The solitary reminder,
a sole survivor,
hopeful-placed,
forgivingly encased
in little boxes decorative
hidden in plain sight
throughout our home.

Single and incomplete,
the lonesome leftovers,
openly hid upon bookshelf,
desk corners, fireplace mantels,
storage units of the
I am unlost,
I am unfound,

Raise your hand,
stand up and say
that is me,
that is me.

Minor treasure chests,
of carved wood, seashell real,
acquisitions of trips
to faraway places,
these boxes, they themselves,
visible but unremembered,
just there, no cares,
no one knows,
when or why.

that is me,
is that me?

Space fillers, memory taunts,
grandchildren's playthings, delight,
when they someday come visit,
weather and parents permitting,
finding keys for locks, doors,
from three homes ago.

Can they unlock me too?

Boxes hoard the things
we have lost, but cannot discard,
can't sacrifice, gotta keep,
an admixture of buttons,
dried flowers, faded notes that
once upon a time mattered,
shook someone's world...

Some kept in hope,
others, sequestered, lock-up,
jails that we are both
jailor and jailed,
the joke being on me.

Should we, you and I,
exchange these
cases histories of lost hopes, memories,
it would not be surprising,
if when opened,
the contents identical,
even if you are in Manila,
Leeds, places of need,
and yet,
we would be shocked,
asking,

*that is me,
is that me?

Modern cultural asimilation
is the mass genocide of a tribal nation
westernly patronised translation
of an intricate thousand year old civilisation
turn the station on natural creation
fire up the ovens for creamation

These cultures have survived
while we ignore our insticts and blindly thive
hunting and gathering searching for the illusive
nutrient rich honey comb hive

Our lives run amuck in big empty huts
dust gathers on fire place mantels
while tribes try to cope and handle
their lives charged on cards to buy cattle

Governments think they own them
like property shattled, savages is
what theyre labeled

When words no longer hold
invite or excite
that inward response
That once so gathered deep
within ones keep
of the visions of the mind.

There's a loss
a disappearance of sorts
that winged upon a fancy flies
then dies
deep inside the mellow chamber
of dreams.

The tears
that once as years
fades upon the old framed image
that like a crust surrounds
abounds
the only affordable expanse
the on vestige of what once
were little filters of oneself.

And here in photos are but the images
that once skirted as the dreams within
between and through
and true
like
the soft textured rolls
of film and paper, that now
rests upon the tables, the mantels
as reflections of what was.

And the words
still unapproachable
fails to grasp
or gasp
the meaning of the visions
that here once clouded a mind bright and full
Through
those promises of  days,  nights
To rest, now forever humble
To memories long gone.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

Jelly Daydreams

Rain on sun, winter white
Melted wax on a child’s face
Papier Mache, worn mantels
Stuffed with boysenberries

Shrill sounds of loneliness
Heads turning on corners
Corners keep going in circles
Brains can’t believe eyes

Purple light, blinding day
Kaleidoscope silence too loud
The storm inside is waning
Beggars fill city streets

Shrieking alarm, **** alarm
Glass shards flying in the wake
Trembling legs of reason
Nowhere left to hide

Rain on moon, nighttime black
Burned flesh a new victims’ face
Suffocating, brightly colored feathers
It all tastes like orange marmalade

Drops of liking
spatter the roof,
oozing their way
through every  

crack to the room
littered with chipped
China teacups, frying
pans, and flower pots

scattered on nightstands,
mantels, and worn
Turkish rugs, desperate to

gather the bits of
affection that might
someday add up to love.

I've listened to different gurus sattelite their messages from brooding

tax-paying entities

and maybe swallowed enough for my own labyrinth

to let mosquitos and even leeches have their own have at it

there have been enough essays' published in my college days to keep me occupied, though I was high I managed to write a couple more (essays) to **** up against em

(if I haven't proven a point already)

throw a sucker punch across the blue stream ralleys' and then an abusurdist crusade will hatch itself on proletariat jargon for mind game dummies

any point to get sicker?

cause with another delving pincher you'll find yourself in a new clincher that sets up moral envies that sip acid juice and grab ivy's for escapist hijabs and lickedey split you'll think "best of luck" to the nonprofet outlets trying to bring awareness to trashcan lids that could be waddled in an out of brewery suds for clinking pennies, shaken up by a weary sister coffee can tips that are end up swallowed by the family ford and hi cee sips, count the frays:

and portraits of drawn meals seals the deals

and yolking enough eggs for developing teenagers

and whisking ***** manifestations

and ode to band posters by third party members

and shine a light on rescue missions

play clue guessing who posted that one, could it be the unexpected or the obvious?

the former ******* your cheeks with marlmalade,

the latter maybe a pictograph to save

yeah, I'd look it over again,

I wish for a paint brush to search for that hidden gem of maroon 7

and I swear they don't make a mustard with gas station cherry sour

of course, I'll blow a poison dart through the numbers dialed for lionesque mantels that spit ice y hot all over the resurfacing faces from burlesque challenges dated two weeks back,

now got to remember

was that where I was at?