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Izza Feb 28
The cold breeze is the reflection of how cold my soul is

The tangled thread is the reflection of how jumble my mind is

The empty canvas is the reflection of how blank my stares are

The rusty chain is the reflection of how weak my faith is

The glass is the reflection of how fragile my heart is
JV Beaupre May 2016
I. Long ago and far away...

Under the bridge across the Kankakee River, Grampa found me. I was busted for truancy. First grade. 1946.

Coming home from college for Christmas. Oops, my family moved a few streets over and forgot to tell me. Peoria, 1961.

The Pabst Brewery lunchroom in Peoria, a little after dawn, "Who wants my sandwich? ****, this first beer tastes good." I won't tell you what he really said. 1962.

At grad school, when we moved into the basement with the octopus furnace, Dave, my roommate contributed a case of Chef Boyardee spaghettio's and I brought 3 cases of beer, PBRs.  Supper for a month.1962.

Sharon and I were making out in the afternoon, clothes a jumble. Walter Cronkite said, " President Kennedy has been shot…” 1963.

I stood in line, in my shorts, waiting for the clap-check. The corporal shouted:  "All right, you *******, Uncle and the Republic of Viet Nam want your sorry *****. Drop 'em".  Deferred, 1964.

He electrified the room. Every woman in the room, regardless of age, wanted him, or seemed to. The atmosphere was primeval and dripping with desire. In the presence of greatness, 1968.

US science jobs  dried up. From a mountain-top, beery conversation, I got a research job in Germany. Boulder, 1968.

The first time I saw automatic weapons at an airport. Geneva, 1970.

I toasted Rembrandt with sparkling wine at the Rijksmuseum. He said nothing. 1972.

A little drunk, but sobering fast: the guard had Khrushchev teeth.
Midnight, alone, locked in a room at the border, why?
Hours later, release. East Berlin, 1973.

She said, "You know it's remarkable that we're not having an affair." No, it wasn't. George's wife.  Germany, 1973.

I said, "May be there really are quarks, but if so, we'll never see them." Truer than I knew.  Exit to Huntsville, 1974.

II. In the present century....

And what have I learned? Here's advice for the next ones: On your desk, keep a coffee cup marked, "No Whining", that side out. Final retirement. 2015.

I quietly admired a Rembrandt portrait at the Schiphol airport. Ever inscrutable, his painting had presence, even as the bomb dogs sniffed by. Beagles. 2006.

I’ve lost two close friends that I’ve known for 50-odd years. There aren’t many more. Huntsville. 2008 and 2011.

I started painting. Old barns and such. 2004.

I occasionally kick myself for not staying with physics—I’m jealous of friends that did. But I moved on, and came back. There is still problem 12-19 in Becker's mechanics and it still needs solving. 2016 and continuing.

Honest distortions emerging from the distance of time. The thin comfort of fading memories. Thoughts on poor decisions and worse outcomes. Not often, but every now and then.
L B Sep 2018
My friend and I talk about it
Neighborhood got decimated this year
One after another the corners of community are gone
We touch the elder memories
as one might touch a head in blessing
as loved ones pass

We linger longest over John

Found dead after ten hot days
by other-worldly hazmat crew
flanked by cruisers
with their special, yellow truck
and zipper bags

...found 'im
glasses folded neatly on the night stand
in his jammies
all tucked into bed

No one thought it strange
that strange young guy would die
already decomposing in his head
Lost
among his personal effects
his fleet of rusting cars
and half-assed projects
Deck tacked to garage
his herds of “pets”

Easy to pretend he wasn't really there
between jail stints or some imagined threat or theft
of ****
haunted by the shadows of his persecutors
caught in motion lights
and cameras' blinding evidence of
jungle-jumble and malfunctioning car alarms
going off in the wind
Everyone's out to get his stuff
We could dismiss him--

mostly
sorta

...except for times
he mowed his grass at night
or hand-built “the lunatic tower”
just for mom
from scavenged scraps and
hammered hours
power-sawed
through the housing codes
and horror of the neighbors...
...Such a special spectacle...

******* crazy-- John!

He was enough for one day at a time
like when

he flung that threatening bolder
on his bilco doors
for percussive effect

Get off my ******' property!”
(not using his “inside voice”)
“Next time, that'll be your head!!

He announces his intent
to not get mad, behave himself
to call the cops on me instead
Fake-dialing
While his mother screams in dread
“John is off his meds!”

My phone is set to speed dial
911
__

“How did we miss this?
How did we not miss him those quiet days?”

How we miss him now
How quiet
Every neighborhood has one,  and I do miss him.  John provided endless daily entertainment and angst.  Sometimes he was a truly friendly neighbor; sometimes, truly scary.  We had many long conversations.  My beloved cat, Bailey adored him.  I took that as a good sign.  John cried when Bailey was found dead.  I have entrusted them to each other's care in heaven.

Jesus, forgive John his failures and his torments.  I take his place dutifully as the local crazy.  :)
Diya Feb 25
I was walking through the blissful forest,
Chasing the phoenix....
It was so bright and graceful!
Suddenly, the dark clouds assembled ..
And I was blinded
I lost my way and also the enigmatic bird!
My world shattered as I saw just a black canvas all around..
I hate darkness, it reminds me of the times depression poisoned my veins.
Then I heard a voice...
My mind, who's been a traitor, devastating my life, tried to help me!
I didn't listened to it cause I know it is expert in wizardry and black magic..
Yet,again ,I became its ***** chained to the handcuffs of thoughts!
I started to think..
" What on earth is my brain doing?
Heart is making me weak
Mind dethroned me and snatched my power....
But the Sleepyhead brain didn't wake up to save me...it never does
I felt helpless"
I was unaware of the aroma around me, drenched in the thoughts that populated my mind!
Hopefully, awareness rang the doorbell and I unlocked the door to reality!
A reality that I hate but this time
Darkness was gone , not from my life but from the sky !
I had a breathe of relief , maybe a fake one just like my smile... :(:
My legs stopped as my eyes saw ashes
That transformed itself to a bird
I was chasing, The phoenix!
I didn't  had a chance to touch it..
As my sleep escaped, leaving me behind..
With reality!
A chaotic poem expressing my deep emotions in a metaphorical way...
Thanks for reading...!
Sometimes, things you want won't be yours...it's hard to accept!
She said those words
'Let's be friends'
If I never hear
those ******* words again
I swear to God
it would be too soon
Comical words
invoking cartoon
characters that are
kooky and dumb
Because that's where
these filthy words are from

You must take me for a wide-eyed naive
Or an escapee of the mentally insane
ward of a prison or "hospital"
or whatever politically correct term it's called

You can take your friendship
and shove it up your ***
I know,
I'm sorry
Such a statement has no class
It's crass
But I don't give a ****
I'm angry right now
For a moment
I had hope
You got back in somehow

I built such sturdy walls
grand and tall
Made you stand outside
Press that intercom button to call
Kept you at a distance
But time turns scar tissue dull
You smiled and you waited
Baited me into a lull

We'd hang and talk
You'd smile and laugh
Hours upon hours
the time would pass
So comfortable; So easy
Something others don't have
Thoughts and dreams start again
But Nope,
Sorry! Too bad!

A forgotten feeling
Also an ember burning deep
High hopes birth expectations
That you did not want to meet
'It's just complicated right now'
Some ******* that you say
Oh! Okay! That makes everything better now
Hip-hip-hooray!

You were just being honest
Saying how you felt
It was me with the problem
A hand of cards that were self dealt
All the work I had done
The counseling and the meds
Heart-to-heart talks
Many books I have read
Feeling so confident
but overconfident I was
Unaware of the noise
A teeth shattering buzz
Blindly I stood
with the answers there for me
Head in the sand
Look away; don't want to see

You cast your spell
spelling danger to me
Who is this stranger
standing before me?
I can't stand the pain
A fire inside
can not be tamed
Turn in fear; Run and hide
Standing on my brain
Ferocious creature
Your talons slice and maim
Submissive student for my teacher

My entrails ripped out
Further entailed
A slow disembowelment
Entangling sails
Organs on sale
Detailed disembodiment
Pipe *****'s funeral march
Start understanding what you meant

'Only fools love'
you said to me once
Thought I knew what you meant
Had an inkling or a hunch
But not a ******* clue
is the sad, sad truth
Your forked-tongue spit it's venom
Words used to sooth

Mask after mask
you pulled from your face
Never the truth
Confused in a daze
You grasped with tentacles
Ensnared with your web
Lies are your candy
I was endlessly fed

My mind a toy
Not anything more
My heart for your consumption
***** kept in a drawer
Rip me apart
Please tear me down
Your never-ending heartache
I'll choke in and drown

Under your foot
Under your thumb
An insect; A maggot
Piece of dirt; Lowly ****
What am I now?
What have I become?
What was I to begin with?
A child on the run
Running with fear
You made my heart run
Mouth running had your ear
My torture was your fun

Should I call you a '*****'?
Smear your name? Shout out '*****!'
Would that equal out the playing field?
Somehow even the score?
Playing games, put on pause
Maybe save for later
But there's no saving this time
Tend each need; I am your waiter
Forever I'll wait
so endlessly I am waiting
Madly love you
Yet for me, I am hating

Thunderous booms
The sky streaked with light in veins
War is raging all around us
and in the balance we remain
Here I remain
even though there's no balance
Must be insane
Have me committed to this mess

You are a jigsaw puzzle
with half completed pieces in my mind
The rest of it a jumble
The other pieces I can't find
The nervous dog who is confused
I follow your commands
Unfulfilled, I'm simply used
Didn't go the way I planned

Now to me you speak
as you tell me so much more
of the textbook cliche nonsense
Told a million times before
You feign heartfelt sincerity,
interest and concern
Who you care for is a short list
It's as if I'll never learn

There was a version that before
was living at one time I think
But nothing in this life is free
As rain pours down, in mud we sink
So proudly I strut and adorn
my stunning hand-made concrete shoes
The complimentary attire
fitting all the bad I choose

Now frozen here
as I am kept
unkempt in this very dark place
Place marker for my maker
Marks
Without a mark
An unmarked
grave
Written: March 8, 2018

All rights reserved
Deb Jones Aug 2018
How much do we remember
of our childhood?
The scariest parts
The fears in the dark
And where special moments are parked
An odd mixture of things
Some out of context, really
A jumble of patterns
Like a patchwork quilt
To give us a handmade cover
To cushion the blows
Of adulthood
ryn Aug 2014
Earlier today, painting was the activity that we had planned
I have a support teacher who would always lend a hand
She had left the class to get the paint all mixed
While I stayed behind to get the toys and props all fixed
She came back and bore bowls of red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.

Lunchtime I visited a store and neatly displayed on low shelves
Arranged so immaculately as if magically done by elves
Were cases upon cases stitched together with only zips
They almost instantly bent a smile to my lips
Their colours shone brilliant red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.

Passed by a shop selling accessories and apparel
Merchandise dangled on wall hooks and some in a jumble
On the adjacent wall something caught my eye
Carried all the neat little tote bags one could ever buy
One peeking from a corner was red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.

Walked by a building, so modern-looking and new
Down on one side almost obscured from view
Were these horizontal rows of dancing neon lights
Stopped for a minute just to soak in the sights
Then I realised that they flickered red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.

Waited for the bus to get home at my usual bus stop
Whilst waiting, I shifted and from my bag something did drop
Bent over and picked my coin pouch that had fallen out
Looked up only to see another commuter lingering about
On his pack was a sticker which boasted red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.

Bus was packed, found a seat in the back row
Sat myself down, I peered briefly out the window
Engine under me, I scanned around to those who were seated
Observed the floor beneath my shoes as it vibrated
My pair of Adidas, oh my, they're red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.

Got home, put my bag down and sank into the sofa
Switched on the telly, on was the Food Network's "Barefoot Contessa"
Surfed through the channels, caught a real estate commercial
Promoting prime land in a country not anywhere regional
Splashed on the screen, a flag - red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.

End of the day, it is best that I hit the sack
Allow some rest for my poor aggravated back
But not till I complete the words you're currently reading
I'm thinking, dreaming and furiously typing
How do I end this? Hmm...red, white and blue?
I'm thinking and dreaming...and wishing I'm with you.
Leeli Barton Dec 2018
lately i look so sad
but i write with such hope
and i am afraid to know
which part of me i can trust
my body or my mind

i stumble back to my confusion
of blankets and realize
i'm not even certain
if my heart lies
anywhere in the great jumble
Thesunking Aug 2018
Do you know about opportunities  generated by hand shaking people?
They are sour minded,
mad
and some- ******* cruel.

These opportunities generated by  handshaking people,
Are ideas snatched from the invisible people.
They are invisible because they are artists,
Hiking somewhere deep in their  pink mists.

These words won't make any sense to you;
you need to sit and jumble them whole day.
To make a sentence ~
To make a journey across the book ~
To write a story ~
Then
Shake hands with business men who give a mean look.
But still promise to sell your poetries.

Of course with some level of politics,
These  one eyed pirates,
After having all the money they need,
They still ****** whatever is left of you.
Traveling with your story across the Sea,
With a teriible list to see.

They target  hungry men
and make friends with fat politicians
Having champagne on a cruise ship
Behaving like  typical ****-sapiens

With the discovery of fire,
They like to see you burn

●○•

So are you a writer,
a musician,
a painter?
Are you an artist who shaking hands with a snatcher?

All I can say is these business men don't buy pain from us.
They buy all the beauty that burst out from what was torturous
~
And we shake hands with business men to feel real
These sour minded,
mad and ******* cruel

We shake hands to buy food and cigarettes for the day.
We shake hands like cattle  asking for hay.
♤ < ♡
Bottled words for the wrecked sailors
Leydis Jun 2018
Oh sweet boy, Angel of God
on earth you have completed your task.
To other world’s you now must fly to,
we are keeping your feathers
as you begin your ascension .

Oh sweet child of God
Such clear vision at your tender age,
to serve and protect was your end game,
but now we are left…with a confused and hazed
apology to a shroud of teddy bears and lit candles.
The spilled wax is a reminder, that
deep inside we are all cowards
and we forgot that you were the prey
and needed protection.
The burning wick is not for you –
it’s to remind us of your light
and that humans by nature are dangerously dark…

I am sorry Junior, for we have failed you.
I am sorry that it was fear that came to your rescue,
I’m sorry your eyes witnessed the malice of creation,
I’m sorry people recorded instead of calling the operator,
I am sorry your cry for help did not connect…
You know mijo…the line was ringing-but the world is deaf.

!Oh, sweet child of God!,
Some called you Junior in life,
You were an angel with wings so wide
that in these concrete streets, you could not fly.
The Bathgate would be your access to heaven
you’ve left us your wings in a city corner,
so that we can remember to look up above
and find surrender and forgiveness in clashing clouds.

I don’t know what to say,
your departure causes so much grief and pain,
yet, you did not die in vain…I think you are still
working with humanity from far away;
You woke up a community that had been sleeping,
you woke us up from the anesthesia, the numbness
Is no longer acceptable, our youth need a BEACON.

A new door we must create so
that our youth’s future is not slain
in the mumble jumble of irresponsible adults.
Makes space for youth in the world,
So that every Junior in our lives,
can live without fear in their backyard.

Oh sweet child of God,
We are not there yet but with you..,we’ll RISE again.
Thank you for every day you arose,
for loving your mother so much,
for inspiring a movement of love,
for showing us courage and hope,
your sweet little face will live in our hearts.

Oh sweet child of God,
your name we will not forget
I think you set the stage,
we must act and rise again.

© LeydisProse
6/25/2018
https://m.facebook.com/LeydisProse//
'Tis fierce mild out, said he to himself
one mild February night, breeze so bare
and an atmosphere to match that cool air.

At a later date he went east, out on the town for a night
in the Big Smoke, the next day thought to himself:
What pleasant languishing the coke had left

in thee, though tenderized the 'auld cardiac muscle some.
Awoke another day, some time after noon, and thought of how
he'd dreamed again during those couple months with her. Now those

nightly travels were less remarkable, an immemorable mush
full of fading oneiric sensations, a hazy sleep, it'd returned to
that somnolent jumble; the vitality, gone. This clue, to notice it

has been missing from thine mental life. It is a strange tiding
when one realizes how awry things've become; oh yes, dear
retrospect will you ever succumb to a more prudent future?

I know too well the drugs which captivate
my soul
and have held me spellbound since youth.

Aye, there are ways to regain what's lost, to
recover what's missing, but interactions in the world
should be the cause of dreams, their form and content.

It worries me some to suppose other than that. If it was
some other world or part of the soul that imbued our dreams
with meaning, that would imply something has cut me off, or out.

Even were this not the case I think the implication still stands.
I mean to say that the presence of those who are known to us
in waking life may carry over in dreaming, forms transmuted

and content apparent only as metaphor. I should think there are
too many coincidental symbols, ah belay that,
I shan't dismiss post-hoc interpretation. All I wish to say is that

the presence of persons weighs heavy
on the scales of horn and ivory.
As we get older it's too easy to become
less vulnerable yet more broken, for the heart to plummet
wherein the head is resting.
betterdays Nov 2018
time kaliedescopes
yesterdays, nows and
tommorows jumble
in glittering jewels
hopes from earlier
become wistful dreams
hopes for later, mists
to be gathered in butterfly nets
dreams of now circle like
koi in a  pond,
hypnotic in their gliding
silent world

we stand on the precipice
waiting for echoes to return
waiting for an updraught
of heady confidence
to give us impetous
to allow us spread
our gossamer wings
we wait for the sun
to warm us, to bring the rush
of blood to our heads
so that we may jump
and soar in the yonder
so that our feet may feel
the caress of  impossibilty
and clouds can tickle our soles

we wait...
Lily ale Jul 2018
It’s been a while since I’ve tried to make sense of it all
It’s actually been forever in my mind since I’ve tried to make sense of anything,
My ideas, my thoughts, my problems they all jumble up together in my head,
They all started to look the same.
Maybe it’s Cause I keep looking for love in the same places I loose it,
Maybe it’s one of the many problems I’ve yet to admit I have thats keeping me interested in anything,
I’m so interested in the thoughts in my head I forget the date,
But I’m so interested in remembering the date that I don’t pay attention to the problems — thoughts. In my head.
It’s like when someone flicks the light switch on in a dark room over and over again, for a moment everything makes sense then you can’t see, and then can then you can’t,
And it just becomes a loop,
Like a Spirograph it looks beautiful on paper but once you try to follow it the more beautiful it is the harder it is to follow it. I’m really ******* tired of being a Spirograph. Beautiful on paper
But really hard to follow.
Leslie Thielen Nov 2018
my body works
like a "well-oiled machine"
(thank you for asking)
at least, my cells replicate

heart, though it palpitates,
is like a metronome
that unfortunately,
never ceases

my body in all its synapses
is flawless, save for the pockmarks
and the box scars and the skin,
the skin i want to tear open

my body is an engine
whose cylinders pump
like clockwork, twenty four seven
it never sleeps, never rests

my body is a garden
branches heavy
with low-hanging fruit
engorged with pesticides

i have no doubt, if, just once
i forgot the 8:45 AM alarm
i'd swell and sacrifice
flesh for flesh

and what would that be?
a blessing? a gift? a joy
to surpass all others?
my greatest calling,
fulfilled at last?

or would it finally shed light on the mangled cog in the aestheticized apparatus, the jumble of degenerate neurons, the radioactive chemicals that spilled on the petri dish where my soul fermented for nine months like some vile ale? mentally malformed figure in the mirror, all vanity and composure and eloquently spoken words, the barely living incarnation of Caravaggio's St. Peter, can't even look at something sharp without thinking of death––

what miserable sort of life would that beget?
obviously i have some heavy stuff to work through :)
all the poetry in the world is fading,
a jumble of eloquent tucked into spools
of neglected reverie.
i thumb through the caustic champions
of my inner mythos
and find no Hercules.
only goats and knives.... swimming
in almost love.

Summer is a dull grain of sunlight.

but the horizon is far enough away to be a promise
for Now.
I seek it like i must be there to live more alively.
but cannot die for it as much as i want.
these are the symptoms of breathing.
breathing in the vacuum
of our choosing.
the urge is the force
that cannot live without your descent.
because **** is a place
made for you.
Robert Carter Jan 20
Frivolous, yet protrusive to the mind,
Reductive, yet ultimately prestigious,
The epitome of chaos, abomination of order,
Mocking ill informed statutes, for what?

Implementing indifference to the recipient,
And therefore is undesirable, but still spontaneous;
Creases upon silk in randomized fashion,
Cloaked by erroneous declarations of meaning

And then to become marooned by others,
That pass by way of order, alas!
Ostracized was any corrupt system
By those who perceived it in due time.

Contemplating on glory and honor.
There the fall occurs, but with temptations near,
And until emancipation from the jumble,
Only until then, will thought cease to come clear.

But until then, with bars of steel in bare hands,
Lonesome tears commemorating those old desires,
Maroon rapids to rid the soul of hope,
And condemnation for darkness to come,

Those old habits yet still don’t *******
The achy, destitute mind in need of use,
And still again shall remain until fancied
True ideologies worth revelation arise.
I struggle to voice my thoughts,
each consonant lost somewhere;
stuck between my lips and throat,
each intended syllable lies dormant
and waiting.

Even when I pass the threshold of speech
all that comes out is a jumble of pleasantries
constructed by forefathers,
their forefathers
and those before them.

For now, I am bound to my pen,
the inky tears have stained my skin
and I am still standing.
The thick fog which obscures my voicebox
can't obstruct the flow in which my thoughts spill
violently onto the page.
I know that this probably isn't relatable but a lot of the time I really struggle to get my words out and for someone who is rarely ever taken seriously by those around me (I can be pretty goofy) I find it hard to express myself so things like music and poetry can be really cathartic for me.
Aditya Roy Nov 2018
The tiger reaches
Through
Peaceful forests
The tigers the end of his jumble
With a peaceful grumble
In his stomach
Stumbled upon a dead tree
Under which a river
Had the reflection of
A deer's face
Later, I on the other side
On the side of the river
Found that the tiger was
Just leaving the forest
Without any way
Bright eyes of the night
Dangerous by the day
Looking for prey within sight
We were just left with a burning
Forests
Forests foraging thoroughly
For a way to reflect
In a time without water and trees
The forests turn to dirt
And man's resources to greed
AngelAutumn4 Dec 2018
My passion’s dead or simply dying,
And though I’m trying to understand what’s left,
I’m finding it impossible to make any headway,
In a headspace so jam packed with memories and remedies for things I don’t even know about, I have my doubts about what I can trust, but if I must listen to my thoughts I’ll quit chasing what I think they forgot, and listen to myself for once even though it’s just a shell upon a shelf of losing touch.

— The End —