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Michael Sep 2018
I should have listened to my mother,
She told me to think before I act.
After all the struggles in life I wish I could take my thoughtless actions back,
But I can’t so that’s that.


Running this race of life,
Leaves you feeling like you just might,
Get up and disappear into the night.
I don’t want to do that, I know it’s not right.
But here I am thinking I just might.

A life of bad decisions,
Thrown in with indecision,
Mixed up with a total lack of precision,
Has left my soul feeling like I’m missing.

It’s too late to change the past,
But I need to move fast to make the future last,
And indeed to watch the present pass.
Life could have been easier, it could have been a blast.
Looking back and missing now
September Rose May 2018
We are tied together by our stories, our history
Tales woven through our ancestry, when our parents talk of their younger days
When their life was ahead of them, the future was anything and everything, they speak of their old friends with ache in their soul
Of times when their hearts were filled with fire and passion, running through fields growing memories  planted by the world around them
When they could sprint the wind in their hair, adventure ahead, hope in their heart.
They speak of the days behind with woe
Because essentially just their ideas of the future as a young mind, was more exciting than reality.
As dreams failed and hope faded
As their minds wear and their treasured stories that made them who they are fog over
As threads begin to wear
As tales they once yelled to the world with pride frays at the details
Your whole world slipping away as the thread unwinds
But they get the joy of passing down the tapestry to their pride and joy, to the life they made, every one of us
Every moment we live with ease of no appreciation for every experience every laugh
Moments we take for granted
Moments we will pine for when they run out
Moments the elderly urge us with fire to be aware of the importance of
Moments we'll wish we listened to them about
There is a vast tapestry of memories behind you and infinite thread panning out in front of you, connecting to other tapestries, visiting at friends, at enemies, joining with soul-mates future, some cut away, some ripped from the tapestries to soon before they could weave their own
A loose thread cannot be fixed once more are made, and the patterns will never be what you want them to be, savour each stitch
Take time on every thread
You don't want to be sitting there 50 years old thinking about the life you wasted
About the memories faded
About how every slipping memories never like the moment you made it
Don't be sitting 90 filled with regret
Filled with hatred for every opportunity you left
Screaming into the voice about how much you hate what your life become.

because they say time flys when your having fun truth is time only flies when you're young.
I know you’ve heard these words before
I've said them many times before
I wish that I could use them more
To make things better like before

There was a time these words had meaning
Sheathed in heartfelt cries and feelings
But shaman who can not heal
Is just a man and nothing more

Like worn-out, old and ***** pennies
Now diluted by the many
There's so many, many pennies
Don't care there's one on my floor

My cries of “wolf” no longer heeded
When these words are truly needed
To the darkness they've receded
Blindly searching for that door

In my chest still beats a heart
Painful regret tears it apart
Can't fix or go back to the start
And you don’t want me anymore

My anger and my finger pointing
Foolishly like I'm anointed
Not the one you are annoyed with
You were wrong; I was so sure

Attentively I listened to you
In-and-out my ears your words flew
Silenced; Gave no value to you
Truth revealed strikes at my core

Awakening finally have
Gaining awareness of how bad
Taking for granted what I had
A rolling tide erodes the shore

Alone I sit and think of when
We were not lovers just good friends
Fun times together that we’d spend
And from that my heart starts to soar

Reality then brings me back
Jolts like a sudden heart attack
A deep sharp pain gives me a whack
I scream until my lungs are sore

Can't fix the memories or replace
Nightmares wake me; tears on my face
Past filled with guilt, shame and disgrace
Start questioning what life is for
October 13, 2017

All rights reserved.
Cné Feb 2018

Gentle calls as evening falls.
I heard a nightingale
Far beyond the eaves it cried
in darkness, it prevailed.

It sang to me it's lullaby
and lo, I listened well,
In shadows where it could not see,
within it's peaceful spell.

The sound so gently soothing
to a heart that's troubled so.
It's song caressed my soul
and seemed a sign, so I would know.

That all our cares are small indeed, compared to many more
Whose pain is deeper than my own,
whose needs go to their very core.

And tho I could not answer,
in a way that it could see
I thank the angel, that sent down,
that nightingale to me.


Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
I
A flower that smells of pure bliss keeps an ear to the ground
It's a serene one sitting beneath the stars down on earth
The moon, far, far, seven seas away, loves to drop into her lap.

The Bay of Bengal billows, music has gotten beneath the skin.
The leaves furl out off the deep wood with the birds
singing out to the top of the trees, rhyming with the leafy dance.
Heavensent, that was in one sanguine day in the spring.
The Mother’s Language Movement in 1952 sprouted like this
on the eighth of native Falgun month—oh magic did it unleash!

On that day our beloved brothers were shot dead
They could swallow the bullets with smiles but won’t give up
demanding the official status for the Bangla mother tongue.
Angels wrapped round the martyrs amid lamenting mothers
Laid them on Falgun’s perfumed ground bleeding corpses
Seas of roses bloomed and blew them out red, red kisses!

They are gone not the stone wall of consciousness they raised
Ah, at the sprout of the spring what were they echoing?
Ingrained deep in the soil the pre-designing voice in the planning?
Who can tell? The world gels on February 21 in celebrating!

The angels then snapped up our martyrs’ souls off the land,
placed them on a piece of Heaven where they can hear the jingle.
Down on earth, a nation springs up, has gotten its wake up call!
Stepping on the sweetening arc of the mother tongue melody
the stone turns a flower, all in a butterfly moment soaring to victory.
Thanks to the movement - Bangladesh itself later comes to be!

II
The sun comes down to the rose painting on the land
In the heavenly Falgun hues it nibbles some wild summer dreams.
“Serene songs of earth stirring the water,” like it comes into play,
rowing the cloud bubbles singing in southern breeze.
Ah, a walk on the sun-kissed kaleidoscope land is a pure bliss.  
Every blossom spray of the wind is soothing sweet
Hop on and play straight to the ruby heart, as if it's a flute.

Mother tongue means speak free, fearless, in full streaming.
Speak the heart to the world without the fear of losing the cloud
that will listen, bouncing back on the brink of the sky river.
Then what did one say, hear, or was awed by in the blooming Falgun?
Could it have been the spring humming in her native lingua
or King David singing in mother tongue by babbling brooks
what in any other language, even with a silver tongue, isn’t possible?

Allah has listened to our martyrs’ crying mothers and fathers
The martyrs’ souls whisk through the galaxies and starry fair.

Soar high over the clouds, take the rainbow's *** of gold away,
Like a hue turns 360-degree in the colourwheel bask into the colour.
Still, dip the toes in Bangla mother’s soil salted with perfumed art
Like Himalayan water swirling down melting deeper deep down
This magicland is polished for everyone be it you, a fairy, a star
or off the ploughed-out barrow a walked out wonder!

A pristine voice duo’s voiceprint gleans to the spring in muse,
Pops in a beauteous scurry and speaks in the mother tongue!
Hidden within the earthy depth, only emerges with time,
only dances in tangent, that day slipped out with the butterflies.
And finally the blue nymphs take the plunge drop down the sky  
That day the mother’s voice triumphed, whose is the most original!
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
Data Apr 2017
I have girdled myself with illusions
and carved in stone
I have painted statues faux-colour
—colours called equity and justice,
and I have knelt before these in prayer
and imagined that my delusions serve purpose
in an existence of pure circumstance.

I have raised myself up from forest floor
I have set stairs in stone that I may climb higher
and look down upon a subjugated land
bereft of impediment or confrontation.
I find you in the corner shivering, ***** on the floor
whispering as a disquiet ghost…
I examine your desire
to drag me down…

I have heard gestapo on the stairs
and listened to their interrogation,
And it is true, after the second shot
we capitulated
and joined the throng who jostled
in the crowd below

( they dragged us down from our first-floor view )

Out on the plaza
where Socrates lectured Plato,
they have set the gallows high
and we, far too willingly,
walk forward, still protesting innocence
and proclaiming liberty
in foreign lands.


_________________­____________________­_

by Data © 2017
The thin skin of democracy
Astra Jul 2018
Listen,
Breathe,
Shh silence she’s asleep,
Quite to not make a peep,

The child made of concrete and leaves,
Is fast asleep,
Move to quickly and the ground will shake,
allow the vibrations to awake,
A silent soul so pure and innocence,

Yet the world decided to scream,
CHILD MADE OF CONCRETE YOU DON’T DESERVE TO BE,

Frightened and confused the child moves just to quickly,
To hear the earth raddle as the body meets the floor,

I wish they would have just
listened some more..
Listening , All rights reserved,  written by fragilehalo
Savanna Paige Aug 2018
All my life I was afraid
I was beside you more than you know
I gave everyone who came into your life a mental exam
I didn't approve none
I couldn't trust them
Something told me not to
Fear told me not to

I sat at the top of the steps most nights piercing through the railings
Just to keep my eyes on the guy
He was known to get violent like daddy
You couldn't protect yourself b/c you were so weak from your favorite red & white can
I had to protect you
I listened so closely
Most nights I didn't sleep until you were safe & sound in your bed
Little ole me

B/c before I knew it, we were pressing our feminine bodies against the door
Demanding this coward stop trying to force his way in
He banged, kicked & fiddled w/ the door **** with nothing but determination
Fear of him breaking into our home came flooding in
No one but me & you mom , trying to stop a monster from clawing
I'll never understand how the next day your fear vanished
As  you flung open the door so eagerly to let him in
Yesterday he was a suspect for breaking & entering
But today he's your boy toy
Sad to say my fear from it all hadn't disappeared over night.
When a child becomes the mother’s protector.. who protects her?
laura Nov 2017
don't let my feelings keep you
from the rest of your life
this forty and a lot of reasons
why i'm hiding away

when you wake, i'll be gone away
and you'll do what you like without me
i don't have any problems but honest to god
you got it, your walk, the hills, that wooden
cello you played a little when i was over

but i politely listened through it all
'cause i don't know enough about music
to know if it sounded good
xcvii Sep 2014
your favorite candy bar is Twix and you like the color black you are scared of complacency and allergic to dryer sheets it is not fair that i know you inside out that i have stared at you for four years straight and listened to you talk and cry and laugh and you still won't ******* look at me like anything more than a plaything i am not disposable i have all of your secrets tucked safely in my chest but you threw away the notes i wrote you i hope they stop making Twix bars and the color black disappears and you drown in laundry detergent so i can watch your throat swell and then maybe you'll need me.
Kevin J Taylor May 2018
If in some other life
we sat in endless space
(perhaps you came alone)
leaning in, could it have been
an orange grove?

If in another life
we listened (in this
or that other grove) and wept
and overflowed with hope—
Then it was real.
.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry by common means.)
.
You just don't have the want,
and I seem to be boring you.
I just can't understand,
why I can't stop adoring you.
I miss you
while you're still around.
I can't get anywhere
without hearing your sounds.
I want nothing else,
all other feelings
have ceased.
I won't let myself stop,
til I feel a release.
You are
the only thing,
I can love anymore.
Though
I should have listened,
What would have changed?
and what for?
I don't want anything,
or anyone else.
This way I feel for you,
is like nothing I've ever felt.
I would give up
all i have
and more.
Just to have you
for one moment,
I'd claw out my core.
I would do anything,
for the girl I adore.
Fern Jul 2018
Even when your eyes are closed, the colours of the world surround you,
Your imagination keeps you awake.
Sounds, everywhere. The ticking of clocks, the drip of faucets;
It forces you to stay awake.
A flood of thoughts and memories come to your mind,
Turning each into monsters, clawing at your emotions.
The sound of them are overwhelming;
The colours splattered everywhere.

You decide to listen to some music, your favourite song,
the one you have listened to probably a hundred times this week.
You hit repeat because that's what would calm you,
Even though you’ve listened to it so many times you think your ears will bleed;
The sweet sounds an addiction.
You continue, to drown out the sounds your mind provides.
The constant, deafening yells of danger,
The vivid memories of all the times that you’ve failed.
The music gets louder to drown out the terrible sounds your mind provides,
To cover the **** colours in sweet melodies.
King Panda Jan 2018
—helium
along the tracks
squished and turned copper
sounding space scratch—
a record when listened
through some great machine where
James Taylor always hits the
high notes and matter explodes
forming the heaviest gold—us always
singing pennies.
us, remnants
kissing the core
of aging stars.
Johnny Paragon Oct 2018
I read of Romeo and Juliet-
And I thought of you and I.
I listened to a lovely duet-
And I imagined singing the lovely song to you.
I saw love-birds chirping on a tree-
And I longed to be by your side.
I took a look at picasso's masterpieces-
And all I wanted was to paint a beautiful piece of you.
I glanced at a sky full of stars-
And all I saw was you.
forged in the likeness of you
the whisper meanders in my memory bank
it dances softly on a burgundy velvet glove
that covers my wrinkled hand
it visits me in deepest dreams
and speaks in hushed tones
of the infinite days ahead
when we shall once again dance together

forged in the feeling of you
I live each day like the last
holding onto the past
like a cat with a caught bird
not allowing it to die
waking to the sounds of winter winds
and old favorites on the radio
the ones we listened to together
so many years ago
those years that forged a love so strong
that I rarely blink twice
without the thought of you dancing by
12/2006 slightly revised
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
The night is closing in as the rain is drumming on the drain outside.
Long streaks on the window run like tears down my cheeks
reminding me of you.

The oneness of being alone is swallowing me alive,  
eating me from the inside out,
from my heart to the arms that once held a love.

I am struggling to make it through the puddles
and the moat that has wrapped itself around my heart;
afraid of getting wet again, afraid to get hurt.

The cold and damp have camped out in my soul,
without the warmth of the fire of love
to keep me warm.

You moved me to take a chance and make a change
scaring the **** out of me along the way.
I should have listened to the voice inside  
and stayed away.
All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
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