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Joe Cole Oct 2015
The death of the Newfoundland Regiment*

They attacked after the Hawthorne mine was blown
But it never saved them
Newfoundland boys then crossed the line
And death was there to claim them
Most never made it to the starting trench
Now choked with dead and dying
For just four hundred yards away
German machine guns were barking
There is a place called Dead Tree
Where we were not to tread
For it now marks the place
Of so many Newfoundland dead
Beaumont Hamel now the resting place
Of boys so far from home
Beaumont Hamel now the place
Where heroic Newfoundland ghosts
Will ever roam
4 years ago I walked that battlefield along with many others of the Somme battles but Beaumont Hamel was probably the most moving
BB Tyler Mar 2014


Crowning the moon in rainbows,
The clouds


Warm Febuary
Finally Rain
Sidewalk Salamanders




A lonely wind
is keeping the door open


the morning light


new moon pinetrees
waiting for the


Last night's fire
Under the sun



Watching the rain
Waiting for a poem


Reading to stay awake
Falling asleep
with the light on


Rooster at dawn
to **** him


the city sounds
inside listening


Following Breath


a quiet drum
the children sleeping


step after step
we will rest
but not yet
Dennis Scherle Jan 2014

         If i could write a letter to my twelve your old self, i would mention the pain your about to face, with self loathing and mental health is far worse then the years before. I would mention how when you wake up wipe the sleep from your eyes and read this letter and find two people you loved gone from your life forever. When you leave your plastic car framed bed you will find an empty room in the basement. The first loss is not death but abandenment leaves no answer to the sting a heart can feel when your older sister meant to guide you has ran away.  She has left, and to what you shall soon find out, left you to your death. The second loss has less thought to the idea of why? but still i did cry. It was my great grandmothers time. Her slow pace death lead to suffering till one week to the day after i turned twelve.  Emotional asking questions why, three days later i tightened my silk tie putting on a suit and ending the night seeing the casket of one of you. To think of you as dead eased my head for a while but still have to replace my frown with a fake smile. After all i lost a sister, when i needed someone to talk you were never there. Instead i just found myself cutting and dyeing my hair.  This is the year you feel your fathers strong hand as you tremble below it. This is the year you tremble in fear this is the first year you want to die


      To my thirteen year old self, im sorry life doesnt get better. im sorry that this is year your parents admit they don't care.  Im sorry this is the year you hear the three words no one wants or deserves to know their pain. Even though the words "I hate you" Were uttered in vain. Im sorry no one was there to hold you in there arms, im sorry of how when looked in the mirror every morniing after you showered  telling yourself its a new day and the pain is past. Im so sorry of how you found out how long the pain really lasts. Look at what you have achieved though, this is the year you win first in all categories invited to Kick Canada to again win. You achieve a bronze as a group, silver in your weopons, and gold in kickboxing. With you feeling weighed down your still weightless, with your amazing place and the smile on your face to look in the croud hearing the aplause. Somethings missing though your parents no where to be seen. Im sorry they wernt there to say good job im sorry your dads hand still strikes strong. This is the year you say enough though, you say no and strike back your foe. He stands stunned for a minute and walks away, the bruises faded away from the surface, but inside i still see them.  It is the night of my birthday i fall asleep praying tomorow will bring a better year.


     Im sorry this is not the year it gets better, your father never lays another hand to your dismay doesnt matter for his and your mothers word fly freely. This is the year they make you cry, only to insult you further "your nothing, your trash" there tounges did lash me. Til  i crashed under hate to my untimly fate, your mother is sick and you walk into the room as she slashes the blade across her wrist, you watch her bleed amd scream for help but she pretends u dont exsist she  spends the next year and eight monthes in psycitric care. Left in a house with nothing fair in the air my invitation ti nationals came and past i did not go in fear of leaving my mother would effect her more vast, past her yelling at ke eberyday i walked in the light blue room with the curtains always closed filled with gloom . While my mother on her last heartstrings looked for strength from her groom . Only to be filled with hate she saw me as a reminder he exsists and how he doesnt visit but i did. I walked the long path every **** day to see my mothers face still i wasnt good enough but that is just my luck. It is my last night of this age. The house is empty amd quite but still remains okay just praying thiis new year brings joy to the now broken boy.


     This is not the year it gets better neither, but this os the year your mother is released. It took a week for the smiles to wear away. Then i saw once again the skin tare from her flesh. Soon hate took over the tone under her breath and malace mixed with spite is the only thing left of my mother i once knew. This is the year you once again face death, you and your mother are in a car driving counting breaths singing along to eminem, reciting robert frost. when suddenly a car passes us and my mother is crossed the mid age lady on her phone swirving around, not paying atention to anyone or anything i still see her frown. She ran a stop sighn without a thought hit by a garbage truck in front of our eyes now i know the cost of when her cellphone conversation stopped. This was the first time i watched someone die. Still shocked  my mother had to call the abulence as i and the garbage man saw the damage in case she still did breath. In the end blood filled the scene as me amd the garbage man covered the front window with a sheet to protect what is left of this womens dignity. This is the year you fond a little blue pill that not only eases your pain if snorted aslo goves you a thrill. This is the first year that you almost sucsessfully kil.l... yourself going to sleep for this living hell praying next year could be better aswell.


     This year is a self medicated blur, this is the year you forgot who you were. T3s replaced with perks and shots only to be soon replaced with oxys in your black box crushed and lined one at a time up your nose the powder glides. The first night you try an 80 you overdose nearly comitoce as you spew a frothy white  fluid from your mouth but my freinds saved me to this day i dnt know how called said i passed out and cant drive home so my parents could never figure out how i lay on the tiled floor back from death after this a pill is never again accepted that is your debt 2 days to your birthday that cursid day your sober but that was just babby steps and i promise little soilder babby steps you would not regret.


      This is the year you stopped praying for help thinking you did this to yourself i promise it wasnt you. How could it be your still just in youth. This is the year you watch your father fall. You find the trail of debt 100 thousand dollars owed mine aswell of been a million for we can barely live so how would you like us to pay it back i finfd him stealing money from my backpack. This is the year you find out your dad is the same worth of a rat and you dont have to take his crap. This is the year he snaps and instead you help him back up. He was in achoma five days as you stayed never slept jus sat beside his hospital bed praying this did not mean death. Death came in a different way with your cousin brit stabbed to death by her husband on febuary fith.. this is the year you wished you diddnt exsist.


     This is the year.... you found the courage to see you will always be...good and thats enough for me.
Samir Sep 2012
We are absurd
You and I
We have created a fermentative reality,
Where words are symbols of relation
That you and I falsify
And Bingo was his name-o!
Oh holy onomatopoeic jargon
What do you mean?
And how shall we bargain?
And mora is but a half step to a whole
Eek gad!
January Febuary March and April
May I introduce you to June and July
August, Sept Oct Nov Dec
Randomly systemized organs organized
Abstract or… dissonant?
But who is in charge?
“Why so serious?” said The Riddler
Mellow dramatic
Pantomimes EVERYWHERE!
They are able to speak
But alone I mime, “Do you have the time?”
Together we fall!
United I stand.
Upside down
Inside out
And grammar
What’s in a name?
Please don’t be lame
Sarcastic and the glamour
Synonymous nonsense
Homophones and nyms
Where are the polysemes?
In the antonyms
In the antonyms!
verbage verbage verbage
syllables and such
meaningless meaning
defining definitions with such
True or False?
Hide and Seek
Ring around the rosy
We all fall down…
We all fall down.
Black hat, white shoes, and I’m red all over.
And bitter
And dill
Institutionalized poetry
But I am for rhythmic prose!
No, not you
Listen to the hue
that the colors protrude
red green blue
red green blue
Black is not a color
Chrome is my favorite
I will not believe otherwise
You are an alien.
I have divided by zero
Musical dissonance
A beautiful disaster
A shadow without its owner
Wild natured wilderness
And naturally a wildcard.
**** **** **** **** ****
Samir Sep 2012
We are absurd
You and I


We have created a figmentative reality,
where words are symbols of relation
that you and I falsify

And Bingo was his name-o!


Oh holy onomatopoeic jargon

What do you mean?
and how shall we bargain?
And mora is but a half step to a whole

Eek gad!

January Febuary March and April
May I introduce you to June and July
August 28th
Sept Oct Nov Dec

Randomly systemized organs organized
Abstract or… dissonant?
But who is in charge?


“Why so serious?” said The Riddler
Mellow dramatic

Pantomimes EVERYWHERE!
They are able to speak
But alone I mime, “Do you have the time?”

Together we fall!
United I stand.

Upside down
Inside out
And grammar

What’s in a name?
Please don’t be lame
Sarcastic and the glamour

Synonymous nonsense
Homophones and nyms
Where are the polysemes?
In the antonyms
In the antonyms!


verbage verbage verbage
syllables and such
meaningless meaning
defining definitions with such

True or False?
Hide and Seek

Ring around the rosy
We all fall down…
We all fall down.

And bitter
And dill

Institutionalized poetry
But I am for rhythmic prose!
No, not you
Listen to the hue
that the colors protrude
red green blue
red green blue

Black is not a color
Chrome is my favorite
I will not believe otherwise

You are an alien.
I have divided by zero
Musical dissonance

A beautiful disaster
A shadow without its owner
Wild natured wilderness
And naturally a wildcard.
**** **** **** **** ****
Savio Feb 2013
Dark haird goddess,
wolf hunt siren smile,
blue blue blue,
it's snowing,
in my plastic room,
dead world war 2 grandfather,
in my blue rocking chair,
she is leaving on a plane,
feabuary 6th,
i think i'll take the tamed highway,
a gold place,
silver pawn shop,
back to Texas,
in that green motel,
i'll look for that,
pawned birth stone bracelet.
A man has his wife,
And a queen has her king,
But when it comes to me; Strife…
No such thing, not even a fling.

Not one person is willingly mine,
Mine so sweet as to not be my valentine.

If I am to spend a life alone,
How long should I wait?
For my heart to turn to stone.

A lover has his companion,
And a girlfriend has her boyfriend,
But I have no net to land in.
And no one to hold me until the end.
A queen has her man beside her,
Sitting upon the throne.
But I am destined, for sure,
To spend my eternity alone.

Not a single living soul,
Is willingly mine,
All the hearts that I stole,
Mine so sweet, as to not be my valentine.

If I am to spend my life alone,
How long should I wait?
For my heart to turn to stone,
Or for my desires to satiate.

A Woman has her husband,
But what does that leave me?
Unfortunately, time has run out of sand,
An empty life, for me, as far as my eyes can see.
Mara Siegel Feb 2012
You ate my heart when I was young and now I’m stuck in neutral
in progress
Ghenwa Feb 2017
I've dreaded that day for quite some time
The flowers aren't mine, they're hers
The smiles aren't mine, they're hers
The love isn't yours it's hers
and not only hers
but mine

Love that is real makes you forget
makes you depend
makes you forget
all of the lovers that have gone
makes you depend
when your heart beats louder than you hear
and when kisses are an escape
or a taste of chaos in your brain

love is the simple act
a simple act of feeling
feeling you
feeling through you

love is not the red red roses
but the long night talks to a silent television screen
love is the simple closeness and intimacy

a word you know nothing about
a word you judge you know
but intimacy is not only physical
but the way that I knew what you were going to say before you would
and catching the lie beforw it came out
and understanding your eyes don't lie

I hope you fall in love as many times as you please
but for what it's worth I'll never fall for anyone else
not for you
but for the thought of you and what it gives me
I could ruin her life.
I won't.
I could though.

When I was explaining how she knew I cut, I could have slipped a
          •Omitted due to some promise I made•
or a
          "Oh, and she has scars all over her body."

But I didn't.

I'll let her learn alone, the punishment for forcing me into health.
**** promises. Why must I have any honor.
Lyn Senz Nov 2013
A layered past
I know it's true
my mold was cast
inside of you
and I couldn't ask
no reason to
for a better mom

you played a hand
a pair of threes
and raised up with
a bad disease
you worked so hard
you tried to please
no there's not a better mom

you brought me food
when I was broke
and taught me good
that life's a joke
but we understood
life wears a cloak
no there's not a better mom

mom you're the best
I know it's true
you second guessed
all I would do
but I was blessed
for knowing you
no there's not a better mom

Judith Ann
March 3rd 1940 - Febuary 1st 2012

©febuary 1st 2012 Lyn
mark john junor Jan 2016
her endless summer dream
gathers dust on its sand encrusted photo of
beach blanket love affairs

jet planes departing for distant lands
she had her five and dime sunglasses
and a transistor radio
tuned to the cheerful forever summer song
still has that picture of her in the fall of 66
hamming it up for the camera with her Stanley
he passed a while back

now she shuffles up along the seawall
with her big hat and her bags
candy for little ones
a kiss on the cheek for the nice
young man who brings the paper
its miami in febuary
its endless summer
its brighton beach's southside
and i know ill have to stay
Lyn Senz Nov 2013
Dearest Molly left me Sunday
she'd been with me for so long
paid just twenty bucks to take her
walked her home so young and strong

always barked as I was leaving
broken lighter, stolen shoe
but she'd come each time I call her
Dearest Molly I miss you

1997 to febuary 24th, 2013

©2013 Lyn
I miss and love her always
.perhaps in my company we wouldn't be... opening a bottle of red wine... to let it breathe... or pouring it into a bowl to give it more air to breathe with: otherwise on life-support machine through the bottle-neck... right here, right now, we have... a glass bottle of beer (13, guinness hop lager) and 4 cans of stella artois (the wife beater's lager, so they say)... yes... beer in cans... for all intesive purposes - a good way to transport beer... in aluminium cans... but we're not bums... we don't drink beer straight from cans... we pour our beer into a tall glass and wait... so the beer can exfoliate like aladdin's jinn in the glass... away from the confines of the can... we don't drink beer from a can... we can drink it straight from a bottle... but if it comes in a can... we pour it into a tall glass... just so... so there's some head on top... we're not english in that respect either... of cutting the head (of foam) off the beer... which is probably why i always order a stout in a pub... you can't pull one without the creme de la creme on top... a head on a beer is what makes it look less like carbonated **** or concentrated lemonade... we're not bums... we drink beer from glasses... never directly from cans - the metal gets in the way... a beer like a wine needs to breathe too.

i found that there are only two types of music styles
that are suitable for drinking -
that's... drinking and not going out -
playing a cat with an imaginary fireplace...
the less imaginary fireplace being:
a stare confined to... watching a pillow...
and the general schematic of a bed...
and sitting hunched in imitation: all crow because
no crow doesn't get you far
on golgotha of daydreams: if only i...
humble servant of dusty feet - the tourist,
the pilgrim - would set off...
         on an amphetamine riddled skew into
a messiah complex adventure...

                     but not me...
                once upon a time the only music
worth drinking to was the blues...
            a long, long time ago...
                hell: once upon a time any music
would do if we all decided to go dancing...
or at least waited for the dance to come of its own
volition and not mine: i.e. the me in i would
just be dragged under the teasing waves
and slurped out to sea...

                   a thousand waves are all but the single
tongue of some swindling kraken...
drinking and random shamanic interludes in
the youth of the night-club...
when there wasn't a tally for score or...
the ones shot down by manfred...
good thing he was called manfred...
   and not some swabian helmut! oi oi!
                                             von Richthofen!
and that was when...
           until came the five beers and on
the 4th it became apparent...
                                  the red garland quintet...
soul junction...

   and it's not... a gerry mulligan's night lights...
piano sentimentality and the ode
to all things urban, cosmopolitan...
                        yes... it's not grenadine in that
sulk of yours... it's cranberry juice...
the city and... the sewers and...
                                 jazz for the urban scenes
of: anywhere but the park...
the graveyard... a choo-choo slowing into
a station... and billy joel come:
mid-life crisis and a new york state of mind...
while over 'ere we have...
     teasing the woods: where concrete ends
and mud begins... thus we can have our Adam...

only today i was walking past his bride...
doing my odd citizen duty of recycling glass...
and buying the amber sedatives (carbonated)
for an evening with some cannonball adderley
or some donnie byrd... or a horace silver...
that's the beauty of jazz...
the music is all there is... the names come and go...
sonny rollins and the story behind
the bridge... and how he would pretend to
but not pretend to... retire and go off and practice
on the bridge so as to not disturb his neighbours...
all the details are there: on the vinyl sleeve
from 1963...

now that's jazz... i don't even want to mind
how pretentious this might sound...
but... it doesn't in that: jazz is jazz in that there
might come some great improv. -
after all: it's all somewhat improv. -
   but you can't really make such basic
        speedy-shoom-of-a-choo-choo whizzing past...
   classical music is all a priori...
                              jazz... it's all a posteriori...
how? when people phone in between
1pm and 5pm to and they make requests...
they sometimes ask for something specific...
but usually... they vaguely allude to... a feeling...
something "uplifting" - play something "uplifting"...
ergo... there's this... a priori "item"(?)
in the music that's... an expectation...

          i do know what jazz sounds like
a quintent: drums, bass, piano, trumpet, sax...
yes... the guitar... asking the algorithm:
a quintet is five - what is six?
        sixtet - d'uh... sextet... well that's the basic
"i know what jazz sounds like"...
but with jazz there's always this lag...
it's this lagging behind:
    i don't exactly know what i'll feel until
only after i've heard it and in the meantime too...
jazz is all a posteriori -

while classical music for me is all a priori...
given that... it's not exactly improvised:
there's the orchestra, the movie, the script...
   and it's such a music that doesn't worship
itchy fingers of improv. - the stale or rather:
the head-about-to-explode of scoring the music like
a dissected **** of beef...
the cuts for the violins the cuts for the woodwinds...
more so: the almost shy drumming...
the wet-drumming... like rain playing
rattle fingers on tin (roofs)... or what rain would
sound like... if it was made from sand...
either way... jazz is a baggage...

hardly any sort of envisioning a journey from
(a) priori through to (b) posteriori -
and at least with jazz... you never have to really
cite who's playing... in a passing gesture
for all necessary bookmark purposes
of: where i am in the library of jazz...
unlike in classical music... where...
it's either Mozart, Beethoven or then again...
some obscure composer... perhaps ola glejlo...
but it's less about the music per se:
it's about the music of THE composer...
bonus marks for keeping to a rigid diet of one
and completing the herculean task of digesting
his entire oeuvre...

-       so i was walking past the most usual scene...
a car stopped... and she got out...
she must have been no more than 16 pushing 18...
the heavy make-up hid her otherwise boyish
contorts... a short black dress...
and as she got out of the cab...
she had her high-heel shoes in her hands...
   she was walking the cement barefoot...
i peered into her eyes... the lights were out...
perhaps her soul was screaming - perhaps this was
her first disappointment - and it was only... what...
not even 10pm on a saturday night...
my nights of youthful regret usually came after 3am
having to wrestle a berserker...
or how a dog looks like when it takes
to beer with a fond heart and only three legs...
god forbid but "they" would also cut my tail off
to further throw me off balance...
the walked passed and i looked into the cab...
a very, very nervous asian was looking at me
and then her... this didn't exactly look like...
she was ***** or was fighting to escape...
           aren't those scenarios usually stage in and around
woods - without any pedestrians walking past?
call it a trainwreck a carwreck...
                      or just running mascara...
that bad, eh?
at this point... society is a cruise ship...
and i'm stuck with ottis and none of that sentimentality
of the dock: running away with a bag of
chips wrapped in newspaper away from
seagulls... who... are apparently prone
to kleptoparasitism - a real thing... i swear to god...
the animals that want to eat in the realm
of trans-species... dogs have had their
kleptoparasistism repressed: crumbs from the table...
the chicken bones with hopes for
cartilege and someone who... is bad at
cleaning the flesh off the bone: pucker up...
move aside leech... watch this slurp...
ol' hank mobley and wayne shorter...
        one cascade after another...
5th beer in and...

yeah... so that's what a carwreck looks like...
for a girl in her late teens...
the cute black dress...
   getting out of the cab holding her high heels...
walking home barefoot...
she wasn't crying just yet...
but i could see puffy tender demon baron
of the soft cheeks readying to turn into
medussa's stare-grip... but not there yet...
this must have been her first time at "life"
and the night life and saturday...
         the cab driver looked scared shitless...
as if frozen in time... about to have his photograph
taken by a more sensible shadow of his...
i did think she just escaped a bad
session of prostitution...
but not even prostitutes look so ******* gloomy
as she did...

the ******* ***** it up -
the pundit ***** it up - the show goes on...
stage or no stage... an audience or no audience...
those eyes though... not yet crying...
but they felt... like wheeping oysters nonetheless...
you know when eyes are like that...
teasing bulging out... they appear dimmed
at first... but that's a dimming before
the sparkle of tears...
it's the 29th of febuary - yes...
mr. zodiac wasn't kind to those who still believe
in the horoscope but never tried
gambling on a winning team or horse...
it's still winter and those poor feet of hers...
she must have told the cab driver to stop...
hell... half a mile before she would get home...
a 6ft2 115kg sore thumb up with a beard
up ahead: stop! let me walk past him...
that's why i gave an inquisitive stare at the cab driver...
the cab driver was looking at me...
aren't the **** victims the ones jumping
out of the cab as it speeds off or whatnot?
so this was... staged?
              i read the "situation" wrong...
well no... i didn't find a lancelot in me...
there was no door to be held open...
           not tonight...
                                           i was in a mood for
beer and jazz... and luckily for me...
marvel of all marvels...
     haig club (1627) was sold at a bargain...
                        down from 25 quid to 16 quid...
goodbye excessive drinking the cheap *****...
hello: clubman haig... is it whiskey...
is it ms. amber... or is it chanel no. 5 -
                   is it whiskey or is it a perfume?
a snapper of a dinner standing-up...
   the scent of the last bite still on my moustache
even though i had washed my teeth...
the beer bottle opened - a drizzle on the hand
and then the hand smearing the liquid all over
the stinking hairs from an unwelcome scent...
i don't mind stinking like hops...
                  but hops is better than smelly food...

- regrets? ah yes... the "what if" universe at large...
that "whaf if" this and "what if" not...
"what if" yes and... when a man takes to walk
the street at night... he's only looking for empty
streets and... the hope of not seeing his reflection:
which is never about abruptly stopping
a cab and taking your shoes off
and walking in a tight-knit black dress
having met the world and...
                     was it heartbreak or just...
disappointment that... there are no unicorns
and she isn't daddy's precious?

any of the rudy van gelder editions...
                      "what if" i had more than just these
words... a barren wasteland of a flat
with no furnishings, not a book to call it a genesis
of a private library... not a single record
to play... no bed no curtains...
and she was the: honey-catch and snare and...
what if i were still in my late teens and
didn't have these invisible tattoos of historical
dates and the tattoos that riddle bones
that are... "habits of hygiene"...
      by hygiene i imply: ontological fixtures...
immoveable objects of accumulating my mortal
years for this formal circumstance of
the worst magic trick of all...
                   transient and... packaged elsewhere...
apparently going nowhere...

if this was a truly urban scenario...
but we're talking essex...
the outskirts of greater london...
if i bothered myself tonight i might go
to a place where i'd sit on a throne of a stump
of oak and listen to owls...
spot a rabbit, spot a badger... the foxes would
come of their own accord...
and perhaps even a deer or two... or three...
there's no glit of a picaddily circus romance:
when a girl decides to get out of a cab early
and put her porcelain toes on the wintry cement...
as if: supposing she be enticing me...
as i was thinking about the scared-shitless
cab driver...        

to have once upon a time believe in love:
the sort of love you'd see in movies...
but that's of course...
before you'd get a chance to see love...
in opera...
blue pill red pill... spiderweb of fiction...
blah blah...
watch the sort of love in movies...
then go and see an opera...
most notably verdi's la traviata...
  the movies fizzle out and you don't really
need to read this to begin with...
        i was in love once...
it was a love that was in love with itself...
          a mirage a carrot on a stick...
probably something akin to this sort of impromptu...
rescuing a girl walking barefoot home...
oh sure... happens almost every other saturday...

- the beer is for these musings, for the jazz
and for... cleaning the kidneys and a work-out
for the bladder... the shot-at-a-crescendo
will come with the haig club whiskey...
is 70cl really worth 25 quid?

- there's a difference between food with a USE BY date
and food with a BEST BEFORE date...
most notably goat's cheese...
once the best before date expires...
which is way way down the line from
the use by date... the cheese starts to taste
like... ash...

i should know since i know of the alternative
to doing shots of tequilla...
the salt is replaced with licking some cigarette
the tequilla is replaced with *****...
and the slice of lemon is replaced with
black peppercorns...

so i do know what ash tastes like...
piquant tastes: this omelette of an octopus and
of tongue...

- society is a cruise ship and i'm waving it goodbye...
welcoming a sunset of a sea as calm
as a mirror... telling my feet to take root
and stand... inaccessible...
otherwise... i am barren when it comes to having
some (h. p.) lovecraftian sensibilities from
maine... aloof and anemic... anemic with bloodshot

- of course she isn't a mystery...
the narrative would run: the little match girl...
hans... hans! hans?! hans andersen is drilling
a hole into my head about... a woman walking
home barefoot...
yes... but she is walkig home...
unlike the little match girl...
and unlike the little match girl...
this girl was carrying a pair of shoes with her...
it's not my problem whether
i'm the sore thumb that "got in the way"...
a fork in the road: like any other fork...
like any other road...

do you have to reach being 34 to see these
teenage break-ups and regrets come and bump into
you after you've done...
that most spectacular feat of towing a backpack
full of glass for recycling?
where is one to recycle bones?!

- right not all the ***** in the world is...
something of an adhesive... a hitchhiker pollen...
a hard-on of: ****** yourself for a hard-on
just because even flapping a pancake will do right now...
to ease constipation whenever necessary...

- it's a torilla... but it's wrapped like a burrito...
well... it's a torilla... kultur shock -
sarajevo - the entry level shock-awe and
blitzkrieg of drinking from the fountain
of the Haig...

- second tier... to treat pornographic movies
like... early cinema... silent...
otherwise a return to the magazine form...
and the ripe imagination readied for:
improv... or... when was the last time
my left hand didn't feel like an oyster...
and an oyster didn't feel like a leash...
and a woman's ****** stopped being
an hour worth 120 quid? -

             - third tier... the haig club whiskey
is not worth 25 quid... it's over-rated...
you're basically paying for the bottle...
i'll stick to my guns...
only the irish know how to make whiskey
on these isles... bushmills: mellow, tame...
the picts have decided to lodge
a smoking salmon into their barrels to die...
i'm supposed to have an aftertaste of vanilla...
with all that smoke... i'd be happy to taste
hungary and smoked paprika! that would
be a bonus to boot! -

- i can appreciate the picts for trying...
but let's just leave brewing whiskey to the irish...
and let's keep the english away from hops...
they'll make an undrinkable ale from it...
never the lager...

   - armed with balkan rock... standing before
the h'american monolith of tongue and culture...
or... just before what's filtered for the export...

- no... of course i don't think h'americans are dumb...
i just think there's only a naive majority...
i'm going to find the vermin and huddle among

- sooner or later we'll be calling the germans
come spring... for winter provisions...
"keeshond" or: hund... i much prefer the latter...
from under the iron curtain forged from
a broken jaw when biting the curb of:
under the silicon veil... nowhere else to go...
beside Ishrael...
          remains of the ottoman - which is hardly
me put into an iron maiden of akimbo...
where's the geisha and the samurai?!

- is your beard long enough?
      like mine... i tease it... catch it with braille
cardinals: the thumb the index and middle fingers...
twirl it... wait for some thread to tie it together
into a hanging ******* of a bundle...
while at the same time:
          before you... a throng of vermin...
this beard... a magic flute!
the zenith of my thinking...
and ultimately: the nadir of any narrative
that might be inclined to escape and
not become 3D...

- i listen to songs in german...
i put on airs of pride - my chin starts to contort into
the moon's scythe and sickle...
even if the night is overcast with beard,
or cloud...

- then i put on a record that's 20 years old...
deftones' white pony...
and i remember being a teen...
hungry for hormonal diet...
a diet to stop the bones from aching
as they grew extra sprouts:
adverse to the skin and photosynthesis...
bones that were expected to grow
entombed... not in flesh...

- sketches from the gasoline additive when
it comes to a beer, starter...
otherwise: elite... gonna breed on top
of the general... pucker up the tremor for a vibrato
kiss and leech her lips off...
to expose her most pristine:
todlächeln -
                           not a chelsea grin...
the joker lapse... i mean... extending the shaving
lines and just, completely, forgetting there's
any botox involved to grow a peach
from a duck of the reinvention of
the deflating balloon...

   leave no selfie without it...
                   herr grinsen: die / das / die / das...
i keep forgetting the definite plural and
the definite singular... feelz... feels...
maximum impromptu: das bösartigwimmern...
anything in german at this point...
sounds better than...
wenigbruder englisch...
                       dies, mein krawatte beste...
alle schwarz alle weiß:
      say to me... nein pinguine willkommen...

anything to keep these mosquitos these
zeppelins away... alt vater großartig Schwab
from this... herd of minor dicta
of the children of the house of ßaß...
translated nomad from the high pressure
***** basin of:
later, trajectory... later... the yawn and canyon...
and the sky above...

- beer first... whiskey after...
shrapnel... and gasoline... no car... no speeding...
fast but otherwise still walking...

            - a hurrah and the cohort of a hum...
to match the echo of the centipede...
         the silence and otherwise the simplified
complications of a conversation...
the bed torn between *** and sleep...
between saturday sunday and monday through
to friday...
   and the need to drink with someone else...
"the need"...
the skulls breaks at the sight of sea-riddled-and-*****
cliffs... daggers persuaded to be forever sharpened...
the fiddly parts of ***** as accountants when
it came to the pennies, copper, and granules
of sand... seized: the rivers of time...
constipated shock value elevated...
                                am i to find a lover when
the orchestra tells me...
these words will never find a dear sir / madam
or circle round for a yours sincerely...
                godzilla... the theme i remember from
the days when the japanese still had control over the beast...
otherwise... an overweight t-rex with...
arm extensions... the lotus feet of the chinese...
which also includes...
the savory diet of... tendering dog meat...
i.e. beating the dog to a plum softening...
which is: then again... not curing the already dead
curated meat...
life aware needs to be involved...
brick by brick brick on brick...
the status quo: made in china...

         cheap whiskey... although in an expensive bottle...
that is the haig club whiskey...
        so much for ezra pound admiring
the ******* ideograms...
what's to admire... when...
it ends up being a crude...
current latin emoji-infiltrated grafitti
equivalent to: CUL8R...
all that intricacy into the ideogram...
and all that remains is...
bat soup... and an advantage at playing
poker... omnivores...
you'd think that Islam would be...
more geared to break ranks among the omnivores...
like all the fickle gods... a good joke...
they abhor / are told to herd sheep
because: what sort of pig would survive the desert
and not become crispy bacon...
camels are fine too... as are their testicles...
never mind the pork leather shoes and pork
leather belts...
but the chinese omnivores are fine by
Allah: Muhammad & Co....

                               khadijah **** khuwaylid..
wrote the first surahs of the quran...
she was the literate:
the stephen vizinczey epitome:
                          in praise of older women...
last time i heard... muhammad was illiterate...
pray! that i've exhausted sympathy on
him being an orphan...
but not a ******* oliver twist thrown into
an orphanage! b'ooh h'oo...

                     the end... the whiskey isn't going
to drink itself;
as i have exhausted the patience of my bladder...
while there's the remaining concern
for a bewildering and a simultaneously
bewildered peacock... on the hunt for coy;
which is not exactly the darwinian daydream
of the short-hand greek alphabet...
the α-β male thermodynamic...
          the Σ-Δ female harem...
salmon swimming up-stream to spawn...
                             and... Ω-man / unicorn...
                     sha! schtil!
Ayad Gharbawi Feb 2010

Ayad Gharbawi

Febuary 16, 2010

If I feel
My tears

And if I feel
My fractured language
To be worthless

I am
Seeming to be seen
By you
But in reality
I know
That I am really

I am
Inert being
That has no gravity

You did punish me
Your people
Did beat me
Don’t you think
I have had enough
Or should I have more

Of your stinging rage
Against me
But you never understand
Or understood
That I did nothing
And that I am innocent

These are my words
Written for my babies
And to you
Anyone out
Who may read my
These words
Express feelings
And feelings
Express ****, severe pain
That really burns.
Looking back and remembering , even thought nothing was true , the person I dedicated my heart to , would turn around without a clue
mark john junor Jul 2013
twelve days in july
and i carry tokens of each of them
in the pocket of my filthy jeans
each has a face
each has a story and its own trail
of rages or tears

she danced alone in the room
of the redhouse bodega
a spanish tune twisting slowly from the player
its sound thin but the song robust
spinning spinning round and round
she was shadow and light
flashes of rich color
in her best dress and boots of leather
hear them still hitting the hardpack floor
like thunder
she was a goddess that night
she was the worlds that night
let her stay there forever in the limelight
happy in the moment

he waited dressed in his finest clothes
pressed and neat from head to toe
with a single rose
in the moonlight a mile down from the redhouse
in his heart he sings that song to her
in his heart he holds her in his arms
theres nothing that will stop us he says
theres nothing that will ever stand in our way
and his heart dances thru all the days with her
that he will love her
that they will share
there in the moonlight a mile down from the redhouse
singing a song in his heart for her
let him abide there forever
happy in the moment

i see dawn sneaking in the window
pull the blanket from my shoulder
shake off the chill
cough the sickhouse regret and
feel my lungs fill with  slow death
twelve days in july
but i keep dreamin of one night in febuary
a shopping cart and smiles
i could use some
all the places i could have ended
did not see this one
alone in an empty broken room
an empty broken man
dont leave me here alone
in this moment

she lay in the grass
public park just before dawn
looking up at the stars fade
holding a small budda
rubbing the belly
smile on her face
but thoughts run deep and swift
with one finger she traces the edges of clouds
in her heart she paints masterpieces
she illustrates the world with a carefree hand
and is loved by all who behold
in her heart
the last sliver of moonlight is hers alone
on the road from the redhouse
an ambulance ride to saving
a quick journey to hope
on the road from the redhouse
she just wants to stay here where its safe
where nothing dangerous can get at her
in this moment of moonlight

twelve days in july
seem like years to me
where am i bound
will i make it
i just want that night
shopping carts and smiles
just a glimmer of hope
intent on the time
know it travels close at hand
it reduces all my empires
to brittle shards
i worry the clock with glances
rubbing it worn edge with my eyes
all hangs in the balance
of its small noise motions
tick tick tick
Louise Currie Feb 2015
This time of year is yours.
I can't help but to think of you,
with a full heart and wet eyes.
I miss you more than you could know.
I wonder if you know,
That you are my every thought,
And every pain i feel is through missing you.
Richard Riddle Jan 2017
I never know when its going to happen-
waking up in the middle of the night and not seeing you,
or feeling you..... next to me .......

"She fell asleep again on the sofa", I say to myself-
Quietly, I get up, walk toward the living room-
it is then I realize, again, that you had left this mortal earth-

Nine years ago.

Love never dies, does it?

copyright: richard riddle Febuary 06, 2015
Complications from cancer, January 29, 2008. I will repost this piece every January.
mark john junor Feb 2017
he was a tin man
ever shy in the shadow of snow
and the asphalt encrusted with salt.
i am a deaf mute in its cold sunshine thru the bare trees
i am the writers reader caught up in the manyfold words
bright and crisp on my stuttering tongue
caught up in the beauty of the phrase
wishing only for its tender workings on my pale lips
caught in the web of light falling thru the bare trees
by the christmas tree so forlorn in febuary wind...
he was a soft spoken tin man
ever shy in the shadow of snow
and the asphalt encrusted with salt
the turbulent sea of my dreams
lashes line and sail with its icebound hand
as i stray between the vision you wept in ink on page
and the words you spoke
soft as a kittens fur
into my sleeping ear
a spun tale
thrashing against me
i am shy with my eyes flirting with yours
look away and recapture your gaze
the asphalt at my feet stained with winters salt
i leave my footprint behind
and wander away into the field of rye
swaying under a cold sun
never to hear the tin man sing again
after he was caught by the catcher in the rye
(i didnt hear of John Lennon's death till the morning after his death)
Grace Eccleson Feb 2013
It doesn't matter does it
No matter how hard you try the rain will still seep into your shoes
on the cold Febuary mornings that are too short and so long
No one cares the time it took to learn the tricks
and how you sat there, staring at the wall and the back of a red head
until your feet were numb and your eyes began to doubt

If i had a child I would tell them to never go down the path I wanted
It is too bumpy and full of old trees like the path that beauty looked down before choosing to ride.
I would ask them to keep dreams small and feelings smaller
and fill their big eyes with present not hope.
But I would have lied, and in lying only woken to want to dream again

I want so much.
And it feels too big for one body to take the knocks that rein down.
and its only the second one.
May E V Watson Oct 2017
I dream of Wheat, and a wife in a past life.

It always plays back to me in flashes like a memory of a past life. Her ankle length Azure dress, the blue sky with so few clouds. Her pale skin and bare feet as we walk. I carry her many brass-buckled sandals as we walk, these are things that always come back to me in echos, these things always remain constant. It started when i was a little girl, maybe six or seven, I started having a series of recurring dreams. The one I tell you about now always feels like it happened before, I call it “Woman of Wheat.”

Sometimes I am a grown man, I wear leather bracers with lions or a tree, an old oak design. My hands are calloused and as I look down to step over a root I see my maroon tunic and leather breeches and buckled boots I wear also. I am tall and strong. My blades are heavy and familiar upon my back.
Sometimes I am a Grown Woman, I wear Iron rings upon my hands, and brass wrist cuffs with a chiseled vining flower design. My hands are scarred from my previous life of war, my arms are scared and I feel the pain of the fire under my brass arm cuffs even still. As I look down to step over a root I see my white knee-length dress, secured with a brass chain belt, the buckle is chiseled leather with a Lion head, a mane made of Serpents. My thin yet deadly blade bounces on my hip. Why do these things stick out to me so? I was once able to bear, but cannot any longer, yet our children are strong and beautiful.

Her face, always seems out of focus as we walk upon the worn path through the golden, harvest ready wheat stalks. They come up near out chests and waists, I run my hands over the grain as I pass. Her shoes dangle always in my right hands, my Sword hand.

Her hair falls in Ringlets down to the center of her back. The Sun lights her up, making her seems like a Seraphim or Valkyrie. It shines Golden, red and caramel in the light of day, like blood stained gold, soft as silk she sometimes lets me braid it.
Her laughter sounds like joyous chimes around us. Sometimes, their laughter, the laughter of our children joins in, as they rush through the wheat just out of sight. I catch glimpses of them as they run past me, they are so beautiful and fill me with love. My sons and daughter, our three children, my little lion cubs.

When she turns back to me, she doesn’t say anything, just smiles an joyous smile upon her crimson painted lips, and her laugh twinkles through the air like soothing chimes in the air once more. Her eyes I cannot remember the shape, but I will always remember the color; A clear emerald, seafoam green. It is these eyes I fell in love with when I first looked upon her, and do so every time. Her soul shines like a lighthouse, to a sailor lost in a hurricane through them to me.
It is so peaceful as we walk, just walk though the wheat on a clear day as a cooling breeze shuffles the land. I don’t know how long the five or so of us walk through the fields, just walking through our harvest with a purpose to be somewhere, but us in no hurry to get anywhere. Only laughter from her and the children ringing around me, and I chuckle at their antics.

It feels as though I had waited lifetimes to have this sort of peace after all I feel I have done.
When I wake I am always happy but a little sad. I never know the shape of her or my children’s faces. I only know their eyes and hair and laughter. I have never known them in this lifetime, in this reality. But I miss them as though I did.

Written: Monday Febuary 20th 2017
I wrote this based off of a prompt a friend gave me when i was going through a rogh patch. this is one of ten and one of my best from the series.
Curtis Feb 2019
What a beautiful day

The sun is shining
The birds are chirping

The surface of this beautiful earth is glowing
Radiating with beautiful life
Mr Zeal Feb 2015
Febuary 1, 2015

I wanted to end it all cause i couldn't Rest in Peace.
I wasn't doing anything right i suppose or ...I believed.
My Best Friend was to far my Mom well..time showed me a Holy viper with the worst sting if you ever gave it information i mean..
My Dad Yells At things That I can't see though He Saw That I was There and I did everything That he told me and yet 2 Days ago he Screams at me like I'm Nothing like i didnt do anything, Do I do anything right in his eyes ? It's not His heart but His eyes i don't belive.
Maybe it is me and I just can't figure out Why ...We Hurt each other but love at the same time.

10:00 p.m. I leave like I have Something to do.
Caught up with a broken Man being beaten by questions to.
The Christian In me is Named but the Love the drives helps me to pick him as i slowly taste the Mascato's rain.
We go back and forth about Running in Place, though a hug is all i really want, maybe if I Hold him this numbness will go away.

12:00 a.m. Second Doubt of How i would escape.
It's a scary road when you know Demons are sitting with you but they can't see a thing.
Were laying in his bed as I drop the **** on the Floor so i picked my Gun up and started to walking out the Door.
The handle was moving it told me to Go, woke up aDragon and the other the one my mom kicked out the one that almost ready to go, Leave from his road...wished i never would of told her about you Forgive me and your Dragons Fire isn't Hot as Mine So i know that hurt when she drove you out just to get by.
Yet Here I am in a pool of smoke telling it to rise and Help me Rip out my throat.
You don't run to Demons when you want something to Heal you Do you?
Okay so....

2:01 a.m. Left my gun but the Dragons caught up with me, this road was so Sudden.
Being around with the angels and God you start to know "I'm the Brightest One"..
Lucifer will tell you but Satan won't. "Pride Comes before a fall".
You heard from the Zeal second and the Greatest Host First.

2:36 a.m I can't breath and hell Is Closed?
Dragons turn to men and Police turns Into Cyclops,
My Breath is there and My Mind was..I don't Know
Some Say He's Lost it and He's  hallucinating.

3:00 A.M. I'M DYING!!
My breath is Leaving me
If i stopped Yelling it would of Flew by me!
Here Lies Stephen Branch, Mr.Zeal Has Left..

5:20-ish and i woke in a Hospital
I can't...I don't..wait I can't remember anything.
The Viper is crying The River is in the camp, The "Yeller" is holding my hand but This is My family soo..Yeah.

I'm up
I can breath
Gift of a ticket and some bruises that are stuck on me.
A **** in my head that will be there for weeks,
as I Say "I Lost it and Now I have Found my Mind today".

I never said this like i did but I truly thank God today,
Worst LSD Day..
the Day I lost Everything
Don't know what i smoke
but i lost Mr. Zeal My Friend My companion the one that loves me and helps everyday.

true story
S Mia Feb 2015
I always talked about writing a book and getting out there but now I'm really beginning to use my brain and I think that writing A single book would be the stupidest thing I could ever do.  It's because stories and poetry and language, ****, life itself doesn't end after a certain number or pages.  You don't ever stop failing or creating, you're constantly revolving and revolving, we're constantly gaining a want for more, giving us this thirst for a sequel.  And to write two or three books would be just as dumb because some things just don't make sense when they're split up.  Take us humans for example;  We are born into this life with the mission to find the arms belonging to another that we will call home to at the end of each day.  We set out and we fail a million times over again but then we succeed.  We search and search until we are found by finding.  We have two hands, two eyes, two legs and we double that each time we reach out or hands to hold or to be held, each time we look into the eyes of another only to see a reflection of ourselves that's not yet been warped, each time we put one foot in front of the other in complete darkness to show that we'd fall to our death if it meant them making it out into the light.  Our head, heart and hopes long to be on the same wavelength as another.  Which is why books cannot be written with the intent of having an ending or a sequel.  We are matches to those who carry candles and while we burn out, we are lit again, we constantly begin again and again;  We do not just end, we are dropped, we drop and we pick up, we get picked back up again.

S. Mia Febuary 15 2015
mark john junor Dec 2015
the white language of snowfall lay
perfectly still where sunshine once warmed
a shaft of light pierces the evening tide of falling snowflakes
a point of reference for the weary footfall of
the man heading home
warm sweet home
his steps retraced leave one with
the enduring feeling that this vast sea of snow
covering the ground in gentle undulation
is but a foretaste of days of cold febuary to come

the winds tugs at his hood
and cling to his heart
in this the depths of winter
as he plunders his next
footstep from the cold crisp snow
it stirs thoughts of desolation
but he can see clearly sings of life
the tracks of a small creature as
it too reached for it home and warmth
in some nest or burrow

he feels the turning tides of this nights snow
he understands the meaning of these changes
to where summer sun once stretched the days into
long comforting green beauty of vibrant life
where spring will come
to melt away the white carpet which
he lays his mind on this night
where he will dream once more of
the beautiful summer sun will grow upon him
like the embrace of a lover
like the truth of passing seasons
write their own passionate tales
with the wind and skies
with the beauty of dark and light mixed
in the heart of our dreams
Richard Riddle Feb 2015
I never know when its going to happen-
waking up in the middle of the night and not seeing you,
or feeling you, next to me

"She fell asleep again on the sofa", I say to myself-
Quietly, I get up, walk toward the living room-
it is then I realize, again, that you had left this mortal earth-

Eight years ago.

Love never dies, does it?

copyright: richard riddle Febuary 06, 2015
Nicole Joanne Dec 2014
febuary 11, 2014*

sometimes I find myself
talking to the wall;
but if someone were to catch me,
I'd say I was talking to your ghost.

Though your presence seems dead,
you are still alive to me.

I've kissed you,
and held your hand,
and comforted you,

only to realize,
you're nothing but a blank white wall.

(NJ2014) all rights reserved.
Richard Riddle Nov 2015
I never know when its going to happen-
waking up in the middle of the night and not seeing you,
or feeling you, next to me

"She fell asleep again on the sofa", I say to myself-
Quietly, I get up, walk toward the living room-
it is then I realize, again, that you had left this mortal earth-

Nine years ago.

Love never dies, does it?

copyright: richard riddle Febuary 06, 2015
Complications from cancer, January 29, 2008
dead boy creek Dec 2018
I remember I spent all January 
writing this poem for your birthday
I was clawing at my head trying to gather words 
that could make you understand
the way that I needed you
as if my words could stop 
the world from ending it was funny
and futile. I did not know
how little any of it would matter

I can't remember Febuary

and I don't remember March

but I spent this night alone in April
that made me feel like I was 
once again myself. I was alone 
at a concert, he sang into my ear 
like an answered prayer
I danced in a crowd of strangers 
there were things to live for 
i was reminded

all of May I was worried you would leave me
and I never said it out loud 
until I understood 
that it'd already happened. 
I wrote so many poems about it 
without processing, like automatic 
d a d a  speech
it was like a prophecy, 
the devil in my view 
I read those poems again a couple
weeks ago; I couldn't help 
but laugh 

when he handed me the first prescription 
sometime in June, it did not feel real
my first box of blue pills on a starter dosage 
with a diagnosis I spoke to no one about
I was scared and could not say it 
did not say it. not out loud.
not for another couple 
of months I spit out poems people read
and did not relate to
and I was utterly lonely

every day in July was spent 
in front of a mirror 
I was learning to understand 
my body through movement 
things were alright during the day 
the nights were still bearable
I stayed awake reading books 
to fill my mind 

august was the month that you hurt me 
I loved you so much I felt nothing 
when you used me that night and the day after 
you told me I was nothing but y o u 
were the one that turned into nothing
I tried so hard to cry for weeks it was funny
that it only sounded like laughter
for 10 years you were the one I went to
we haven't spoken again
I don't want to anymore

September my dog died and was 
buried in the mountains 
he had skin the colour and scent of black leather 
he was a spirit animal with no teeth in his mouth 
he lead me into an understanding 
that all things must go once more
and thus began a bent spiral into chaos

I can't remember October very well
that was the month the pills really kicked in 
and I slept through everything but that 
time you came over and you let me 
kiss you everywhere
a couple hours taken out of someone else's life 
where someone could maybe somehow love me
I was so happy I was nervous; 
it was utter utter bliss
I can't remember much else, Somnolence was king
Death was a psalm I whispered 24/7
never loud enough to be heard
and I was a mess to look at 
that was the month I couldn't get out of bed 

in November I tried to pick up the pieces 
only to find I had less pieces than I began with
what I thought was family fell apart
we found a home to live in 
and I evaded your gaze like the Black Death
I convinced myself you hated me
that everyone hated me; another delusion 
they called me lazy. I felt so much shame
this was the month my mother almost convinced me to 
come off the meds in an attempt to
make me functional again
Momma I know I wish it weren't true too 
but it won’t go away if we pretend it isn’t real
we were worried about money
two pills a day, one for the highs one for the lows 
none for the memory loss or the hair loss or 
the tremors in my hands, hands that 
could not grip any sort of control 
over everything I forgot about
while I was sleeping

December was the month I got drunk 
and understood how I could self-medicate
all too easy and steadily
but I was happy again, steady again
I came off the pills my mind 
cleared so quickly like fog vanishing
I can write this now, I couldn't before
I told everyone I'd go back on them 
as soon as I could 
somehow I managed to look back 
into your eyes
and still see kindness there 
most importantly and most miraculously 
I woke up one day and suddenly wanted 
to be alive again

December 15th 2018
2:57 a.m
January again
And I'm already counting down the days til the next one
Already made enough mistakes in a matter of days
Febuary I'm so done with the rain and the  pattering on the window pain
It's march again
Another year older but I feel more or less the same and not much wiser
Continuing counting down the days
Maybe I'll learn a lesson or two along the way
And learn to line what I think and what I say
There's nothing much to say just a reminder of the wasted days and praying next year won't turn out the same
June, July
Summer time
I'll just watch and wait inside
November  in sight
Just more sitting and waiting inside
I missed my bus but you know how I get when I write loose all concept of time
December is here met by a cheer
This year it might turn out alright
James Cook Dec 2017
As I sit here I see you
My baby girl
As the days go bye I wonder
Wonder what you’re doing?
Do I ever cross your mind?

Daddy had to leave
My heart still bleeds
Baby girl I’m lost
Everywhere I look I see your smile
Little baby girl please know
Daddy had to go.

That day in Febuary I lost a piece of me
My youngest child my precious baby. that beautiful smile, you’re brown hair
With your pretty little eyes

On that awful day daddy died
You’ll never know me I missed your first steps.
Watching you grow up is something I’ll never know.

Just know my sweet baby my precious Rylee jo
Daddy loves you baby I just wanted you to know..
AY Feb 2018
Today I was walking into town
I needed my gloves on in the Febuary weather
Shielded from the world
I took my glove off for convenience
The cold breeze blew across my skin
I was happy to feel the world again
I was part of this world again

— The End —