep on my old fashioned building
when the morning breeze will come running for me
and touch my temples before the creepy bougainvillea.

When the signs will tell
such beauty is not in vain
" You have arrived."
#Love #Life #Pain #Distance #Wait
Overwhelmed May 2010
It’s been awhile since I looked around here,
at the hats, at the socks,
at the tv, at the books,
at the chair and the bed,
the pandas and the globe,
the mirror in the bathroom,
and the boxes in the closet.

there’s something odd about
all this ordinary stuff, even if
at one time it didn’t feel
ordinary

like this computer I type on now,
at one point it was a foreigner
to both this space and my
fingers

and yet there are hidden things too,
even they feel ordinary,
now.

maybe you have something you hide?

like:

the letters from lovers, the
diaries in drawers, the drugs
you keep secret, or the obsessions
you wish to hide

I have stuff to hide
(though none of it’s
on that list)

no,
what I hide is much
closer,
much more
dangerous
but harder to find than
anything in here

everything about my life
is strewn about this room
and I look at it all with
fresh eyes

I count it all up and think
perhaps this is my whole
life

except for a few things;
those I keep locked up
in my mind

those things

like:

what I really think, how
I really feel, why I really
write this poem, and where
the key to my heart and mind
really lies
Most humans drink coffee and wine
They consume television and mainstream novels
They feed their souls with popularity contests and safe relationships

But poets
We could not survive without passion, intensity, and meaning
Everything we feel is felt to the depths of our souls
We are the ones to put into words the unspeakable pain of heartbreak
The incomprehensible joy of falling in love
We are the ones brave enough to say out loud the diaries of a thousand souls

Us poets
We drink tea and whiskey
M Jul 2014
Old ballet shoes,
Yearbooks with letters wedged into the cracks promising friendship until the end of time.

The yearbook signatures that promised to call or catch up,
and the signatures that actually should have ended with "good bye".

Children's books and children's clothing,
Tiny t-shirts and itty bitty shorts.

Ticket stubs and concert tickets,
ID cards and senior portraits.

Long lost poetry and crinkled letters
To boys I thought I'd love beyond the time I did.

Photographs of us in our youth
And some of us apart, outgrowing each other.

Homework from freshman year,
Art projects I thought deserved life beyond the magnets on the kitchen fridge.

Baby blankets and old rosaries
for when I thought Jesus could keep my faith in all that's good.

Books I haven't read in years
that still make me smile when I roll my fingers down the spine.

My grandpa's memorial announcement
and his old fishing hat.

The CD's we used to make dances to,
and perform for ourselves in my old costumes.

Friendship bracelets from girl's names I can't remember,
and friendships I lost
Numerous diaries with long entries about being older,
and how someday older will be better,

How age will bring me adventure, maturity, love, resolution, clarity, a sense of myself, happiness.
Here I am with more age, and these endless memories make me wish for the time when I could still fit into the little shorts and stick my tongue out in pictures.

The someday I wrote of is today
and I'm teary-eyed over what used to be.

I'm missing the old you and the old memories,
the old friends and the old ways of happiness.

I'm here, older now,
and I wish I knew if older was better.
I cleaned out my room today and going through all of my old stuff made me extremely nostalgic, especially when I found old diaries and letters.
Fahad shah May 16
Last night I dreamt of my grandfather
Who died six months ago.
Passed away, people speak in my ear.
Yes, passed away. He passed away.
He passed away on one fine Saturday.

Two days ago, I wrote a poem.
A friend said, “Write one for him too.”
A eulogy?
My grandfather died six months ago.

He left a cane behind,
a torch
And diaries scrawled with debts:
Jamaal, 300.
Kamaal, 500.
Even our milkman who helped dig a grave.

Abu ji, dear Abu ji—We called.
Abu Ji died six months ago.
Passed away, they say. He passed away.
His friends say he passed away.
His sons say he passed away.
His wife—she says it too.
He passed away, they all say.

Last year, he gave me a shirt to wear
and a belt of fine yellow leather.
“This, I bought in the 60’s when I was young.
This, I bought when I was married.”
He talked of two dozen friends often,
a menudo, mi abuelo, Sus amigos.
I learned in Spanish.
A menudo: often,
Mi abuelo: My grandfather.
Sus amigos: His friends.
He spoke of his friends,
“My friends.”
Men, tall men in long boots and khaki uniforms,
who called him “Inspector,”, “Our dear inspector”
mis amigos y sus zapatos, I learned again.

Before he died, he asked
In a voice, strong, shrewd, and tired,
“Who won the election?”
“No one, for now.
Here, Congress had a rally today.
Yes, he… came to speak too.”
“A brave man,” he said.
“Yet…”

My grandfather died six months ago,
Suddenly. Of a heart attack.
I suppose.
I calmed his face by rubbing his chin,
He stared at me in a silent disbelief.
I took him to a hospital, my brother too,
“Check his pulse.”
“Is he breathing?”
“let’s turn back. There is no point.”

In the hospital, I was the brave one.
Even so, braver was my brother,
Quieter, shaken–he didn’t cry.
Nor did he in the ambulance,
Or at home.

Wrapped in a red blanket,
“Wait, did you tie his mouth?”
“Here. Take this bandage,
Tuck it beneath his chin.
What a fine beard.
What a fine man.
Are you the adult here?
Call your father”

“Father, come home. Abu Ji died.”
“Passed away,”. “He passed away.”
“Yes. He passed away.”
Brother, however younger, pats my shoulder,
“Do not cry. What shall we say?
What shall we ever say?”
“To whom?
“to mummy?”
We call our grandmother mummy.
“Yes, what shall we tell mummy?”
Abu Ji died. he died six months ago.
Passed away, she’d say. Passed away.

He died at noon. While eating.
He had only started.
A morsel of rice, dry in his white palm,
Mother screamed in disbelief,
I ran down, so did my brother
who had just come home.

“Why didn’t you come yesterday?
When I asked you to come yesterday,”
Abu Ji had said.
Then gave him all his keys
in an untimely hour.
“Quite lucky,” they said. “He gave you his keys before he died.”
Passed away, he says. He passed away.

Mother said, “Abu Ji called your name before he died.”
Passed away, she says. He passed away.
“He called your name before he passed away.”
I am shy about writing my name,
Too reserved to write my name.
If my name was Kamal, Abu Ji said,
“Kamal, come to me, I will die.”
If I was named Jamal, Abu Ji said,
“Jamal, come to me, I will die.”
Mother swears she heard it.
While Grandma was lost somewhere else.
“I heard him, he called your name.”
I do not believe it,
Not even six months later.


We came back in an ambulance
Received by 300 strange men
With 300 different hats
Men I only nodded to.
Men, who would visit my grandfather often.
“Pity, he was great.”
“Indeed. He was.”
“Oh, how every soul shall taste death”

Grandmother cried in disbelief,
“He did not die. Nor pass away.”
“Yes, you are right.”
“Yes, you are right.”

My grandfather died.
Six months ago.
I no longer cried; only felt sad.
Talk to people, I hear them say.
My great, great aunt and her great, great uncle
To their dismay
I thought of an old friend
who never calls.

My grandfather died,
Two months later, I met a friend
Where were you all this time?
She says, “I am sorry. Was he sick?”
I say, “It is all right. He was just old”
It is not all right.
“Do you miss him?” she asked again.
“I do not want to talk about it,” in disdain.
Not with her. Ever again.


My grandfather died,
Some say he called my name,
While others say he was a great man.
He left me an old ashtray,
his two diaries and a cane.
I do not want a key.
Or a shirt.
Or a belt from a forgotten age.

Last week, an old politician breathed his last,
This week, a city fell to a wildfire’s wrath.
Who is left to talk to anymore?
Last night I dreamt of him, saying that
wise old man is gone!
“Abu Ji, that city itself is ash and smoke too.”
What a pity.
My grandfather died.
Passed away; I remind myself.
Six months ago, he passed away.
Abu Ji, Dear Abu Ji.
To all grandfathers who make your lives better.
To all the best friends who always make you laugh.
I lit a candle for you yesterday
One with colors to mimic your soul
It bleeds rainbows as it melts
Red came first
It felt so right
Tasted like sorrow
I let it drip onto my fingertips, onto my wrist
White like the pills you took
Red like the pain you let out of your wrists
It captured you
I blew it out with the last drag of my cigarette
Let the air mingle with the ***** on my breath
The shot I took out of the glass with your name on it
Happy Birthday
A shot and a smoke for another year you'll never see

*The Suicide Diaries
XIII Jun 2015
We are polar opposites
You are West, I am East
Our views always contradict
You have a sweet tooth, I don't like sweets

You are white, I am black
Not literally, but just in life view
Sometimes you're ***** white and I'm clear black
It varies from half empty to half full

You are an extravert
While I am an introvert
You like being surrounded by people
I'm fine being secluded in the darkest corner

You're frank and always true
I lie so no one will have a clue
But you always know what I hide
While I am oblivious if you're really fine

You are a cat-lover, I am a dog-lover
It rain cats and dogs when we're together
You sing the sweetest meow at my whimper
I happily wag my tail at your purr

We both like music though
But we listen to different genres
We never even shared on one earphone
So sometimes we just endure the silence

You are a sadist, I am a *******
You leave bite marks on my skin
Whenever you're overwhelmed
But I'm really fine with it

You like Vampire Diaries and Victoria's Secret
While I like TVXQ and anime
We'll never agree on a TV show
Now who's gonna hold the remote control?

You are a clean freak
I am not that very clean
You're probably next to Godliness
While I'm second to the last in that list

You are very hardworking, I am lazy
While you are being busy
I'm being a potato on the couch
"Sweep the floor.", you said as the broom flew on my face, "Ouch!"

I like food trips
But you are on a diet
You like to eat healthy
I like to eat anything but veggies

True, we don't have anything in common
Except for the dislike of the black part of the fish's meat
But we are familiar of our demons
And the how-tos for its defeat

Yes, we must be polar opposites
And yes, we're like magnets
Positive plus negative
To each other, we are attracted

I am salt, you are pepper
And we complement each other
We are each others' puzzle pieces
Completing each others' emptiness

We are yin and yang
We cannot live without either one
And most importantly, you and I
We rhyme
To my significant other.
Under the sepulchre where my heart beats slowly,

There lies a necropolis where the dead lay glowing.

-

The undercroft beneath my ribs inhales frailty.

The tombstones of the truth here reminisce of failing.

-

An Acolyte to the corpse of Babylon,

The basilica spire, lies thereon,

A whisper of what had there been,

Before the Plague, the demise of Men.

-

A Monk to the infected Abbott,

The cathedral drowning in the cab’net:

The darkening secrets, too much to let go,

The flowing blood, too much for the snow.

-

A Coquette to the blistering Brothel

The modern meretricious hostel,

Lays Her cradled head down to rest,

The false hopes of a Prince, there infest.

-

The memory of a malignant massacre,

The Cancer spread like fungus on cadavers,

He tried to scream with no chords to make

The sounds emitted to keep the worms away

-

A Father of a Failure, afraid of the mirror,

As well as his own damnable creator.

The dissolution thereafter commences,

Although none change his recompenses.

-

The Leader of a glorious tribe there fallen

Rotting, decaying, like the rest of the solemn

With all respect, I know not His name

Forgotten in time, as was His fame

-

A “Friend” to a Martyr turned to a Betrayer,

Betrayer embroiled terms of the conveyor.

Martyr’s eyes and entrails are now long gone,

Though not with time, his head absent along.

-

A Dread-Worker to His mortuary,

His concept of death one day did vary,

Found were His diaries of a necrophiliac,

The town had him drawn, and quartered at that.

-

A Navigator of the salted sea,

He lays here now, bereft of memory;

It took His ship, the rocky cove,

His body here, His soul with Jones.

-

A Prophet of a fictional God,

He said he’d save the sacred sod,

And yet no miracle ever made He

His followers putrid now, festering.

-

The Violinist to His melody,

Forgot to eat, His mortal form craving,

Developing the perfect serenade,

He fell starving ‘fore having writ the last grade.

-

There is no judgement among the dead,

Except for what we give unto them,

They sleep soundly, forever eternal

Caring not who lay next to them, fraternal

Are they, and with silent kindness

Accept those also sharing their blindness.

-

The piercing shallow eyes,

At least for those who still have them,

Lack vision of the sky,

Or of the flowers who up to it stem.

-

Under the sepulchre where my heart beats slowly,

I feel a chill inside my spine that takes advantage fully,

The necropolis has inner bliss

It lies under ground and in our midst.
Robin Carretti Jul 2018
A-Start the best part*
A-Healthy heart breakfast

Not so fast slow down of prayers
Just come and arrive
Sheer whispering Dress Aline
shapes of water are mine

The Green Gables sweeter lime
The twins whisper in doubles
The pink fur Hello Kitty
My best of the cattle in couples
Meet her friend the Furry Sable

The loud whisperers stealing hearts
Of sleepwalkers
They call her the wanderer
He whispers and she's the keynotes
"Her Real Estate' A-Steal for her estate diaries

But their children love to whisper

The crayons Highlights of the wonderland
Building more Ancient dreams

Stealing the grapes of whisper escapes
Like  A-dream planted to remain
A steal cannot take that away
Even if it's you're last meal

Walking with the one you love for miles
Come on baby light my fire
Whispering Morrison door to save
A dream to give the world peace
Like wishing well pulling the rope

Whisper could that be your prayer of hope?*
The guitar the invisible impossible star
And he steals another dream  
Whispering shadows pass like clouds

Australian Malamutes doing the salute *

Got strung along
And lost you

*A-STEAL for an eye for an eye
     HEART
  just give a life

Whispering over again wasn't
the way to play smart
Losing my voice
How to trust someone's words
So hard like the concrete
The abundance of food
Ala carte or Dente

A-Steal dream putting it
into your mind

Whispering Falltime Women in her
Acorn-SHOE* prime time
Walk-in closet Godly light
Like the Viking of swords
Knight

Where to go who will ever know
Not a pin drop of a slight whisper
Clasping or gasping for air
The Holy Water was left

For the delicate minds
of the deer
That light talk of resistance
Lips of acceptance

With her silken pillows
Tied their dreams
Sopping wet rain
The French soothing whispering rainfalls
Wearing her trenchcoat
Whispering her sugar words
He could find me peace
to my river
Like two peas in a pod to float
A Steal how love can tweed his coat
My difference is hearts like "
Owl Hoot"
Just feel you know what's real
Often told the end is truly the taste
to breathe
Even if you are deep inside her dream
To justify her means
Like the Queen to the Diplomat
The highest authority

You almost felt only your whisper the priority
The Aristocrat cleaning up your
bad dreams
*High beams a spoiled love
Like a *** for the Tat

Not the fairytale Dr. Seuss
Cat in the Hat- or the desperation
of one last whisper
Up the sunrise eyes are speechless
The Astral my Goddess
You are the creature of the night
Shining the light never ending the battle night

Smells of baked cake through your nostrils
Rocky mountains of Colorado dreamy caves

Hearing  sounds but living in the distance
The romance blinded like a ghost
winning out the odds

The Even lovers like the Gods whisper
Canadian waterfall talking love deeper

Doing Pilates what *Yogalates loving the
yodeling dreaming watching him the diver
Going dirt biking just love the dreamy feel of hiking

"Hearing Attention ****** in the Summertime"

All blue eyes what a dreamer
The good Earthly brown so worthy
The Cafe Eyes

A steal dream like a spilled milk
Our cat "Jade Eyes" did I hear you
correctly an heir?


Summer the Kings speech air
The assembly line
Good and the bad memories
The years getting away with ******
The law of attraction what a steal in order

Erasing someone's scent
A- million stars you found your truth
Looking outside of your dream
Was your *Godly
tent
Whispering has many advantages and its amazing to see someone in your dream like your lover the mountains hiking or dirt biking and the change of seasons to *******

— The End —