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Monogamy
more like
Fogogamy
man playing woman
Testing themselves
Filling this
Mythical void,
only leaving
women, so
Toyed and torn.

This False idea,
If woman are not mimicking the hand
they use to please themselves,
they simply wash their hands of them all together.
And then,
the relationship, she thought was smooth sailing
Completely switched up,became
this sinking ship with
no relation.
I don't hate men and I know woman do the same thing we are all people. That choose to use what we can to help our ego's at times I don't judge and I hope I don't offend anyone. I am just frustrated, cause I'm new to dating again I find the process to be difficult.
danne Oct 2018
hear me, look at the cracks of their smile,
how dark it is as their eyes glimmer
taste the sweet words unraveled from their tongue
and how quick it turns vile

if you don't stop
morphing your face
to not stand out from the crowd

tracing along steps
so your shadow is less lonely
mimicking their thoughts
to the point your mind is a foreign place
they'd turn around one day & ask who you are

where once was your face
would only reflect the barren
tell me
what would you answer then?
ryn Aug 2014
I'm not a writer... Or anything resembling that
I am just me... Sharing my words picked out from life's hat

I can't find the most accurate to say
So letters I dabble in various permutations
Layers of letters turn into words and come to play
Could call them journals, these text-laden creations

But I'm not a writer... Or anything resembling that
I am just me... Penning the words picked out of life's hat

I'm not a poet... Or anything mimicking that
I am just me... Relating experiences out of life's hat

I can't conjure poems... About anything or everything
Can't use my words to incite or inspire
These are just ideas and I just like rhyming
They are just experiences that fuel my fire

But I'm not a poet... Or anything mimicking that
I am just me...  Spouting rhymes out of life's hat

I'm not an artist... Or anything pretending to be that
I am just me... Drawing scenes from life's hat

I can't sketch a portrait with a simple pencil
Can't put together an installation and call it art
I can paint fairly well; of which I have done several
I can draw out emotions and depictions from the heart

But I'm not an artist... Or anything pretending to be that
I am just me... Producing paintings out of life's hat

I'm not a musician.. Or anything fantastic like that
I am just me... Playing melodies from life's hat

I don't have the quality of voice to match that of a crooner
I can't play instruments that could earn a place in a band
I can sing in key without the help of a tuner
I enjoy music best with a guitar in my hands

But I'm not a musician.. Or anything fantastic like that
I am just me... Singing songs from life's hat

I'm not a writer, poet, musician or an artist...
I do a little of everything, not excelling at any one title
Although I wish to have everything clenched in one fist
All I ever really do is just dabble....
The smell of raindrops is like perfume.
Droplets bounce each and every passersby's umbrella,
mimicking the rhythm of their pulses.
It feels as if time is slowing down.
365 Poems for my 365 Days

5 of 365
Kara Jean May 2016
A head, gnashing and screaming
Forgiving my unknown hospitality
Pretty is weakening
I'm a fatality deemed
Obnoxious is my scene
The mocking and mimicking comes easy for me
No secret, I envy the earth's energy
Depressed, sitting in my fancy dress
Shoving and tugging with desirable credibility
I ravish my personality
Amused?
As I show my tender meat bleeding
Kissing, authentic generosity
A bit suggestive
Confidence in deranged descriptions making others nervous
Excuse me, I must leave my head is blistering,
Popping,
Gushing and oozing profanities
Dented durability, consume me
I love the fact I'm lacking
Becoming one with the barbaric queen
This is a combination  of two poems I wrote put into one because why not
From the BBC today,


Excerpt

Why does Taylor Swift write so many one-note melodies?

"It's easy to get distracted by her celebrity, but Taylor Swift is a once-in-a-generation songwriter. From the very beginning, she's displayed a knack for melody and storytelling that most artists never master.

Take, for example, her first US number one, OUR SONG

Written for a high school talent show, it's a fairly typical tale of teenage romance until the final lines: "I grabbed a pen / And an old napkin / And I wrote down our song."

That's smart, self-assured songwriting for someone who wasn't old enough to vote. Notably, the lyrics insert the musician directly into the narrative - something she developed into a tried and tested trope.

But Our Song also establishes another of Taylor's trademarks: The one-note melody.

Excerpt

Repetitive melodies that centre around a single note are part of that appeal. They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech.

"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."

"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."

"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."

Rebuttal

Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics. They can relate to your song but if they cannot sing it themselves putting themselves in the 'first-person perspective narrative' they cannot feel as-if they have BECOME the artist and are living that moment as they remember it. Taylor Swift sings about teenage love and angst something EVERYONE ON EARTH understands.

ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG.

Cadences are singing statements that confer a discipline and unity.

Song acts as a catharsis. The artist shares their pain in a way that is universally understood. If you want to sell a rock, literally a pebble, you will not sell it if it doesn't look like a rock. If it doesn't do what rocks do. If it is not what people remember a rock to be like. Nor will it sell if it is just like every other rock they have ever seen. It cannot convey an emotion unless it elicits emotion.

One cannot even begin to feel emotional if one cannot remember easily the past and that includes lyrics one has heard that evoked said emotional state.

It is horrifying to see HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS that rhyme be obliterated in exchange for an intellectual or individual perspective NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE.

If you want to sell and make money you better start thinking about the 99% of people who are not geniuses.

If your sole goal in life is to attract a genius to give you a great job because of how, "smart," they perceive you to be then fine.

You are not an artist.

You are an employee.



"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."

"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."

"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."

Thrice Times Great. ⁻ᴴᵉʳᵐᵉˢ



                                           BECOME
                              EVERYONE ON EARTH
               ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG
                      HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS
            NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE
                                         HOW BAD
                    
                 artist?
or employee?
BBC article conclusion.
Mykarocknrollin Sep 2019
Hands playing around
Skin touching abound
Craving for some connection
Hissing of secret conversations
Melting stares
More of this flare
Lingering of each other's perfume
Mimicking and smelling
Tension on the roll
Are you in?
Are we doing it?
Love just say it
Do you want me
Do you crave for me
Do you
Do it
You

XOXO
Cora Mar 2019
i know this hurricane
we've been here before
different versions of me in different suits of skin
with some of the lies written in different colors
in hail and rain and snow

it's comforting, in a way
when it's here at least the wait is over
and i know exactly how things work here
i can look for all that's left in the whirlwind
and find my legs and arms and phone and a cup of tea

and i am calm
calm in the only way that feels permanent
because there's nothing to protect anymore and i am absolved
and i can just sit back and listen
to my mind mimicking the sounds of thunder
Francie Lynch Jul 2017
Love the name.
Got upset
When the man called out, Seen.
Stupid man.
It's Sean, and not Shawn.
A year older than Gerald.
Two younger than Kevin.
Two older than me.
That's Sean.
Daddy wrote home about us.
Maura was working at the hospital.
Sheila was finishing highschool.
Kevin won the Science Fair.
Sean plays ice hockey with the All Stars,
All over Canada and the U.S.
I found the letter, penned in '62,
A jagged European cursive. They tend to write the same.
I've seen the words, run together to hide the spelling;
With JMJ's and TG's sprinkled like manna throughout.
The last page was missing,
Just when Daddy'd write about Gerald, me, and Marlene.
Gerald with his Beetles haircut.
Me, mimicking ( probably mocking),
Some unknown priest, to my father's delight;
Marlene, the wee pigeon, he missed most when he worked
Away from home.
Jimmy, The Bruiser, wasn't here yet.
The last of an Irish brood settled in Canada.

I discovered it in the spare room at Granny's and Frank's.
There was no mention of Michael, Eucheria or Particia.
He exaggerated about the harsh, six-month winters here,
And our proximity to the North Pole.
Suggested Frank try putting copper wires around Granda's wrists;
The Egyptian mummies didn't exhibit signs of bone deterioration.
Daddy was hard-pressed to be proven wrong when he concocted.
Sean had a drawer full of ribbons, medals, trophies and plagues,
And a large S, his Senior Letter.
He also had sideburns, a much smaller nose, and,  smelled
as good as he looked,
The Elvis dip-curl, the Connery swag, the Selleck stash to Clooney cool.
Sean kept a disposition of hidden pains secreted for others.
A heart of tears.
A spirit of adventure.
I love Sean, I recall.
He is always welcome here.
Drops by sometimes.
It's always a great surprise.
Serious, hard edit and re-post.
JMJ: Jesus, Mary and Joseph
TG: Thank God
All eleven children are mentioned, but I wanted to focus on Sean.
Loser Feb 2019
While dirt piled beneath my nails I clawed at your grave all night,
breaking my back until your blackened and dismantling coffin was in sight.

The weeds circling your tomb stone danced without appearing mundane,
as the freezing wind called to you, howling out your name.

I pried open your wooden door that had been etched with two dates,
and I knew that what had happened to you would soon be both our fates.

I thought back to the day when I found out you took your life,
and with hopes of mimicking you in sorrow, I keep a gun to my side.

Slowly I crawled in next to you, with just enough room for two,
and I looked up beyond the trees and saw a sky painted dark blue.

And in this moment at last, I felt completed by your side,
then I shut the door, pulled the trigger, and never said goodbye.
Anecandu Sep 2014
From the Azul sky a diving sparkling speck,
An unmatched beautiful creature without circumspect,
The golden leaves of spring like soldiers on parade,
Dip and make way for this fair winged maid.

I have so much longed to be first bite of this season,
To be touched and blossomed to perfection by your reason,
I grow juicy, soft and ripen as I fall for you.
Tumbling into your soft Cashmere hands on cue.

Salivating, I’m tasty, savour me between your teeth,
Sink deep in without remorse, how delectably indiscrete!
Say my name with a smile it’s so safe in your mouth.
I’m tingling the roof of your brain with my flavours coming out.

Take me away! as we fly, I’m cast about like an enchanted spell,
Moistening your soft syrupy lips of caramel.
I’m drained to sustain the iridescent colours of your gilded wings,
Moved by the high passionate notes as you sing.

Your smooth, probing tongue, my flesh diabetically sweet,
Leaving streaks of sienna nectar on fates smeared cheeks,
Wipe away before staining fabric from our black and white lives.
They keep returning, stubborn like long goodbyes.

Surprise! New emotions enveloping, hypnotic like Night Jasmine,
Mimicking a rainwater spout so bubbly, escaping, and exciting!
Your caught hopeless as a fish fly rod with a glass eyed trout
Choking while love swoops silent from heaven to pluck it out.

That’s when you look at my seed and you can tell.
I’m good for your ego but as bad as a toadstool’s spell.
So I’m placed in the first mound of mud you come across,
Where you replant me sprinkled with fairy dust.
Nat Lipstadt May 2019
the spring mantra arrives with distinctive citified sparkles

a family of ducklings splash, mimicking young children,
shaking, spraying, squeaking, babies bath bathing,
jumping in and out of a fountain pool
of a tall-storied Manhattan apartment building,
the mother-leader attends them well for she recalls
the untimely end of the babies of last year,
lost to wanderlust on York Avenue,
cars and taxis as instruments of mass murdering,
but new spring is the season of new birth

the Cercis Siliquastrum tree trunk (!) oddly sprouts
unusual pink flowers
well before it’s branches grow up into a fully blossoming tree,
a signed spring time ritual, but since it is a/k/a, the Judas Tree,
we wonder if spring hints of Cerci Lannister’s fate betrayed,
in this, her final May dance, oh, which Judas brother/lover
will bring us a winter fin finale

the temperature control dial busted, the variability too wide,
the youngers are skipping the interregnum season,
going direct to elect shorts and T-shirt, while those who no longer bloom in the semi-warm, recall the wet chill of past evenings,
voting to dress defensively, wearing their aging skepticism
aware that all changes are exact crossing line-defined, wrapped in
medium weight coats, concealing embarrassing gloves in pocket,
decorative silk scarfs for non-decorative purposed,
all betting the under/over the spring is here all-in not yet sighted

the streets are busy, the momentary pleasantries
of warm sky and sun push the apartment dwellers out,
a magnetic force pulls us to the outside to exhale, in order to inhale,
guises manufactured excuses appear, a loaf of bread, a latte necessity,
the children desert happily their wintery confinement,
by pushing their own carriages, containing in their stead,
their lilting accented nannies, excited by their version of spring break

Me? toy shopping for this month brings rashers of birthdays,
more May galorey, singing come Dancer and Prancer, Ian and Isabel, Alex and not-a-baby anymore Wendy, and because the weather so pleasant, cautions ignored, the credit card swiped repeatedly, frequently and joyously, xmas reimagined, another May time ritual, rooted in the September month of *******, of staying warm, staving off winter *******, and winter planting for spring harvesting

children score grand-multiplicities for god made in his place
grand parental substitutes, each with two hands each equal,
so both must be filled with maypole ribbon, brightly colored
toy bags, presents wrapped in paper unicorns and all manner of
sporting *****, as we turn 2 and 6, 7 and who ate 8?

all that my eyes did see when we surfed strolled the streets,
vignettes fell like the spring rains, they, now, from daytime banished,
to after-midnight to do their breast feeding of tulips and weeds,
letting little children grow up snuggling in still over-heated rooms,
naked legs kicking off winter blankety snow remnants while dreaming of springing onwards and forward
into the party of life by inhaling nature’s

nature.
5-3-19  606pm
TheRhymeRenegade Mar 2019
the sheets
they're ***** once again
I dreamed that we were beachbound
laying strewn across the sand
fingers twisted lazily
I'm in heaven, hand-in-hand
I know you read my words sometimes
and maybe even blush
I know that vagueness is preferred
keeping it hush hush

but I'm not one to apperceive
I wear it all upon sleeve
overwhelming
always swelling
mimicking expanse of sea
you just get me
so please don't be afraid
I'll teach you how to swim
let the wave carry your weight
whisking us away
to finally escape

we could rule over Atlantis
or settle somewhere modest
I'm a novice in all this but I'll be nothing but honest
You called me your Goddess
And you made me a promise
basking in the hot sun of august
sipping gin and tonics

but I'm not one to apperceive
I wear it all upon sleeve
overwhelming
always swelling
mimicking expanse of sea
you just get me
so please don't be afraid
I'll teach you how to swim
let the wave carry your weight
whisking us away
to finally escape
Hadiy Syakir Feb 2019
this is the city of faith
the city of doubt
discipline overrated
tough will is decisive
the decider, the dictator
in the grey hazy morning
try your best to make it
celebrate all the symbols
concedes mimicking rats
satisfy the prowling big cats
pick whatever that is left
in your accustomed route
and push through it
till the death of the sun
in each of your weary run.

all hail the lost souls,
see you in the city hall
at the end of the day.
kivel Nov 2018
Trivial beauty holds me captive as i sit near the flower
Reaching towards it, marveling at the colorful rainbow
It flaunts its
Sheer beauty,
Having it wave with the breeze
As i watch

The stripes came to take the juice
And then left to spread more
Lo, the beauty of the stripes and the beauty of its job
I followed. leaving the flower.
Ever so noisily, It buzzed, harmonically, lovingly

it danced in ways that intrigued me
so i left the flower
to pursue my bee
it took me to its hive
but disappeared back to join the others
back to its life
back to her lover
ditching me.

time flew by and by dark
the flower still glows with its rainbow color
no matter what comes to it
it holds itself tall and proud
it stayed in place
waiting for me to come
such purity
i watch

Dawn of fall came, and i opened my ears
As a yellow flower sang nearby
Nevertheless, a sunflower
Ah, yellow was such a pretty color

flower of the sun, reflecting the most powerful object in our vision
this flower had the qualities to shine like one
for it shined so brightly during the day
i started to watch this flower instead
and sing to it, hoping it would grow
cared for it with everything i had
but i failed to find it during the night
for it changed throughout the month, throughout the day
soon i found my efforts were nothing
and that the sunflower was always in its own flock

the yellow flower is still there
always will be
but its petals always faced something else
in the opposite direction
and as soon as i come close to getting it
it turns away, mimicking its sister,
the bee

summer came
and the rainbow flower, it was still here
it never left
why?
confused, i sat
i became sad
why did i leave this flower, ever?
it still stayed
so i've decided to stay.

forever.
A horrible love note
Jess Fleming Jul 2018
It’s 12:08 on a Saturday night and I can’t help but notice the stutter in your breaths
as the speedometer ticks 45,
50,
60.
The wind whips across the top of the open Jeep making both of our hair fly as you turn to look at me.
I looked up at the dull constellations in the sky
trying to avoid the stars I knew were in your eyes.
There’s a tickle on my leg and I look down to see your fingertips tracing tiny circles on the skin above my knee.
The pressure on my thigh gets tighter and I look up to see everything
swimming in your eyes mimicking the look you had when we used to talk ourselves in circles.
The car runs over the rumble strips forcing you to look away and quickly becoming my saving grace from the question I knew was coming:
what are you thinking?
Slowing down to 15 below the speed limit, swerving left and right
in a lame attempt to avoid the never ending *** holes on a back road I didn’t even know existed, we sat is silence.
It’s 12:43 as you put the car in park and say you want me
happy, say you’re ready to commit,
that you know things are different now but that’s not good enough reason to quit.
The full moon shines light on the black silhouette in front of me defining your messy hair, nervous look, and everything eyes.
I whisper I want you happy too, but your fear hasn’t died,
and that there’s nothing romantic about a joint suicide.
We’d crash and burn, get lost in our teenage addictions without caring who or what we hurt.
It’s 1:37 and you pull off again except I remember this spot from the summer after junior year.
Unlike now, it was warmer that night we were last here when the crickets echoed our conversations of love, loss, and regret.
With two simple clicks the headlights were off and the world around us seemed to stand still. I could hear your breathing
getting heavier and faster as you gently cradled my face in your hands
duplicating the night we earlier said that we regret.
Taking in your dimly lit face, you pull my forehead to yours as that song comes on talking about how we used to be so young and self assured.
I realized a rush like this doesn’t come from caffeine
because before I knew it,
you were all over me like we were back at 17.
Theia Dec 2019
to you
this
is already
planned out

it's everything
we expected
it's a mimicking
of the same scene
over
and
over
until
it's just a word now
without any meaning
only the boring context
we built around ourselves

well i reject
your worn path
that goes blindly to the grave
your hollow words
that didn't mean anything
until
someone else
said them to me

now
i know
just how empty
we are
Deb Jones Mar 2019
I wish I could word-paint a hummingbird
One of Mother Nature’s gorgeous jewelry

Quick strokes of gray
Geometrically filling my mind- page

My eyes trace his vibrant contours
Hold still, little bird

I can already see

The paint on the word palette
Will be difficult for me

Paint brushes poised
Over the head, bow of the back

The iridescent hue
A quick swath of green then blue

With tiny speckled feathers
Of yellow and black

Such an accommodating
Posing little fellow

His belly is jeweled
In brilliant gold and bright yellow

The smallest feathers
Overlapping and flat

With a gleaming peridot green
He dips his head, a proudful preen

The wings red, purple then blue
Dipped in green and brushed with maroon

Mimicking the tail feathers
That now twitch with impatience

I think he’s getting tired
Of my pointed contemplation

His long dark beak
Black with a hint of dark blue

Finally his eyes
The darkest ebony

Yet full of mirth
My imaginary dots of white
So inadequate

He brrrrrrrs
Then he rises in flight

He chitters his goodbye

Meet you back here in an hour?
I love living in a part of the world that allows me to see these beautiful creatures year-round.

And at the same time regret I don’t live some place that allows me to see parrots outside of a cage.
Sillo Anderson Sep 2018
Idle love sways around
Capitalizing on what's done
Filling narrowly the fissures beyond hurt
As profound lust gnaw at berated flesh.
Mimicking actions entitled for the best,
Woes trawled at peace, slicing forgiveness
Leaving the immoral of humanity senseless.

Acute arbitrations mingle solely around favors
Spectating drudgery amongst humans and its nature.
For wreaths fall closely, to dreams of being needed
And pleasures steep low from dreamers with bright egos.
Mopin' in an overpriced motel
Trying to decide what items I can sell... Well, what's few and far between
Hardly any parts are even left of me

though THINGS do not define us
Take a peek in my chest cavity
You'll see I am righteous
High-strung Yet somehow Vibrant

Here it is, kids
'Tis the season of unrest
There's no sleep just tweakers
Screaming obscenities
In shadow corners
"****" "****" "****"  "godammit"
Im watching his sanity go
Right out the door

Is it the allure?
OR
Perhaps its the warm bed?
That's keeping me from leaving right along with it
I bite my tongue til it becomes
Blood red
Before I know it my mouth
Begins mimicking my head

And I'm yelling ...


"****** I can't stand it, get your **** together man!"
A fun short story about 4 junkies sharing a room and one who's keeping every body up..
Donall Dempsey May 2019
"...TIME WAS AWAY AND SOMEWHERE ELSE..."

I heard the silence
creep into the room

hush even the candle
so that it stuttered out

until the room
was a solid block of silence

even my mind
was silent

every thought
frozen  in place.

My voice now
a ghost.

Then the snow entered
through an open door

stood upon the weathered
Welcome mat

before tentatively
tip-toeing across the floor

it sat upon a chair
mimicking being human.

I let it find
its way

laughed as it laid
the table

with a cloth
of quiet white

the ruined cottage
greeting the snow as guest

hardly recognising
this human intruder

amazed at so much
left still in place

memories swept
into a corner

laughter
trapped in stone.

I relight the left over
candle

place it in what
used to be a window.

The long dead
gathered around

its flame
the past flickering

into being.
He rides the waves and waves
of consciousness, mimicking
the movements of the mind
with vital, kinetic energy.

Nature has been his mentor.
He lives in an ancient bamboo
forest on the island of Maui.
He cultivates towering trees.

No punctuation mars his poems.
Only the natural pausing
of breath, visceral rhythms,
all in one, a fluid dance down the page.

He has won every prize except
the Nobel, for which he is long
overdue. He studied with Berryman
and translated Lorca. His poetry transports,

an exercise in Zen. All is fleeting
for him, yet he preserves the past
in the present. Love, joy, serenity
permeate his poems. He is a master,

awaiting his students. He does not
have many years left. Now is
the time to read him. Now the time
to climb his trees in search of wisdom.
Bradyn McCall Aug 2019
the garden of eden, spread before him seemed like a limitless expanse of paradise

roses blossomed left and right, their beauty and scent unrivaled by any of the many wonders of the world

stretching over the horizons, stuck in awe he gazes, taking in the view that he knows will restrict him from viewing anything else with such admiration

until she appeared, even Venus paled in comparison to the allure she possessed, his heart was struck upon sight

they sat together, among the garden, plucking the roses from the ground in vain attempts to show devotion to one another, until it was time

with a strong breeze, stronger than any gust of wind he'd ever experienced she was ripped from him, taken away without so much as a goodbye

as he turns back to the garden, the change was subtle, the roses slightly smaller, before his eyes he watched as each rose wilted and died, mimicking the feelings he held inside his heart, until they were nothing more than stems with hollow shells.
Blue Orchid Dec 2018
"Bless me,  Father,  for I have sinned."
She whispered
What she meant though
Was 'curb the arrogance in me
So I may lay down my questions
And bury my assumptions'
"Bless me,  Father,  for I have sinned"
She murmured
Even though the storm in her
Screamed 'stab the place in my head
Where my doubt imerges
And the spark in my heart
That hates to love the world'
'Restrain my hands
And break my fingers
For they will never seize
From creating blasphemy'
"Bless me,  Father, for I have sinned"
She thought it this time
While her lips said
'Forgive my mind
That lies to itself
And tricks its existance
With half truths
It won't believe
You'll see'
"Bless me,  Father,  for I have sinned"
She tapped the side of the wood
Mimicking the last song she drunk
Before hiding in the confessional
A last secret sin
She let herself indulge
"Bless me"
"Bless me"
She hiccuped
"Father"
Hiccups
"For"
Hiccups
"I have"
Hiccups
"Sinned"
She smiled
And walked out of the confessional
With her music filling her ears
Her lips singing away
To her hearts desires.
patty m Oct 2019
October 31st is a mix of traditions Pagan, Celtic, Christian, Buddhist etc.  For Christians this night is All Hallowed Eve or Halloween a time of wearing costumes, trick or treating etc , and tomorrow is All Souls Day.  Prayers are sent for all the departed.  In Celtic/Pagan traditions today begins Samhain their new year they clean house leave food and drink for the dead, open a window a bit for spirits to come in and build huge bonfires.  The Japanese Buddhist have the Oban Festival of the Dead prayers are said for anyone who has died in the last year to provide guidance to find their way.  Food and Saki are left out, and incense is burned, flowers are brought to decorate the graves. Then bright red lanterns inscribed with the names of the dead are released on the water.
The following are haiku dedicated to all the traditions:
  
incense and flowers
your name on floating lantern
bobbing in moonlight

from bonfires flames
flying sparks mimicking stars
bravely tickle moon

beneath willow trees
fairy lanterns light the glen
fueling waning sun

goblins and ghosts laugh
holding out trick or treat bags
while telling me jokes.  

sees beauty in bones
deep pools of comfort caressed
honoring spirits

knowing gives me strength
the black and white reality
suddenly colors

Jack o lanterns grin
orange glow lighting the night
Happy Halloween
JJ Hutton Oct 2018
There'll be a crowd encircling you, I'm sure.
They'll nod at your every word, imperfectly mimicking
what people look like when they actually listen.
I'm sure the crowd will be people we know.
Old high school friends with real estate ventures
and gyms and multi-level marketing schemes.
Most of them will be doughier, their cheeks permanently
stained red from a decade of drinking.
Most of them will have photos of their kids on their phones,
and they'll tell you they're "sure you don't want to see them"
as they pull out their phones and show you photos of their kids.

I imagine I'll approach, stop just short of the circle, pretend to bid on an Alaskan cruise.

As you talk about redoing your floor in a faux tile that looks just like the real thing for like half the price, you'll see me.

I hope you'll think of that kiss five years ago, outside of a bar in Norman, when the world entire bent for us, when all traffic silenced for us, when all people vanished for us.

Maybe you'll think of the time we ****** in a twin-sized bed, beside a wall decorated with newspaper clippings, which I thought made me look worldly and learned. I admit now the look was less academic, more serial killer.

And maybe you'll think of the manchild fit I threw when I found out you had moved on after I moved away.

And maybe you'll be totally present. Good to see you, you'll say. You will ask about my family. We will discuss the cooler weather. We will talk about your business, your kids. We will side hug and say goodbye. We will take the same route to the same exit. There will be children coloring the sidewalk with chalk. We'll each borrow a piece. I'll outline you; you'll outline me.
Donall Dempsey Jun 2019
BECOMING THE MAN MY FATHER ALWAYS WAS
(for Brian )

Each night
I would follow you

through the rituals
of what you had to do

being Daddy.

I wanted to be Daddy too.

Mimicking your gait
becoming an exact

copy
of you

trailing along
in your footsteps

like a lone seagull
following in the wake

of some great ship
of state

watching the water
burn

'til it was all bubbles

then letting it
calm down

before filling my mother's
hot water bottle

carrying it to her side
like a lover's gift.

I was
your little shadow.

She'd always smile:
'Thank you Danny! '

'That's alright love."
was always the answer.

These the ritualistic words
in the hot water bottle ceremony.

Then he'd teach the clock
to ****

adjusting it with his hands
and wind up Time

so that it spit tick & tocks
all through the night

then go lock doors
turn keys
draw bolts.

'That's it, son! '

I used to imagine
being you

and now I am
my own man

winding up Time

bringing my missus
the gift of a hot water bottle

(the gift of me)

both equally
heart warming.

'Thank you Donall! '
she always smiles.

'That's all right love! '
I always answer.

Me the man
i am

because of you.
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