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Paul Hansford Jan 2018
Even from behind the glass,
you can smell the insecticide
that keeps the moths away.
A vast mound of matted sheep’s wool
you would say, except (they assure you)
it is original, all two tons of it,
the human hair that was left
unused at the end.
The rest went for socks
to keep workers’ feet warm.
All grey now, sixty years on, it has aged
as those that owned it never did.
They went naked to the shower room,
clutching the soap
they would never use,
and then to the ovens.
A lorry’s engine drowned the screams,
and the Governor’s wife tended her flowers,
making a garden “like paradise.”
This is at least the fourth major re-write of this poem .  "A poem is never finished, only abandoned."
jane taylor Oct 2016
haunted by transparent tawny remnants
from which i sprang
i etch away earthly layers
desperately trying to un-remember
whilst retaining wisdom's splendor
wrapped in your arms once again

i place many of my poems over my photography
to see the poem/pic combo go to
Shadow Puppet Apr 2017
Tears drop for the absence of my emotions
Unrequited love is a powerful potion

When I see them there is just this empty feeling
Lonliness gnaws at my pillow
Though I am willing

To find another love.

Sleepless nights wipe my eyes
I never had this problem before I knew what it was like

To have someone stand by my side.

No remedy found
There is no cure to this curse

To reverse the remains of a void.
There, in the light of a summer, long gone, lie shadows of laughter, remnants of love.
There in the dust rings, echos of recall, sunspots flaunt blue yonder above .
Recalling eyes that wept for the fun of it, cried with the tragedy,. Teardrops of crave
Surges of memory washing in wavelets cleansing, scarring,  riding the wave.

Oh for that feeling of splendid simplicity running in sand at the surge of the tide
No place to be, no timetable proffered, freedom on little boys giant slippery slide.
Ice creams, apricots, luscious and juicy frolic with maiden’s free blonde, tousled hair,
Frothy short petticoats bounce in the sunshine, youth without traces of worry or care.

Breathless in nights of gathereing twilight, breathless falls this magical  air,
Wondrous in such lilting beauty, soft hanging tones of Autumn fair.
There in the light of summer gone, shadows of laughter, remnants of love,
Memories flood to overflowing, indigo glints the starlight above.

The Satins of Autumn Approacheth…
February 21 2019
What use to hurt me before
Continues to hurt me now
Though, the people who gave me pain
Are no longer allowed
I realize I still hurt myself
By keeping bad memories around
I am the only one hurting me
A type of self-harm that is mentally bound
I don't want to be in pain no more
Yet I allow life to bring me down
Because that voice is always with me
An inner voice so profound
Robin Lemmen Aug 2018
Our entire relationship I felt
like all I was doing
was waiting for you and I to break
like goodbye was only one kiss away

And when I finally started feeling
like maybe, just maybe
we would prove ourselves wrong
you left me in shambles on the floor
shards of our favorite memories
cutting deep and letting me bleed
flowers painted red

I can't seem to escape
everything feels laced
with your winter remnants
blooming a stark white contrast
to my deep dark wounds
leaving broken roses everywhere
Atsillac Jan 10
If I have the courage to confess,
Will you still be a was?
Rama Krsna Jun 24
for her
t’was garbage
fractured glass
on its way to trash.....
to him
each shard
a fragment of a busted heart
in need of resuscitation

remnants of a failed love

© 2019
based on a true story
She Writes Jan 9
The remnants of your influence
Echo down the halls of my concience
Long after I slipped away into the night
Here you are still
Whispering that I am not good enough
I cannot make on on my own
Vicki Kralapp Sep 2018
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer,
painting maples in hues of brilliant oranges and reds.
Long shadows of late September streak across the last blades of grass,
as fall’s stark contrasts light the afternoon.

The seasonal wind breathes cold with the smell of autumn in the air.
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer,
while cottony clouds in a sea of cornflower blue, slowly slide out of view,
chased down by v’s of geese as they race across the sun.

Helicopter seeds line the sidewalks, green and gold, as others float on the wind,
down to join with cones and acorns awaiting next year’s crop.  
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer.
Crows, harbingers of the winter to come, make their sad calls.

Squirrels pause to pack their cheeks with Fall’s fare and scurry to secret caches,
their bulging cheeks filled with fallen nuts and acorns.
Fall greets me with a kiss as summer bows to its chill, as
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer.
Autumn Quatern.

All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Joanna Aug 17
Out of a dry root comes a rose, unique in color and of the rarest of form.

Out of the clay, a vessel is fashioned to carry the fire of his presence and reveal this love.

Out of the word comes the sound of his heart, and the strength of his purpose to impart.

Out of this turtledove, comes the cry of his voice, in a sweet melody that calms the noise.

Out of the darkness comes a great light. And the revelation to understand what is truly a delight.

Out of the heart comes the power to release what went before. And the will to determine to unlock by the spirit this hidden door.
To read more of my writings go to:
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Waiting for spring to return this winter’s day.
Straining to touch warm breezes of the past.
Caught in this prison of gray and white.
Wishing to break these dark chains that hold me.

Remnants of fall, crumpled like brown paper on the ground.
Straws of pale brown growing up through the snow, ******* it dry.
Seeds and freeze dried fruit lay scattered about under trees.
Bare limbs and stalks drip with liquid glass.

Trees hanging bare, gray in lifelessness.
Winter birds call out, single in their pursuit of leftover meals.
Tracks of animals unknown dot the landscape with patchwork.
Waves of ridges etched in white lead off to nowhere.

Sparse, sun filled days bring brief glimpses of hope.
With the promise of warmth waiting to banish the cold
that holds me to my past and this existence;
waiting for spring to return and thaw this frozen heart.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
when I'm lying awake at night
on an air mattress of a pull out couch
not sleeping because of the weight
of why i'm here in the first place.
I cry.

the tears stream directly onto the pillow
pulling off old remnants of eyeliner
and mascara
Dirtying the pillow

I cry because
I am alone


alone fearing the darkness
what it brings
and if it will find me
the darkness
I spent so much of my life in...

The darkness I fought so hard
                                                       To get away from...

And I'm still fighting
King Panda Jan 2018
along the tracks
squished and turned copper
sounding space scratch—
a record when listened
through some great machine where
James Taylor always hits the
high notes and matter explodes
forming the heaviest gold—us always
singing pennies.
us, remnants
kissing the core
of aging stars.
Jesse stillwater Jul 2018
the Silence became
like an old lesson learned

a broken heart intones
a voiceless song
resonating a refrain of Silent echoes
in a voice that never heard a word
yet spoke so clearly ... lingering
in realms of subtle ambiance

soundless remnants
stacked neatly as
building blocks;  
another brick in a wall,
already too tall to see beyond—
growing like a bunker
without a sense of safe harbor

as the Silence became
time and space,
a stillness beset the melancholy air
as if a world without song
foreboding an unpredictable storm
beget vestiges of broken windfall,
reticent leftovers hushed after a gale

s i l e n t l y

an acorn fallen  — became a mighty Oak

a wind-broke twig — became a weeping willow

a neglected child — became mother nature's son

the Silence became
        a blind prophet —
in its voice held forth
smatterings of truth
and undertones of an unrequited
fool’s hope

the Silence became
a strong, abrupt rush of wind
uttering voiceless exhalations of breath;
a hovering dawn mist
    befallen after a summer storm—
surrounding all in all
bedewed in a feigned peace

... the unabated sounds of silence

Jesse Stillwater ... July 20th, 2018
Thank you or reading —
ryn Dec 2014
               •full and
                       grand desi-
                          gns adorned
                              upon my very
              ­                  would land on
                                    my feet•my wo-
                                     rds now partially
                     ­               ng that of an ail-
                                   ing crescent• i...
                                 am still here, i...
                               watch and i lis-
                           ten• scouring
                        for mediocre
             that still
Bill MacEachern Nov 2018
I really didn’t know my mother
I knew her moods
But, I didn’t know her
And I really don’t think she knew her children
She knew our names...mostly
But, she didn’t know us
I know my mother loved singing
I heard my mother sing
"How much is that doggie in the window”
One of my favorites
"Charming Billy"
I know she liked to cook
I know she read The Godfather and Valley Of The Dolls
I know she liked having a party
I know family holidays STRESSED her out
I know she had many friends
I know she drank a lot
I know she went out a lot
I know she drank and went out a lot with her many friends
I know she had many blackouts
I know she could go from very pleasant to wicked mean, instantly, especially when drinking
I know that she hated my father
I think she hated my father for not doing what needed to be done to make it all work out
I think maybe she resented her sons for being his sons
I know my mother was brutalized by her father
I know my mothers father followed my mother wherever she went as a teen because he didn’t trust her
I know my mothers father called her terrible names that a father should not call a daughter
I know that my mother married an alcoholic who gambled too much and beat her for his own sins
I wish I knew other things instead of these things about my mother
I know my mother would have liked me to remember other things too...
Dr Peter Lim Jun 10
Somehow we are
the remnants of yesterday
the angst and despair
brought forward that won't go away-

bruised and hurt by far
choked, we have nothing to say
the murky waters of life rush past
sweeping us the driftwood along its way.
Robin Lemmen Jul 2018
To you
I was a bouquet
Of forget me nots
You forgot to water me
And so I died
Right before your eyes
You took my lifeless petals
Pressed me between pages

And as the story goes
You forgot I ever stood center
On your kitchen table
No longer can you remember
The name of the book
Or the author
In what art you hid remnants
Of our love

I hope one day you will rediscover
And when you do
I hope it takes you back
To when seeing me made you smile
And stop to admire the beauty
You had known to captured
Before you let her die
I see
the power of the universe
to change
remnants of chaos
into majestic beauty
I feel
the ripples of time and space
reflected in my being
a child of the mountains
searching for gold
I dig
into my soul
to find my truth
buried in darkness
a beacon of light
I am
in the glow
of humanity awakening
to the oneness
of the universe
Gabriel Ibarra Aug 2018
Often times my mind does wander wildly
Thoughts where I wonder who I would be
Without my past flames that kept me sane
And without my darker days would I have still remained the same
Or would I be a lesser version of me now
Immersed in the aversion of my mistakes and doubts
Cause we all know I've got plenty. What's new?
Maybe one day maybe I'll see things from a different altitude
My higher learning certain forever searching for a purpose
I may never find cause nothings ever perfect
Deepening lines, wrinkles in time, and broken remnants
Of who we used to be, whoever we are, and what we're destined
Marco Buschini Nov 2016
The pulsating, pearl moon
Harbours the last remnants of romance,
Scintillating, in the valourous sky,
As I surrender to call upon her spirit
To bring her back to me.
I longingly strip, craving the vivacity of her caress.
Irresistible, I would yield to the perpetual
Power of her touch.
Immersed in the shadowy depths,
Rippling serenities of thought.
I glimpse at her reflective soul,
Shimmering upon the ravenous river,
Emanating from the stars
In all their graceful radiance.
Her heart illuminates
The benevolent evening.
The breath of inevitability
Stings my skin, as I dress,
Firing my arrows of impatience
Disconsolately, into the shivering azure,
Hoping for a way
To penetrate her very being.
I am on a journey  
and where it leads, I do not know
the bends and twists within my soul
leave my words and deeds feeling hollow

Am I the man I reflect
or a monster laying in wait
conflicting reports have come
and the doubt never abates

I try so hard to
be the best I know how to be
childish remnants stripped away
I'm left to navigate these canals of misery

Am I victim or villain
a product of an earlier fate
or is that just an excuse to unleash the demons
and become the thing  I truly hate

this battle never ends....
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