Dan Quigley Aug 2013
A sigh in the dark.
Past my jaded lips it rises
like a ghost, and I the host
of thoughts enamoured but unwanted,
unresolved.
Night takes my sight and unleashes vision
I watch (not my decision) the memories bloom to life.
Ethereal and hazy, those lazy summer days
Of hasty plans, promises, platitudes made;
childish to dream it could have stayed
the same.

Polite and awkward we shuffle in the light of day,
you think before you act and mind what you say
and if lucky enough you might get away
without blurting a thought from your head gone astray.

Why do eyes so bright bring such dark thoughts?
Why do we fear to take what we want?

A sigh in the dark.
Across chilled skin it spreads
like fire, this unspoken desire
between whispering sheets. Fingers grasp and twine,
I feel hers, she feels mine, as we search in the dark
together.
This night air we’ll share,
in passion, with vigour,
seeking the trigger
to release.
To resolve.
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Memories crying, screaming to be heard.
Try as I might to bury these amidst busy days,
still they rise from the backyard of my mind haunting my dreams,
making youth a nightmarish memory.

Empty rooms cry out in agonizing silence.
White ghosts float on lifeless bodies with the same question; why?
Anxious moments still taunt just beyond of safety.
The sickness that gave birth to this still clouds the mind.  

So long ago, a lifetime to make peace, still lucid moments of torment
making March an anniversary dirge.
It makes no sense to cry for those gone, for mortals spent in tragedy,
yet every year I try to understand once again, why?
sophia Sep 2017
a fading whisper echoed among the mountains, it was a soft melodious resonance heard from up across the cosmic universe that lightly touched the breeze and swept across the oceans. it was meant to be a remedy for a healing soul that only once wished to smile.
OC Jul 30
Soon I will forget
and soon after
I will forget even remembering
For the world is several
times my size
imprinting its pieces in me
as fading images
The raindrops that pool to a puddle
forget how they once were an ocean
and the tree trunk loses sight of
its humble stem origin
Just like those
I’ll forget in a while
what was once
where I head
who am I
piece by piece
past and future break from the
now
oblivious
knowing nothing but grief
and not knowing
for what
Sorry for the lame translation. Proper English just could not capture what I was aiming for.
Francie Lynch Apr 21
The Sansui turntable still works well.
Like memories, round and round,
Needling me. And the more I play them,
The more they itch.
I know the dark side of the moon,
And the way the sun shines.
The dances, whirlwind moves,
That have settled now.
Inside the sleeve are notes and our words.
I will not let the dust jackets do their job.
I set Abbey Road gently on the pad,
Place the needle softly, and hear the familiar scratch.
Standing back, like watching a parade,
I listen.
Here comes the sun on a cloudy day.
Ashari Ty Jul 20

It was a great relief to realize
That your anxieties are just cute lies
But only if I had strength to tell you
That the things you said are the things I do

Every time I remember you.
Leon Zebrick Jul 13
In the place where memories live, fresh treasure interlopes - bright and excited like luminous watch-hands struck hard by the sun.  But the brilliance is short-lived, and as dimness sets in, the once glorious tumbles down to find rest on others that have come before.  Their collective energy now a steady, sometimes perceptible, beacon in a corner of our brain – the days of our lives.

A float-about, shimmering hand searches.  Finally, what is sought is found; either through conscious effort or because some part of the wonderful machine had a need to recall the memory, and acted upon that need; often without permission from the body whole.

The memory rests in a place where our material hands are of no assistance.  We cannot  guide and we have no choice but to trust the retrievers.  But a clutch of specters they must be.  Mischievous at times in their selection and timing.  They can masochistically hurl a hurt, or benevolently please.  But for everything there is a purpose.  We must trust.

Accept what is offered.  The gift is sublime, and save for our lives, memory is the most valuable possession we have, though the shimmering hand sometimes abuses it.  Savor the joy and the hurt, and the rainbow range in between.  But beware, the rainbow has  spear-pointed ends.

A  shock-wave that starts in your spine near your neck, speeds downward between your shoulders then makes your stomach jump with an electrical command.  That's suddenly remembering a loved one has recently been lost.  Have you felt that upon waking the following day? 
Loss

A traveling bolt that strikes where the anvil and hammer must connect.  No real sound, yet perfectly audible.  Mother's lullaby.  
Longing

They often come unexpectedly, striking  the rods and cones,   intercepting normal vision and replacing it with the facsimile of a hard secret you wish you didn't hold, or the sight of something sad.
Guilt
Next page