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Clay Feet Jan 2015
Lovely mornings, evenings, nights our hearts took flight
Laughing ceased as sighs increased.

Wafts of sensual sweet smells rose.
Bodies, curved in writhing poses glowed.

Cares lost in arousing touch, lingering fingers longed for
Secrets, shared in sacred sighs and wanton lies.

Arching union quivered and quaked.

I whispered then and will again
Stilettos are not made for walking,

Their soul purpose, freeing our rising desires,
Feeding rapturous tinglings of sensual ecstasy.
Edited 02/01/2015
Balkus Nov 2015
Those poppy fields were lifeless,
but now they shine with light.
The war has made them bleeding,
the Peace has made them smile.

Each flower is a soldier,
who sacrificed his life,
who gave up his own future
to make our future count.

Each flower tells a story
of man and woman's fight,
you hear them in the glory
of petals shining bright.

Shhh, quiet, can you hear this?
The flowers -  making sound.

The unsung heroes singing
the song of joy - and life.
With Swollen Tears did my Countrymen commit
In week's Soliloquy request for Aid
And Soul's own Moments whose Sympathy permit
Whilst Sheltered Families pray for more space
Pledge, dear Lord! And Citisens of the World
My People's Wounds soaked in Unwanted Rain
At least in Voice and Gift-Wishes unfold
Would indeed suffice to soften their Pain
Look, Union Jack! The Scenes of Caskets float,
Plastered houses a-washed with nails and wood
Then came the Bayanis, in rubbers and boats
Bore frozen Victims to their Neighbourhood.
It's a Sad Film for anyone to see
Please offer Burnt Roses; Make them Happy.
Umi Jan 2018
The size of Allah,
Is more than my little mind can handle, it makes me stay in awe
We are but none existent if you would compare
Just remember, my children, to fulfill your prayer
His mercy if far bigger than his wrath
He wants us to stick to his path
The path which he has picked for us,
So do not follow the devil, for he only means us harm
My children,educate yourselfs and think of God, he keeps us warm
Think about all blessings you have recieved
Even the ones you wouldn't have believed in
For your own sake, please don't commit sin
It is far better to be righteous and pure
Righteous deeds are for a sick heart some kind of cure
Indeed, he is the one who created the heaven with might
And he is the one who constantly expands it. Has this switched a light ?
This is just one of many signs you can find
Now rest, it  is already night...
Let us sleep, then tomorrow do what's right

~ Umi
Kitt Jul 2017
A baby clutches his mother’s dress
Unaware of how it will save his life
Unwary of the saving grace that will come to rest
The child is soft and clean
His name is Eugenius, the second of three
After Richard, before Michal
He is just a babe, no bigger than an infant can be

A toddler clutches his mother’s dress, the hem
Unaware of tragedy
Unwary of the Horror that awaits him
The child is frightened and shaking
His name is Gene, the second of three
After Richard, before Michal
He is just a little one, no taller than Mama’s knee

A child clutches his mother’s hand
Unaware from behind her skirt as they are herded
Unwary of the disaster to come from the cart
His name is Genie, the second of three
Before Mikey, after Richie
He is just a child, no higher than Tata’s knee

A boy holds his brother’s hand tight
Unaware of the danger he is in
Unwary that the coin from Mama’s skirts will save his life
The boy is healthy and strong, though not for long
His name is Gene, the second of three
Before Michal, after Richard
He is naïve, but soon to grow up prematurely

A prisoner holds his own shirt, unsure
Unaware of the pain that is coming
Unwary that he shall walk away nevermore
The prisoner is hurting and ******
His name is “Gefangene,” the second of two
After Richard, before the crimson mess
He is crying for a ****** towel carried by

A handicap clutches Mama’s leg
Aware that he cannot cry as she shuffles him out
Wary that outside her skirts is the hunt
The handicap is hurting so badly
His name is Gene, the second of three
After Richard, before the new bump
He is unwilling to believe

A kaleka holds tight to his brother’s back
Aware that he is a burden
Wary that he is a load
The kaleka is waiting, waiting.
His name is Gene, second of three
After Richard, before Theresa
The kaleka is ready for release

The dziecko holds again to Mama’s skirt
Aware that he is now free to leave
Wary that he will never be independent
The dziecko is elated and mourning
His name is Gene, the second of three
Before Theresa, after Richard
The dziecko will never be the same

Sixty five years later
Gene holds Rosie’s hand tight
Aware that he is old now, having lived fully
Wary that death is imminent at last
The great-grandfather is peaceful and content
His name is Tata, Grandpa, Gene, husband, and more
He is the last one left of his war
The survivor is ready to reunite with his family
He gives thanks to Hattie’s skirts
That kept him alive though the hurts.
Eugeneus Borowski is my great-grandfather, a child Holocaust victim. This piece is currently featured in the World War II poetry unit in the syllabus of a literature course offered through Northern Essex Community College. The only surviving first-hand account of Gene’s experience is a cassette tape of an interview he gave many years ago.
J L James Nov 2018
Memories
are like fire,
they can execute
or inspire,
satiate
cooked on a plate,
deforest
when
filled with hate.
Running like lava
through
varicose veins,
embers smolder
ready to ignite,
or extinguish the
remembrance.
Exploring the power of memories.
Chris Neilson Nov 2017
She lived with her husband in a Manchester suburb
toiling to keep their kid's bellies filled
oblivious to the horrors yet to be lived
"The war to end all wars" and millions killed

From a thread-bare working class
with poorly paid work and a struggle to get by
her future was stolen in August 1914
she didn't have the vote for her husband to die

Tommy and his pals signed up for glory
marching and grinning but gripped by fear
she waved them off with her heart so heavy
as posters warned the Germans would be here

Tommy returned from the front to nurse his wounds
gone was his smile, his whistle in the morn
a haunted look, he couldn't say what he'd seen
she felt sad and lonely, bereft and forlorn

Supporting her husband throughout his trauma
much work to do and mouths to feed
2 years now into this epic madness
more brave cannon fodder was the nation's need

They recalled Tommy for a battle at the Somme
his mental wounds hidden, he stood at the door
she kissed him as he left to meet his maker
she sighed, then cried and collapsed to the floor

On a warm July morning he was sent to his death
cut down in his prime in no man's land
another pointless, tragic waste of a life
most now saw this "Great War" wasn't so grand

She opened the letter bearing the news
they regretted her loss and said they were pained
passed to her loved ones and back again
barely readable now it was so tear-stained

2 months passed and she read some news
they were showing a film at her local cinema
the carnage at the Somme could now be viewed
some family and friends went to see it with her

She saw a body being carried in the trenches
the face of the dead man was screened
that face was Tommy's, she leapt to her feet
"That's him! That's my Tommy!", she screamed

She was led back home to her children
her pain and anguish she could now release
seeing Tommy one last time gave her closure
his face had looked content and finally at peace
In remembrance week, a piece I wrote a few years back. I wrote it from the point of view of a volunteer's wife to give it a slightly different perspective.
Seanathon Sep 2018
I'd forgotten here
That the most beautiful place in the world is round

That the future I see beyond the horizon Is now
Above this place
My hometown

I'd forgotten here
But I remember now
Staring at that purple sunset. Looking back at me.
Cunning Linguist Oct 2018
Your lips taste like regret,
& stale cigarettes
Nevertheless;
You make me fly through space
right up in
my rocketship

Its celestial,
so ponder this
Always stuck inside
your head and  *******br>While these memories,
they eat at me
four walls,
my only scenery

I drink just to not feel things
Or contemplate the dark and strange
Is this insanity?
Deranged, I'm glued to my seat
stuck on repeat
& lacking in mental clarity

Poor  D i c k  just lost his family;
Her heart, it hasn't skipped a beat
Its on her sleeve and honestly
I swear she'll be the death of me

I'll never show the pain that grows
but stow away these mental notes
til one day my mindscape's exposed,
& explodes
As my brains leak out my ears
most infinitely, no?

Yes I'm depresso I must confess oh
Double barrel shot in my espresso
Can't express though
I wear a mask so
You'll never know when I'm upset

Overlords, gimme simulation reset
Situations got me already
steady hot & heavy
Cos I be boiling in my skin

You see this boi is your kin
But a toy in the bin
For you to discard
When you find it most convenient

And I mean it;
Please disregard the "bars" I spit
I still think your aesthetic's lit
A succubus with fetishes
Of draining me, til nothings left

And after all the time I spent
Prolonging an inevitable end
I'll say the means were justified,
Even if it was really just pretend

I only hope its unreal
A living nightmare, u feel
Every waking moment, lonely
And you can't sleep at night
without choking

So button it
Just shut it  b i t c h
I care not for the words unsaid
in a casket's where I made my bed
One foot in the grave
and I'm better off dead
G Rog Rogers Aug 2017
I speak your name
on certain special days
To remember the way
you then once were

There in the perfect
bloom of your life
Beautiful brilliant
beloved and bright

I whisper your name
on that day
you were born
and the day
that We first met

On that day
We first made love
and on that precious day
We wed

And then upon
that tragic day
You were forever
gone to stay

I hear myself
speak your name
through all the years
that have come and gone

Reverently
I will speak your name
on certain special days
as long as I should live

You will know
I shall and did
love you
forever all along.

-R.

8.1.17
-LA


-4MAR
©2017
Deep May 25
Always, think of me, when the moon is lone and pale
Nebulously sprinting for empty space —
And you sitting under starry universe
Watching those nocturnal games,
Retrospecting life before which many stooped.
Stop not there for the life is long and trials many,
Tribulations its essence, success sneer without them.

Always, think of me, when the moon is lone and pale
gasping wildly for empty space—
Chris Saitta Apr 29
Her hand is a bookmark in my heart,
So many smoothed pages ago.
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