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Tryst Apr 2015
“Spare a penny, Sir?":

        Frosted winds berate small tins --
        Forsaken headstones.
Timothy Oct 2018
There is no comfort on the storm tossed sea,
Where haply death claims lives without a trace.
There in the froth, the gale, the waves that be,
Convulsed from clime to clime, and now embrace
What I just cannot fathom nor conceal,
The dark and boundless depths that now reveal—
The lives, long gone, a homeless corpse up churn'd
The shores that change but ne'er cease to recall
A rage that sank both sailour and the learn'd,
No knells, no coffins, graves, or ev'n headstones at all!

O, rolling ocean, ship's wreckage contained
Inside thy stomach deep and rotting be,
The *****, the free, the captain thou retained;—
Mere bones, that once were faces, they to me
Are nameless and unknown, they be not mine,
All wrapt in tangle, fathom deep in brine.
Somewhere someone adored and loved their form;
Yet now fore'er engulf'd in bub'ling foam,—
Still in the barnacles that are their dorm,
Old ship was matchless to the storm—hear thy last groan.

Yet standing on thy shores, heave to and fro,
No evidence of death that catch my eyes;
Thy waters glass, they sometime toss and go
Without impending gloom, no darken'd skies.
My love, ocean, rekindled all for thee,
Within my heart, within my soul, and see;—
Time changes not thy waves wherein I play'd
As childhood waned, adulthood now I find—
Both cheerful and the cheerless waters spray'd,
Thou givest hours of cheerfulness and death unkind.
( Dedicated to Tryst. )
© Timothy 20 January 2015
ju Apr 2015
Mum had been gone a couple of months, six I think… (An ordinary day. Feeling hollow but doing OK) …when I realized I could get rid of the sofa.

I thought it was ****. She thought it was a bargain. A sofa’s not a keepsake and it was certainly no heirloom. I’d not inflict it on my kids. I got rid.

If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. Even if it meant keeping the sofa.

Redecorated. Bought a new telly. Spent frivolous amounts of cash on scatter cushions. She disliked scatter cushions. I thought they were cosy.

My little boy drew on one of the cushions. On purpose. I was about to smack the back of his legs… (Mum would have. She smacked me when I was little) … but I stopped.

I never wanted to. I had known all along, somehow forgotten.

If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. But she would not smack my children.

Mum had been gone a year… (Planting bulbs. Feeling conspicuous carrying a shovel ‘round the churchyard) …and I missed her .

It was as hot as the day she died. There was no breeze up on that hill. No cloud. Beautiful views stretched right out to the sea.

My little boy had grown. He helped carry water and dig holes. My baby was learning to walk. She wobbled on uneven turf between the headstones. I wanted Mum to see.

If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. No question.


Mum had been gone three years… (Bulbs were doing OK. There was nothing left to plant that rabbits wouldn't nibble) …and I realized it was time to move on.

I kept the ghosts quiet while agents showed people round. The house sold. We moved away. A warm, terraced place in a small town by the sea. Dad died.

Mum has been gone eight years and I miss her.

Looking out from the Downs across cliff-top and sea, the churchyard seems nothing more than a soft-grey fleck on the green edge of town.

If I could bring her back now? Everything’s changed.

Ghosts exist. They sit in empty chairs and speak kettle-whistle. Wishing us well.
Harriet Cleve Jul 2018
The past is buried in an unmarked grave

infinity x people lie amongst the mathematicians

the bankers, the capitalists, the communists,

nuns and priests from long forgotten orders

writers, poets, madmen

believers in Dostoevsky



politicians and soldiers lying side by side

Guevara and Kennedys

reeking of decomposed causes


their headstones inhabit this planet

struggles, dreams, poverty, indifference


Only the living remain to frighten young children

in gardens of festering weeds


Amongst the survivors walks the big ******* war

whose parentage dresses in many flags

holding hands with the spectres of illusion

in this calamitous circus of humanity


the past is buried in an unmarked grave

and still it is hunted

it's rotten body and brittle bones

clutching it's precious treasure


the future carrying a ***** and death still the scythe

eager for the digging

anxious to turn the soil


the past is buried in an unmarked grave

leave it alone

let it rest in peace
If we were villains
the world would topple
in tears embellished
with contrite sorrows

drowning the ruins
six fathoms under
while life disperses
above dim waters

the moon remembers
how the light lingered
before the sun left
spread of the heavens

now the staid headstones
markers of memory
stand in the darkness
aside calm marshes

perhaps gods forget
wrongs done in anger
when outcomes linger
past best intentions

the bones are scattered
in perfect hindsight
remind all of outcomes
if we were villains.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190101.
The poem “If We Were Villains” was inspired by the title of the novel, written by M. L. Rio, by the same name.   Sometimes the world is left that much worse because of actions not intended to have the outcome experienced.
Johnny Noiπ Sep 2018
Some years ago, some friends & I took a
memorable trip            to Marilyn Monroe's crypt;
one of     many apparently; I don't how that works
but to this day,                 I still tell my friend who
was w/ me,              she must've been right outside
taking pictures of headstones   when I approached
Miss Marilyn Monroe's           sarcophagus hidden
behind a wall of thinly pressed marbles tiles;
& putting my hand to the name on the raised
bronze plague         Marilyn Monroe
                  born Norma Jeane Mortenson;
                  June 1, 1926 – August 5, 1962

             I bowed my head in imitation of Dylan's
St. Augustine & just then I got a whiff of corpse,
long dead & acrid,   but it was the distinct stench
of rotting flesh or whatever else remained,    hair blacked
@ the roots,  fingernails, breast implants; farts, O
for the stink of dead Marilyn's final expulsion; the
evacuation of the dead never seeming so dreamy;
creamy on top & crusted on the bottom where it
lay resting crushed below the dead weight of the most,
most perfect buttocks ever to get skinny so fast
                                                       & melt away
                                   into withered fat & flesh;    
                               muscle & bone dehydrating
in cold storage;              |       it must have stank
like sweet **** but for the sweeter perfume
wafting from the vents w/ a subtle hint of frankincense;    
I'd gladly climb in beside her to this   day;                
             the crypt the size of a good-size condominium;                
Sylvia P.'s           hips so finely drawn & thin,
still my tongue would have run rings around
the Poetess' minute perforation of a surely
constipated **** & when she went to the loo
I'm sure it stank to ****
                  too; but shallow is the hole where
                  |    the nose probes below, sniffing
like a bloodhound to catch the scent of the death
of a Beautiful Woman;            it was Edgar Allen Poe,  
who said
            this was the most Beautiful Subject in a poem;
& suddenly I knew just what he meant,         
       what Novalis meant
        by jerking off over his young wife's grave;
like anyone willing to **** a randy old woman,
some of whom are professional ****** from the Old Country;  
I imagine there aren't many left,                                              
             ­                  maybe a few,  
like those starving Holocaust survivors I saw once on bad            
late-night TV &
 nowhere else,     dying off & leaving a Frigid Generation
                         of Women traumatized by centuries            
of acculturated horseplay & falderol;    
boys being boys & girls being whatever,
sweetly smelling         of hidden things like the dark
echoing chambers of the unknown beneath her seat;            
where she sits & ***** & pees & we all stand around
to see the holes open & spew their effluvia
like hot custard cream
& we lap it up like mangy dogs who will eat
of the Mistress' **** beneath the table cloth &  
        | in our      wake &      |      theirs is  
the legacy of feminism   otherwise suffocated
by psychic pantyhose;    she refuses to remove them: |
she just can't get it off her head;            
                  no matter how many
jeweled tiara's              we put on it; u're the ******* Queen,             
okay, rule, jeez;
men are ******, ladies;          give us ***** & liquor
                                             & u've pretty much got
                                                              ou­r attention
Keith W Fletcher Oct 2018
Through an all consuming
ever looming
self-entombing
slow death march
they slogged along
growing strong
by right of wrong
through hate
they berate conflate inflate implicate in a quest to initiate
all those withering Souls
who follow
without reason
behind those bent
who's Soul intent.. is eradication invalidation
so that even those
who avert their eyes
from this aberration
Still follow
one step one stone
one more who does condone believing
somehow time will allow
the ability to atone
to take back
what they already own
And yet ...
by division indecision miscreant dreams seen through aberrant visions
painted on
the nonexistent headstones
Of those
deemed Unworthy of condolence

When the heavy hand of Injustice Whispers you can trust us
"listen not to the neurosyphilitic rot that the weak-minded speak
for We  Are  The  Chosen
The American creed
the annointed  Anglo breed
who have fought hard
with righteousness
Appointed
to achieve
the America that God intended
as HIS emissaries
we are the righteously pure ordained Warriors
as  WE now take..
possession
of our pure white Nation
our building Stone
to create anew
that
which is to be the new state !"

Oh you fools !
you withering Souls
YOU who slogged along
through the swamps of intolerance toward a place ..you thought
you would belong
Unfortunately forgot
to anticipate
That the haters
will always need someone
to berate denigrate and to  Hate !

So ...who are you again ?

— The End —