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Logan Robertson Jul 2018
A black crow's darting eyes
spans the wheat field
and an orange pumpkin patch.
She sees
tall grasses of brown
bristling in the wind,
soon to be bushels of grain
and a pumpkin pie that she never savored.
She sits, atop her tree perch,
at times warm and storybook,
hidden by tree branches,
and at times out of harm's way
and infamy.
Her friends, the sun, and clouds in concert,
dancing along.
Her other friends bring alms and smiles.
Life is so good at times.
Down the road sits a mill
next to a waterfall
and a cabin,
with reindeer horns
hanging above the doorway.
She is in her element, happy,
carrying for her nestlings.
Back and forth her parental eyes dart
the hilly fields, a smoked filled chimney, and her babies,
all crawling with sustenance and awe.
A mother feeding a worm to her baby.
Off to her side is not a blind eye
watching her,
scary stick figures of
straw tucked under red shirts and hats,
with a tied tinfoil strips dotting
her eyes and tease.
Scarecrows, cease.
At times life is good nature, hand in hand,
knock on wood.
If only life could be circumspect.
Than darkness filling the light
and a stutter of life.
For a sad page is turned,
... tears.
Then, feathers fall.
The sound of a thud.
Silence and tears of her friend's swelling.
A baby's cry, missing her mother.
More orphaned tears.
Who would be this despicable?
On that rogue day.
A kick of a donkey,
an ***,
one bad rock on her path,
breaks the air,
as three little elementary kids were walking along
to school.
One, me, with a rock in his hand,
taking aim at her perch
and the death of the black crow's pages.
I confess.
... Bless me, Father, for I have sinned
it has been fifty years since
my last confession ...
a Tom Sawyer-like childhood gone worse.
I repent.
Some fifty years later I think of those first cairns,
including stealing the reindeer horns and milling
my brother and sister's storybook.
stream tears, and a sorry boat
rowed downstream

Logan Robertson

it is tempting to lose yourself
in the pleasure of wordly possessions
money, cars, yachts, beautiful things

the Dagobert Duck syndrome

as we know
even the pharaos of ancient times
together with assorted kings and emperors
chiefs, dukes, presidents, popes, & cetera,
could only take their toys
into their graves
and not beyond

we do not know for sure
    although we may believe
if immaterial possessions
have a better fate

yet even though we do not know
what our final moment brings

a thoughtful wrinkle on your brow
looks always better than
a bleak array of orphaned things
OC Jul 2018
We ran out of pencils
which didn't bother us much
'till we discovered that
we ran out of words and letters
as well and

in the lack of words
there was nothing to ration
sheer terror and confusion
and those leaked out of storage
foaming, flooding, roaring
draining all other emotions and

thus the hunger settled in
oozing through the cracks
clinging to the walls
suckling like an orphaned boy
until, when nothing's left
consumed itself to null and

we were left with the absence
who's already small amounts
swelled, and inflated
filling our entire volume
entrapping the echos of memory
then, naturally,
diffused to the outside and

we were left
deprived of selves
only the void within preventing us
from bursting towards the void outside
we float
in no distinct direction
and on occasion bump
into each other's shell
a tap deprived of sound
unable to disturb
eternal peace
karin naude Dec 2014
i fear my slow but steady descent back into depression
the gut wrenching sadness is back and stronger than before
fueled by being orphaned at a time of year that poses its own challenges
combined with a fusion of anger, regret, self hatred, shame and desire for revenge
all blanketed by lack of joy of all things and people
left alone my thoughts run rampant and devour me
a history of fighting demons i ran so hard from hoping to never see them again, but lady luck did not smile just a devilish grin
L B Apr 2017
Somehow it wasn’t right to cry
for someone who
no one knew—for years
though everyone knew about Lil
She was the crazy burden
of an orphaned family
whose memories rearrange the winter shadows

“Are we dressed right?
Are our faces adequately sad?”

They loved the skinny, happy kid
Loved—the ones who loved her
knew her from “The Old Neighborhood”

Two sisters approach the body
echoed in black and navy
holding each other’s hand
They look down at her—
They look her over
They overlook—“The Old Neighborhood”
of the Lillian they had hoped for—
took care of as a child....

And in the din of last respects
a comment from an older gentleman—

The Goldrick girls were all such lookers

So I was her niece
and not from “The Old Neighborhood”
I have memories of my own....

I was rich when Lil brought play money
from Misquamicut
She brought whelks and slipper shells too
My ear cupped close
I first heard the sea

Not as beautiful as I expected
nor as beautiful as I would know
She gave them with love—without telling
where and when that I would go....

Her hands were always cool and sweaty
Always trembling
Always a cigarette
and an argument in the background

From the height of three
and hugging knees
I see her face against the ceiling’s
white—with panic

Her eyes are never with me
I know someone is with her

The Goldrick girls were all such lookers....”

Beleaguered beauty
Frail, with stiff grace
she glances sideways
Checking for my safety?

“Our names too close! Confused too often!”

I was to know her horror— as I know her sea

...Her laughter, too late for the conversation
a smoky hysteria
that will not share with her eyes
She stumbles backward through her childhood
as if she has mislaid something

She wants to go roller skating
with her sister, eight months pregnant
besieged by diapers
with stew on the back burner

...And Lil wants to go back...
to a time at the Rialto
to the *****’s boogie

to the edge—before
The Depression declared WAR—

on someone who
no one knew
for years!

And is it okay yet? let her sea out of me!

It burns so!
Sequel to "Hey Kid"
Janelle Tanguin Feb 2017
Before everything

i. I never knew four letters could melt
menthol candy-like, hydrochloric acid on my tongue
and keep burning it in different degrees
I had to swallow back.

ii. That there would come a time
I'd have to baptize the pain in my chest like seasons
robbing me lungfuls
on January, September and December nights.

iii. That my blood was really ink I needed to stop using
before my skin turned paper-like.

iv. That my heart had an epicenter pumping a magnitude of earthquakes
that made me tremble helplessly in its intensity;
and that they were man-made calamities
followed by harsh, heavy, whipping tsunamis
to flood my grave of bleeding, jagged fault lines.

v. That aftereffects lasted longer than treatment itself,
and that I didn't need any professional diagnosis to know
I was terminal
from the same drug that made butterfly-strokes in my veins,
whose arms withheld the only elixir to this malady.

vi. I named my sickness, my pain, my agony like orphaned children, after you--
a rare disease
the doctors didn't even know about yet.

vii. I did and I doubted
but a part of me beat signals
that echoed off the cave walls of my skull
that I knew.

viii. Before everything,
I have been warned
but I chose to listen to the soothing, wrong, hopeful voices
"He means no harm,".

ix. You began spreading like an epidemic-- a tumor to a colony of cells all over me-- until I became you;
a reflection of familiar suffering and mortality, slowly withering away.
In the end, I didn't even have you to blame
for letting me overdose from intakes
of my own ****, bitter medicine and unforgivable mistakes.

x. I guess, this was how you wanted the price to be paid.
Tommy Randell Mar 2017
Read again that letter from my father -

You can hear the music in it I'll bet,
Its old style singing from his lonely centre.
He asks for money, brandy on his breath,
He offers time and talks of Ireland’s history and pride,
He offers me the right to share his name.
He asks for comfort in the few years left
And thinks I might care - because he is afraid.

Read again that letter from my father -

Now he wants to have all the things he has not.
It would take some doing, he would need to make account
Of his long abandoned wife and her sons,
Her later death and us being orphaned at nine and twelve,
The school bus bullies from other father-less homes,
And being pounded and being pounded into stone
To be remade in his image, to be an absent father's sons.

Go on, read that letter from my Father -

You tell me what it says about his life,
Of living well-down the glass of his pride.
Can you see one moment of any abstract thought
Or is it the old story of the King with no clothes
Caught naked with no place to hide?
An **** truth, no matter dressed in gold.

Should it make me sad, that letter from my Father?

It reminds me of an old tree no light can shine through,
With no birds in the branches and no rainfall can penetrate.
If you threw a stone into its branches you would hear it
Clatter like a bucket of hope down a dry well.
It reminds me of the story of The Foolish Oak
Whose roots withered as its leaves cast off the rain
And who became a dead log just standing there.
He is dead now. In reality we let him back into our lives, my brother & I though we never grew to love him. He inhabited the fringes of our family. He was harmless and every man deserves the right to prove he has changed. BUT, that cruel part of me still hurts and feels anger for a lifetime without a father and for a deserted mother who turned to drink.
Steve Jul 2018
Thirty Five Years
Not just alive and on the planet
But hooked and hitched
To my pal Janet
Or Mary as She’s often known
The wind from the east
Where wild oats were sown

Thirty Five Years
From lad to dad
Mostly good, sometimes bad
And orphaned along the way
Sad to say
But while there’s Jean
There’ll always be a card

Thirty Five Years
The wrinkles spread
And the road back’s longer
Than the road ahead
Thinking of it makes me smile
But the future’s real
Fate still spins the wheel

Thirty five years
Since that toast was said
And we both kissed
And our vows were read
Nerves on show,
“On behalf of my wife and I..”
Thanks to you all for dropping by.
On the occasion of. Jean is my amazing mother in law.
Katie Feb 16

Day 1 - Abandoned

A child stands alone,
Crying with the falling rain.
"Where did mommy go?"


Day 2 - Seclusion

Friendship is a lie -
Five years alone on the streets
Taught me that lesson.


Da­y 3 - Pain

My whole body aches.
The cuts and scrapes still won't heal.
Robbed of my safety.


Da­y 4 - Remember

Mother told me:
"Stay here until I come back."
I'm still here, waiting.


D­ay 5 - Hurt

He came back again.
Body and mouth, screaming "NO!!!"
He never listens.


D­ay 6 - Hate

Why can't I fight back?!
He's been doing this for years -
Fresh salt in old wounds.


Da­y 7 - Gone

Thinking it over -
Eighteen years now, mom's still gone.
She's not coming back.


Day 8 - Melancholy

I'm miserable:
Homeless, starving, *****, sickly.
Nowhere to call "home".


Da­y 9 - Loss

My mother is dead.
Today's newspaper said so,
But I've known for years.


Day­ 10 - Silence

Timid stray cat
Draws near and sits beside me,
Sleeps without a sound.


Day­ 11 - Emotion

Childhood memories:
A family, mom and dad.
Where did it all go?


Day 12 - War

Fear races through me.
I won't let him win again.
Blood stains the sidewalk.


­Day 13 - Paranoia

I drop my weapon.
Panic and guilt surround me.
What will happen now?


Day 14 - Limbo

Ignoring the truth:
Is this what "guilty" feels like?
I can't live like this.


Day 15 - Insanity

Clinging to my thoughts,
The last memories of "me".
What have I become?


Da­y 16 - Abuse

I was four years old,
Barely old enough to read,
When mother left me.


Day 17 - Desolate

A lone survivor:
Both parents dead, no siblings,
No home to speak of.


Day 18 - Isolation

The streets are empty.
My shadow and broken glass
Litter the alley.


Day­ 19 - Missing

A tattered poster,
With my name and old address.
A ghost of my past.


Day 20 - Lonely

The stray cat returns.
It falls asleep on my chest,
Fills the empty void.


Day 21 - Hope

The cat meows at me.
I don't think it wants to leave.
Have I found a friend?


Da­y 22 - Cloudburst

I saw the sun today.
It rained while it shone, of course,
But I still saw it.


Day 23 - Luck

A lost wallet, found -
Enough to pay the bus fare.
Where will it take me?


Day 24 - Outside

Leaving the alley.
I don't have much to bring with,
Just my bag... and cat.


Day 25 - Journey

The bus comes on time.
Pay my fare, choose a seat, sit -
No more looking back.


Day 26 - Horizon

Look out the window.
Cat sleeps on my lap, purring.
Watch the world go by.


Day 27 - Redemption

My trip is over.
A new city, a new life -
I'm ready for it.


Day 28 - Future

Cat walks beside me,
Birdsong fills the quiet morning.
Time to start over.

A story of patience and courage.
One poem for each day of February.
jcl Feb 16
this obsession that consumes and burns within me
is it love, true, unconditional, the kind in fairytales
or limerence, intoxicating, ephemeral, lasting only 900 days
the moment i pledge my highest love, i face my greatest fear

when i fall to sleep at night, you are my last thought
the first when i wake, then all day long
kiss me, sweetly, softly, eternally, promise never to stop

wrap me in your arms, hold me tight, like a scared child
show me your love, prove it to me over and over again
kiss me, on the lips, tenderly, so i can feel your pulse

whisper, in my ear, tell me the lies i want to hear
share with me, the secrets, deep in your soul
faint echoes fading in a wishing well

kiss my lips, my cheeks, ******* tears
undress my dear, bare your skin, your soul, let me see you whole
let me taste your tears, i promise never to leave

run your fingers through my hair, feel its softness, smell it’s sweetness
do you remember, when we first slept together
scared children, orphaned, hugging each other tight, all night

i need to feel you against me, your breath on my neck
your scent, enveloping, penetrating deep within me
hug me, cradle me, rock me gently into security
#353 2019.04.02
James LR Jun 2018
America is wonderful!
Opportunities are plentiful!
Believe whatever you want
Whatever cause feel free to flaunt.
But stop and look around and see
The orphaned birthright of poverty.
And when reality starts sinking in,
Harden your heart, and toughen your skin.
Turn away the ***** and blind.
The fault is theirs. And never mind
The families we tear apart.
Najla Jul 13
I’m accompanied by two tonight,
agony and her beloved insomnia

Nothing lives inside me any longer  
Perhaps I orphaned this heart of mine,
when I didn’t listen
to its desperate cries
in need for a shelter

Cursed with homesickness,  
an abysmal void grew within me
that’s where I found refuge
Chidera Abaratu Sep 2017
It was meant for her
she felt it but yet
to her she couldn't get it

It was in her linage
but yet she thought
she couldn't get there
***' she was a commoner
and of a forbidden race,a Jew

It was true her family was
wiped out by the Amalekites
leaving her and her cousin orphaned
still destiny had great plans for them

It was true that in the whole
of Persia she was among the most
beautiful maiden but yet her cousin
now her father prevented her from
leaving the house and coming in contact with the king

As she grew into a lady
she became more beautiful and
this actually made her the most
beautiful lady in the whole of Persia

As she was being promised
by her late mother her cousin
now her father gave her the Tresured Medallion
the Star of David when she
became a full blown woman

Since out of love and care
she ran not in disguise of a boy
but her self to the palace to save Jesse
her friend who they captured to make
a palace official but unfortunately for her
she was immediately siezed to be among the Queens to be
something she always wished for but
because of wht they did to her
the palace was her most feared place

At the palace in the harem
she found favour in the eyes of the royal enouch Hegai
and everyone in the palace
making her the most loved person in the palace
Hegai kept the secret of her being a Jew

As time went on she waited
for the night with the king
that single night that would change
everything for her and her family
and truely that night came and
she found favour in the king's eyes
and through this she became the
Queen of Great Persia

We all would be wondering
who this lucky girl is and what her name is
well this is just a little story of  Jewish girl
who was greatly favoured by God
whose name was changed from Hadassah
to Star of Pussa to Queen Esther
This is the longest poem i've ever written.
Egeria Litha Mar 16
She bowed her head and entered the grief tipi
but the grief gracer was on break
from witnessing sadness and madness
on the brink of panic

She read the books on display
tears flowed and she still felt the same

This tipi couldn't erase the pain
She waited and waited but the counselor never came

Grieving over what we did and did not receive
hollow from the sorrow of the world
meditating as another sacred plant dies
She can hear this planet cry
because she is a woman
bleeding from her bloodline

Orphaned between old and new world's
she's just a girl
pin downed by the white man's world
Christine Locke Nov 2018
I woke when the sun grew hot
I rode a bike with my arms out wide
I balanced on tree limbs over rooftops
And after that
My mother and her sister sang Girl Scout harmony
On the porch at night.

I picked lace flowers by the creekside
I caught rainbow fish in my hands
I rescued orphaned tadpoles
And after that
I read James Herriot out loud with my sister’s flashlight
On the porch at night.

I fished a green-tailed dragonfly from the pool
I watched its wings shimmer purple and blue
I read all my best books in one afternoon
And after that
I snuggled under blankets as jealous moths tapped the screen
On the porch at night.

I built a house of sticks and wove green leaves
I sat inside and watched a spider spin
I fed peanut butter and jelly to the shy mockingbird
And after that
I fell asleep as my brothers breathed softly
On the porch at night.
As days split off
and drift away,
their dreams remain with me

Words as jewels
and treasured pawn,
whose tickets cancelled—flee

The nights adopted
    orphaned suns,
those times you woke and lied

My heart left bare
myself to wed,
your wound still deep inside

From spells you cast
upon our gift,
and conjured into stone

The past is black
all future gone,
and present—love disowned

(Villanova Pennsylvania: January, 2017)
Kurt Philip Behm Oct 2018
A voice goes silent
  in the distant wind

No tracks to follow
  no path within

Muses cry
  as shadows fade

Their chorus faint
  with dreams unmade

The past abandoned
  tomorrow gone
This moment orphaned
  the night so long

Goodbye tomorrow
  farewell today

All hope now fleeting
  —time castaway

(Villanova Pennsylvania: October, 2018)
It'll be funny when she notices

                               the stamp was upside down. Besides,
who uses envelopes anymore?

                                              Post WWII democrats? Fact is.
despite (who uses that)
our age difference,                                        I know more about

indentation than she does.
                                                 It started with me remembering images
of the ink not yet dry on the probate.

She plays at liking me says the
                                                             ­                          orphaned child.
Offer a hand again?
I'll get back to you.

Sara Fielder © Mar 2019
Najwa Kareem Mar 27
4 Years, 1500 days, 3600 hours, 2,160,000 minutes, 129,600,000 seconds
Yemen with a devastating war
Yemen crushed by Saudi war criminals
Yemen wounded by US' immorality
Yemen killed by too many's frigid hearts
Yemen unbelievably destroyed

4 Years, 1500 days, 3600 hours, 2,160,000 minutes, 129,600,000 seconds
Yemen a skeleton
Yemen with its sustainable resources confiscated
Yemen its country's wealth no more
Yemen with blood everywhere

4 Years, 1500 days, 3600 hours, 2,160,000 minutes, 129,600,000 seconds
Yemen with 20 Million affected
Yemen with babies deceased
Yemen with young orphaned
Yemen with old without shelter
Yemen with men buried under sand
Yemen with women *****
Yemen with countless widowed
Yemen trapped under rebel with people screaming for help

4 Years, 1500 days, 3600 hours, 2,160,000 minutes, 129,600,000 seconds
Yemen in shock
Yemen weary
Yemen with its hands up high in the air pleading for an end

Are our hands up with them
Are our foreheads wet
Are our eyes full
Are our mouths dry
Are our fingers in motion
Are our legs fatigued
Are our brains thinking

YEMEN: 4 Years Starving, 4 Years Dying, 4 Years Bleeding, 4 Years Grieving, 4 Years Hurting, 4 Years Too Long Not With Our Oppressed, 4 Years Too Late We Must Begin
In commemoration of Yemen's 20 Million people affected by a unfathomable, ruthless 4 year Saudi led, US supported war
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