Our fingertips are getting so cold in the places we call home.
Putting themselves to sleep with braille goose bump bed time stories.
As our bone marrow weathermen  predict another liquid nitrogen winter.

Lately we have been falling apart like glacial walls.
Our chips off the old block selves falling short
Sinking deeper with all this new pressure and all the cold.
The last of our oxygen seeping through the cracks of our lungs as our time on the bottom runs out.
As our face in the gutter hourglass runs low.
Until we forget why were looking up.
The air bubbles are slipping through our lips like rubber balloon landmines that we've blown our hopes into.
And the places we house those dreams are beginning cut loose the strings that we have been holding onto
The childhood fantasies that are better let go.
Mostly our views of perfection an
d of affection that we should no longer be grasping.
Until we are almost bursting and all that fills our minds are the thoughts of red iron razors
The ones we grow when we think of our wrists.

And I am hoping that they can drag their metallic fingers through the flesh of those message in bottle balloons til they burst
so we can cut out the silence we have been thinking so long and fill it with some ****** inspiration

But the nights are still getting darker with tongues of shadow frostbite
and ever since our nomadic tendencies saw our survival expectancies
we have been moving around in our own skin with foster kid frequencies
wearing our heart sleeves rolled up because we don't want to get hurt again.

We are sensitive to light and you are diamonds and that scares us.

because even sunlight has a history of dripping agony
and the chances are high that we end up dancing with bad luck when the sky falls.
Stepping on cracks and filling shoes with puddles.

There's a cold war going on in our hearts
and were scared of the deja vu fallout of another nuclear winter
and you like to tango with destrucion
so we duck and cover behind the bright side of the sun
we live in shadows to protect our eyes from unclear reactions
Seeking shelter in empty alleyways
Under Gothic styled rib cages

And in the hollow places that we locked away our heart
We thew away the keys.

We have the same sickness as Icarus and we are burning up like a candle in the core of the earth.
Because we already have swallowed so much blue sky salt water
We have downed glasses and glasses of your unpredictability
and its been flowing counterclockwise down our throats
stinging like back stabbed golden friendships
like out cast creation
like the heartbroken rejection that had so much promise that we believed in it
and put our hearts into it
and then were broken
and burnt
like Alexander libraries and tornado explosions

Its been so lonely being safe.
Its been so cold.
So if you ask me how many heart beats I skipped for you
Ill tell you millions
Ill tell you life times
Ill tell you that I have missed you symphonies and that you should come home.

I've carved a place in my lock for your key.
I've looked up at the stars with wide eye telescope desire
and I want to dance with you and your big dipper hands.
I've worn chameleon skin for far to long and loved you under my breath even longer.

Your brilliance scares me but please let me join you.
I am sick of hiding behind shutters and stutters and dark water.
I am sick of thinking of razors and space and being alone.

We could blind the world together
You and I
Two happy people burnt into the memories of the universe.

She speaks to me through Winter's night,
At the clash of fearless winds and tides.
Within whispers of memoired days that passed,
I find myself entangled in each others grasp.
Like a summer's day I forget the tomorrows,
Unworthy challenges, expectancies and sorrows,
Letting go of my anger and unattended pain,
Her whispers are the only things that keep me sane.
I close my eyes to the sound of aquatic gusts,
Invisioning the days we've spent sharing eachother's lust.
Through a swirl of thought I sit beside you,
With petals of flowers falling upon each shoe.
My arm grips you tight as if hanging for salvation,
Yet still we hold a certain fear of confrontation.
We path our way with big and small footsteps,
Through unearthed soil, we silently crept.
The view was shallow; yellow with blue,
I gazed my eyes upon this priceless view.
Amongst an ocean of grass and rooted flowers,
Lay a lonely rose, purveying endless thorn-showers.
How risky and deep and precious the thought,
That within grass and sunflowers, a rose has been brought.
My hands reach to grip, but my eyes twinge with pain,
A sudden push through my lungs, and rush through my veins.
I wake up confused, my dream disappears,
But you my gray rose, you're always right here.

Here’s to us
to the next generation
Here’s to us
to the first generation with shorter life expectancies than our parents
to the next generation to create the most lethal weapon
Here’s to us
to another generation that is perpetuating stigmas around *** and ****** preferences
to the next generation to create cancer causing chemicals
Here’s to us
to another generation keeping racism and sexism alive
And here’s to us
to the next generation to **** up the next generation!

Yeah, here’s to us and all the distress
we cause
Yeah, and here’s to us and all the mess
we cause

No!
Here’s to us
to the next generation
Here’s to us
to the generation craving to live deeply and fully
to the next generation that will fight for our rights as blacks and whites
Here’s to us
to the generation that understands that sexuality is fluid
to the next generation to walk for; work for cures
Here’s to us
to another generation of protests agains lies and fights won with mighty pens
And here’s to us
to the next generation to create the next generation.

I leafed through the DSM this morning
diagnosing every ******* person in my life
incessent character flaws,
maladaptive responses
that ache in my mind,
and shatter my "normal"
expectancies of human behavior

In all of the descriptors
"has a strong desire to be the center of attention"
"is often inappropriately provocative or sexually seductive"
"Exhibits odd or eccentrive appearance/behavior"
"Seeks excitement and stiumulation, often acting on impulse"

the only person I could really diagnose
was me                                                                        your therapist

They ask me to stand up
to exercise and play,
to run, to swim, to fly.
Very well...

One and all advise quiescence,
recommend counterpoisons, refer doctors.
they peek on me, perplexed.
"What's wrong?"

They suggest new sightings,
to try and get out, to not travel,
to cease living and to not perish.
It doesn't matter…

One and all see my struggle
for my bewildered expectancies,
the stumble of my now fickle nerve.
I do not consent…

One and all pick on my plagiarisms
with relentless blades,
judging, berating, amused.
I feel fear.

Frightened of everything,
of this morning's light, of the certain defeat.
For today I'm just a mortal,
decrepit and ephemeral.

For all this and more, on these short days
I'm not listening, I'm not here.
I yield, I strive again, I succumb.
I lock myself with and I open up to
my worst and most treacherous enemy,
"U" (my ego)

My unseen, poetic collaborator, talent extraordinaire.

She writes of the homeless man we pass on the street,
to which I add a word, a line or two, for who among us has never once wondered, there but for the grace of god, go you or I....


a tin cup, a beat up guitar
memories, all sepia colored,
little of his older life,
the few days left,
close by, not far,
the remains of the day,
he calls them,
his ha ha, happily ever after.

once he thought maybe after
the next song, he'll belong,
for his melody sung
in the key of despair,
but the refrain, sung with flair,
après la guerre,
ever hopeful, ever after

no passerby fails to stop,
penny or dollar, each produces,
his voice, so sad, seduces
each fearful of the sound,
but comforted by his
last words, that stick
to them, ever after.

yet, he's happy, he has a voice,
cold concrete beneath his extremities
reminds him of his lost choices,
a life begun, flowing with expectancies,
soon expected to conclude, yet,
he does not complain of life's inequities.

no matter what the tune,
no matter what the key,
no matter what the rhythm,
no matter what the beat,
his every song always ends
with words of no mean feat.

He sings:

**tho bad luck, poor choices
have brought me to
a life upon the ground,
yet I wake each morn,
kiss my stony bed,
for I am happy for,
just to be alive,
always happy, ever after.

I am me. I am the girl crying on the bathroom floor wishing she never existed. I am the boring sister, the unwanted daughter, and the distant friend. I am the bitter insults from my mothers mouth. I am the guilt from my chest when I bite back too hard. I am the music I rely on to survive. I am the dull foggy days and the long lonely nights I love so much. I am the one no one can hate and the one no one can love. I am the the broken but the not broken enough. I am the tangled collection of thoughts, weaving through one another in my mess of a mind. I am the hopeless future, I am the high expectancies. I am the too-pretty-to-be-ugly and the too-ugly-to-be-pretty. I am the 3am figure stuck to the couch. I am the weight in my chest. I am the hard mornings. I am the restless nights. I am the lost humour, the lost smiles, the lost joy. I am the lost cause.

A man born without wings into the ashes of a forest
dead leaves and a valley of butterflies
Bleached to be ethicless
effortless as it is
To go without pursuit of question

A mind of matter
Wherein death lies one doesn't know
You're feeling all these expectancies
all these dependencies
Energy of yours, unhinged

The screens written
with the bastardisation of simple truths
Rhythmic as a creature
as spoken wavelength navigating
A wondering memory standing in front of the collectives

Transcendence above the impermanence
A palace on the grounds among us, but separated
dangerous minds of a phenomenon, in sequencing
Unceasing in divinity and untempered
by the indignation of his companions

Free to be, among the meadows of ourselves.

looking deep within self
I glimpse an image of
you and I, realizing that
our felicitousness
flows with the
currents; expanding to
enlighten mind and soul
alike as we fulfill its
dormant hunger, to
appreciate what our
affinity for one another
begets; as we awaken
to overindulge in the
delicacies of our wants,
fore, our desires are
somewhat demanding
in its urgency; when we
have a lifetime to savor
of one another's ardency,
without abating our
affectations; before we've
had a true feel for love's
expectancies.

there are not four walls.
there are no gates,
nor hedges,
nor bricks.
yet, i find myself
undeniably and demeaningly so
    trapped.

this state of drowsiness
is not something
i awoke to,
but rather something
i slipped into
to get comfortable whilst awaiting
     death.

i wake and
i fall as anyone else might, but
i do not inhale the gusts of warmth,
nor cringe at the bitter drops
     of sky against my tongue.

an empty shell is all
i can imagine myself to be.
these curiosities and
these expectancies
were once mine, but drifted away.
their trail is buried in the ashes
     of an old dream.

i'd like more than anything to
feel your gentle pulse against mine, but
i determine this heart unworthy,
since each beat has become a part
    of this fated hell.

The letters are aligned for you; stay
Drumming force of an army, and thousands of soldiers yet to come
Sleep, come my way

I dread the night and the brainwork that trails
Dark heartfelt burn by each passing day
Destined to lonely confinement
Contained
Cared for and then disdained

“Beware! despairing hope, the birth of a thought!”
Full moon, pale old rock, no cause for delight
a shimmering light that of silver, soldiers at the gates!
I descended, opened the gates
now stay

O the heart, heart knows no retreat
Misplaced, has it not been the case?
Prisoned in a dying body; a cave
Sentenced to expectancies; decay

Undead
occupied at last, toasting red wine
“Never been more alive” a lie
Cure the heart with reason
revolt! shake off this helplessness
all I see is the science behind beauty and her forgetful nature
I remembered the nameless shadows they were once close at bay; treason

And he, the lingering shadow of doubt, romanticized pain. an addiction, lack of shame

While she, cloud-footed and unaware, left to become a nameless ghost

The more I learn about myself, life, and all its possibilities,
contrasting trails form with each step I take.
Large or small, a choice convolutes my predetermined path.
My decisions have taken me to an unfamiliar wood,
but that's not necessarily a bad thing.

I see the already established, but with a twist of peculiarity.
The sounds of birds chirping is known, but it's a foreign flock.
Leaves on trees still rustle in the wind,  but it's the color that's perplexing.
Deep breath. Take it all in. Embrace the change.
I'm not lost or forgotten, it's just a new setting.

If I was lost in seemingly a no man's land, then why am I not afraid?
I see the familiarity within the unfamiliar.
I notice the similarities of my position from wisdom granted.
Despite it all, I'm still smiling, still moving forward.
Crunching of leaves, the snap of a twig, I keep stepping.

If Life's ink is forever dried, there would be no astonishment or bewilderment.
There is no clear path in how you live. Each road will split
and from each split, those routes will divide.
From those routes, avenues of thought will unbind.
You will soon learn that you will never fully grasp your destination.

I may be a man of many, but I'll keep walking.
In the sun, in the rain, in snow, and the fog.
Through forests, deserts, and oceans.
I set sail for certain ambiguity and unpredictable expectancies.
An eager to live, and a lust for adventure.

the silence, has already been written upon stone,
just like my first girlfriend,
with a mix tape i made her, when
the times of the suitor's guess was made:
just like that,
when a boy could make a her
a taste of music she might listen to,
stumbling to work,
upon an apocalyptic sight of
oxford st. at 5a.m., listening to
king crimson's song epitaph -
torn and in toils years later -
the sinking maggot throng of expectancies
and jealous riling -
    culminating the jealous curse:
**** the golden horde of expectations
of future swedes!
               i sleep better alone,
with a cat it's once annoying,
with a woman, the numbing of
a side of my body, and that ****,
hurts...
           i was trying to be welcoming
by instructing the lesser known
20th century invitations,
but, it would seems,
i was less the more welcome seen...
so thus the big bang becomes
the grandiose implosion of
thought-orientation that begins with
a (0, 0) pointer -
the denial of both the existence of
god, or the existence of,
     and humming are we:
to craft the perfected personality typo;
but i remember the girl,
with my mix-tape and her job,
and the apocalyptic empty street
of oxford st....
don't mind me, i started listening
to king crimson aged 10 or 11...
   so i don't know where the jerking-off
prince came from,
that birmingham shitehole of
"diacritical" effort...
my blood isn't circulating proper:
it's boiling and has horseradish added
to the tongue, and it's riddling,
riddling, ready to make the pounce
of stashing an idiot's head in
its ******* sack!
i remember sharing a bed with a woman,
as much as i remember the numbed
either right or left side of my entire body...
i hated it! just like i hated
these cosmopolitan magazine questionnaires
that even the russian teen girls are
lucky to insist on taking part in...
sleeping with a maine **** cat
is hard enough, but sleeping with a woman,
and that numb side of your body,
can we be critical in the victorian sense
of having separate beds?
   i like less cuddling,
you have teddy ten-shoe cushion,
and allow me my other half
of the body to prevent me spooning
my body against yours,
while pretending to fall asleep...
  **** the niqab *******,
can i please, just have my own bed?!
oh yeah, i really care if you turn
it into a ninja affair...
    watch me smoke a shisha,
and eat some baklava or some falafel...
i'll become the 8th wonder of
the world in bed,
and beside the bed, you'll be tourists
beside the eiffel tower watching me
smoke a shisha, eat some baklava
and then some falafel...
or some other way round...
i didn't mind the relationship,
her being a gamer, me being a bookworm,
i didn't even mind
*** on her period, given the ******...
but sleeping together?
that was, ****** well-guessed annoying,
every single night,
cuddling into a tortilla (me)
and the filling (her) -
and the whole of my body feeding
a sensation of: numb...
         now i drink:
   so i have the perfect mosquito
deterrent...
              i'm almost sorry making this sort
of comparison, given that i remember
making high fidelity cliches of
mix tapes... alternatively in c.d. format...
i can just picture it though:
   king crimson's epitaph at 5a.m. on
oxford st., with no one there,
apart from the girl, and her pair of earphones...
i sometimes do wish it could have been,
how she tested me on her
paternal compass while sitting me
into a theme park ride with her...
now i loose the plot:
   i think she said her grandmother was
her mother, and her mother was her
sister, and her sister was her...
i can't keep up, even after 11 years...
it's like finding a canary in a coalmine -
i'm as aob clued in, as any idiot
past my experience...
      oh i made the "bride" years later,
arms slit, apparently eager on suicide,
and then this random guy turns to me
and say: oh, she's a great ****...
looks like there's a: lucky me after all...
i pity the poor ******* that married her...
that time i visited her she turned
into a pixie, which i loved,
i.e. a girl with short hair... pixies,
you know, those girls that can really
take to making short hair work...
   i might actually have a son,
but i don't know...
         it's a big might have queue the ? is on,
it's hardly a slap in the face ! expression either...
  and yes, the poem i never written,
but keeps repeating itself, over & over again:
to replace the ego, take to narcissus:
  ? walks into a bathroom and stares into
a mirror, and all ? sees is either !
or !? -
       just the right amount of description
worth of a chinese fortune cookie;
by now it really doesn't matter,
  whether or not i was allowed a chance,
or whether i had a chance,
    or whether i had the gamble: but no chance...
time does indeed heal all wounds:
   it allows the prime wound healing
object to materialise:
   all wounds heal, once the grave is
crafted and left intact;
all scorn and begging left intact,
   is obliged to be sacrificed,
upon the healing stone of a dead man's
grove of epitaph's worth of letters,
encouraged into stone, rather than
flimsy paper -
                   that the undesecrated grave
is by far the only epitaph,
   and that the desecrated grave
being the loss of:
                  a combative "last" farewell...
hell be memory -
               heaven: an amnesia.

post scriptum:

         infernum sum memoriam -
   paradiso: oblivio est.

Over recent years I've watched the ebb and flow of talent coming and going through our little pond of creativity. There is a steady group of consistent writers who contribute regularly to the pool. They interact with each other amiably, encourage, enthuse and occasionally, mildly criticize the work contributed. Many demonstrate their dissaproval with a stoney silence, some leap up and down, others pontificate.
Generally we all splash around and find satisfaction in our own damp sphere of appeal.

We who dwell in the creative waters of this pond are comfortable with our lot. We are satisfied that we are in common ground with like minded people. Few rock the boat.

Diversity is the theme where the offerings range from personal tragedy to outpourings of passion and love. Political posturing has been known to rile whilst others have been brought to tears of intense sorrow. Gales of laughter occur and the odd snicker of amused connivance sneaks out from many, quite involuntarily.

We have no William Shakespeares, no Nerudas, few of the calibre of
Leonard Cohen or Emily Dickinson....but we do have layers of excellence. Inspired outpourings frequently amaze from the most unexpected corners of our gathering. There are those who elevate themselves above the many on frequent occasions but any and all of us are capable of producing the odd inspired Masterpiece.
We all aspire to produce our very, very best as happily often as we are able.

Sadly there are those who choose to retreat into the ether, vanish with their art into obscurity for reasons of their own.... leaving a vacuum in their wake...and then there are they who tragically slip under the veil of death. All of us have lamented the passing of these dear souls, recalled the valued past moments shared in their verse and their companionship.

Occasionally, a gem wades into our pond, producing work of such clarity and inspired quality, words and phrases of such unqualified beauty and enchantment that they command universal attention and amazement. These poets shine like the sun and are the focus of the moment of the many....admiration, inspiration, enjoyment and occasionally, feelings of envy. Few of these shining stars endure for long, for they recognise and realise their talent, their potential, and aspire for higher things. They tend to migrate to poetic elevations in ponds of a higher strata.

Yea verily, there be elevated ponds in this domain, reaching right to the very top! Stratified ponds in rarified air where, unless you measure up, you don't belong! Expectancies are decreed and insisted upon in these regions. Membership is limited, controlled....and expensive. It costs to belong up there and membership is not without a constant level of stress. In these waterways you are dealing with the very top echelon of performers, the egos and the prima donnas and the fancy. There is an insistence on adherence and compliance. Here you are either in or you are out...and expulsion, from this  domain at these heady altitudes, can be sudden, permanent and quite malevolently viscious.

So thee, who may aspire to soar up there with the eagles, ponder the benefits of thy current caste, breathe the clear air and sip the nectar of this pleasant province. Count well thy blessings and then consider the quiescence and the harmony of your current company prior to making any descision to venture to take that leap!

With respect and gratitude to the denizens of HP.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
24 March 2024

I
love is indispensable passion
like bread
we finish off
      we make it up again
either in the chaos of the cities
or in the loneliness of the mountains
all alone
you
you are my beloved,
      who hides the avalanches in her dreams
if you lost your way as a snowflake
learn that hopelessness
is the stumble upon stones on the roads
hope
      is the dress of our dreams…

II
and we should never forget
nevermore
to fall in love with someone
with the love of people
is the relief from decay
to ****
      and to be killed cruelly
            are the mistakes of human beings
therefore one day... if you are;
hurt and go away from love for a while
if the hesitancy ruins your dreams of sharing
if you're left unfaithfully
the reality is unique
beat about the bush is unnecessary
at the final analysis
every leaving
is the reason to look for love in someone else…

III

whereas, passionate love is singular
human is plural
there is no old and new passionate love
the most real death is
      to lose all your hopes
the utmost collapse is
      to give up from love
the most truthful return
      is to return to passionate love
the nicest words of love
      are the ones whispered by your voice
and this is the most beautiful one
      among all the voices in the universe…

IV

they're right when they say
great loves have great risks
with deep yearning, be together again
of the true lovers
happens after they were
departed...
when one thinks love is dead
the most strongest revival of love is
to wake up all of a sudden
at the memories of yearn
bathing in the waterfalls
      and cascading rivers
            reaching to sky
pick up the blue color of love
and, to be borned, freely,
once again in your eyes...

V

for a moment... when you stare into far
suddenly, when lavas spew out
from the volcano of your heart
when yearn for love winds up your body
and if can't endure
be sure I'm blowing the winds of my thoughts
at every move of leaves
      from very far
piercing the darkness of your dreams
a growing point
a fresh breeze from the sea
      increasing up
            wave on wave

and also be sure
if your heart become a pen
and want to go on own way
I'm waiting for you, opening my arms
these white daisies… in my hands
sign for yearn/missing of you
this is the waiting of a heart
never get tired of the wait…

VI

expectancies
formation of poems
flowing of life to stories
is almost the preparation to walking
of a crawling child
      and then the first step starts
this first step means
to say "stop" to the monotony of life
without "delaying" love to the next times
to change the sough of sound to bird warbles
and being lost of two lovers
      in one soul
that is to say
in the glory of the freedom of feeling
in order our grandchildren to be inherited
joining of two hearts, forever
      by turning red...

VII

it is time my love, it's time
the pages of love opened for you, are new
the meaning of a cordial hello now
is the yearn of the beautiful days to be lived
roads are clear
lights are green
nights are the eve of the sunny tomorrows
breeze of mornings, flows
from the darkness of your black eyes
to the whiteness of your wedding dress
that 's to say
I mean, all the colors
sea
      grass
            rainbow
everything written for love today
everything to be said and written tomorrow
      is for you
every breeze
every rustling leaf
all the songs of birds are
because of, you open the road to love...

Turgay Usanmaz

From the book "goodbye love"

Honeysuckle blossoms, homemade strawberry pie
Lovely thoughts of summer, beneath a bright blue sky
Swinging on my hammock, in the summer haze
Looking up watching the world pass by, while soaking up the rays
Sipping on a julip, with watermelon snacks
Hoping for a gentle breeze, as sweat trickles down my back.
It only feels like yesterday, we had a foot of snow
How quickly nature changes, how little we still know.
We take the world for granted, expectancies are high
And when we don’t get what we want, we shake our heads and cry
Lower your expectations and except what life your given
Let’s do things out of love and pray our sins will be forgiven
It’s easy to do nothing and watch while others toil
Yet in the end we all return to dust upon the soil
Enjoy a rest if you earned it, breathe in a new day’s air
Find the purpose of your life, it's why God put you there.

In religious movies, where love is meant to be.
Bloodthirsty society,
Causing immortal anxiety.


Separated them successfully.
They lost their identities,
Forced to walk with Unknowns and Unknown destinies.
But, the new one was contrary to their expectancies.


Their parents were guilty of irresponsibilities.
Formalities among amities,
Nasty insecurities.
Dealing with mixed personalities.


Her eyes were attractive like ruby,
A mesmerizing beauty.


Now, he adores his love confidentially,
With memories on screen.
By, Re-imagining some scenes,
Heart skipping beats, Mind ****' in screams...