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Victor D López Dec 2018
Victor D. López (October 11, 2018)

You were born five years before the beginning of the Spanish civil war and
Lived in a modest two-story home in the lower street of Fontan, facing the ocean that
Gifted you its wealth and beauty but also robbed you of your beloved and noblest eldest
Brother, Juan, who was killed while working as a fisherman out to sea at the tender age of 19.

You were a little girl much prone to crying. The neighbors would make you cry just by saying,
"Chora, neniña, chora" [Cry little girl, cry] which instantly produced inconsolable wailing.
At the age of seven or eight you were blinded by an eye Infection. The village doctor
Saved your eyesight, but not before you missed a full year of school.

You never recovered from that lost time. Your impatience and the shame of feeling left behind prevented
You from making up for lost time. Your wounded pride, the shame of not knowing what your friends knew,
Your restlessness and your inability to hold your tongue when you were corrected by your teacher created
A perfect storm that inevitably tossed your diminutive boat towards the rocks.

When still a girl, you saw Franco with his escort leave his yacht in Fontan. With the innocence of a girl
Who would never learn to hold her tongue, you asked a neighbor who was also present, "Who is that Man?"
"The Generalissimo Francisco Franco," she answered and whispered “Say ‘Viva Franco’ when he Passes by.”
With the innocence of a little girl and the arrogance of an incorrigible old soul you screamed, pointing:

"That's the Generalissimo?" followed up loud laughter, "He looks like Tom Thumb!"
A member of his protective detail approached you, raising his machine gun with the apparent intention of
Hitting you with the stock. "Leave her alone!" Franco ordered. "She is just a child — the fault is not hers."
You told that story many times in my presence, always with a smile or laughing out loud.

I don't believe you ever appreciated the possible import of that "feat" of contempt for
Authority. Could that act of derision have played some small part in their later
Coming for your father and taking him prisoner, torturing him for months and eventually
Condemning him to be executed by firing squad in the Plaza de Maria Pita?

He escaped his fate with the help of a fascist officer who freed him as I’ve noted earlier.
Such was his reputation, the power of his ideas and the esteem even of friends who did not share his views.
Such was your innocence or your psychic blind spot that you never realized your possible contribution to
His destruction. Thank God you never connected the possible impact of your words on his downfall.

You adored your dad throughout your life with a passion of which he was most deserving.
He died shortly after the end of the Spanish Civil War. A mother with ten mouths to feed
Needed help. You stepped up in response to her silent, urgent need. At the age of
Eleven you left school for the last time and began working full time.

Children could not legally work in Franco’s Spain. Nevertheless, a cousin who owned a cannery
Took pity on your situation and allowed you to work full-time in his fish cannery factory in Sada.
You earned the same salary as the adult, predominantly women workers and worked better
Than most of them with a dexterity and rapidity that served you well your entire life.

In your free time before work you carried water from the communal fountain to neighbors for a few cents.
You also made trips carrying water on your head for home and with a pail in each hand. This continued after
You began work in Cheche’s cannery. You rose long before sunrise to get the water for
Home and for the local fishermen before they left on their daily fishing trips for their personal water pails.

All of the money you earned went to your mom with great pride that a girl could provide more than the salary of a
Grown woman--at the mere cost of her childhood and education. You also washed clothes for some
Neighbors for a few cents more, with diapers for newborns always free just for the pleasure of being
Allowed to see, hold spend some time with the babies you so dearly loved you whole life through.
When you were old enough to go to the Sunday cinema and dances, you continued the
Same routine and added washing and ironed the Sunday clothes for the young fishermen
Who wanted to look their best for the weekly dances. The money from that third job was your own
To pay for weekly hairdos, the cinema and dance hall entry fee. The rest still went to your mom.

At 16 you wanted to go to emigrate to Buenos Aires to live with an aunt.
Your mom agreed to let you--provided you took your younger sister, Remedios, with you.
You reluctantly agreed. You found you also could not legally work in Buenos Aires as a minor.
So you convincingly lied about your age and got a job as a nurse’s aide at a clinic soon after your arrival.

You washed bedpans, made beds, scrubbed floors and did other similar assigned tasks
To earn enough money to pay the passage for your mom and two youngest brothers,
Sito (José) and Paco (Francisco). Later you got a job as a maid at a hotel in the resort town of
Mar del Plata whose owners loved your passion for taking care of their infant children.

You served as a maid and unpaid babysitter. Between your modest salary and
Tips as a maid you soon earned the rest of the funds needed for your mom’s and brothers’
Passage from Spain. You returned to Buenos Aires and found two rooms you could afford in an
Excellent neighborhood at an old boarding house near the Spanish Consulate in the center of the city.

Afterwards you got a job at a Ponds laboratory as a machine operator of packaging
Machines for Ponds’ beauty products. You made good money and helped to support your
Mom and brothers  while she continued working as hard as she always had in Spain,
No longer selling fish but cleaning a funeral home and washing clothing by hand.

When your brothers were old enough to work, they joined you in supporting your
Mom and getting her to retire from working outside the home.
You lived with your mom in the same home until you married dad years later,
And never lost the bad habit of stubbornly speaking your mind no matter the cost.

Your union tried to force you to register as a Peronista. Once burned twice cautious,
You refused, telling the syndicate you had not escaped one dictator to ally yourself with
Another. They threatened to fire you. When you would not yield, they threatened to
Repatriate you, your mom and brothers back to Spain.

I can’t print your reply here. They finally brought you to the general manager’s office
Demanding he fire you. You demanded a valid reason for their request.
The manager—doubtless at his own peril—refused, saying he had no better worker
Than you and that the union had no cause to demand your dismissal.

After several years of courtship, you and dad married. You had the world well in hand with
Well-paying jobs and strong savings that would allow you to live a very comfortable life.
You seemed incapable of having the children you so longed for. Three years of painful
Treatments allowed you to give me life and we lived three more years in a beautiful apartment.

I have memories from a very tender age and remember that apartment very well. But things changed
When you decided to go into businesses that soon became unsustainable in the runaway inflation and
Economic chaos of the Argentina of the early 1960’s. I remember only too well your extreme sacrifice
And dad’s during that time—A theme for another day, but not for today.

You were the hardest working person I’ve ever known. You were not afraid of any honest
Job no matter how challenging and your restlessness and competitive spirit always made you a
Stellar employee everywhere you worked no matter how hard or challenging the job.
Even at home you could not stand still unless there was someone with whom to chat awhile.

You were a truly great cook thanks in part to learning from the chef of the hotel where you had
Worked in Mar del Plata awhile—a fellow Spaniard of Basque descent who taught you many of his favorite
Dishes—Spanish and Italian specialties. You were always a terribly picky eater. But you
Loved to cook for family and friends—the more the merrier—and for special holidays.

Dad was also a terrific cook, but with a more limited repertoire. I learned to cook
With great joy from both of you at a young age. And, though neither my culinary skills nor
Any aspect of my life can match you or dad, I too am a decent cook and
Love to cook, especially for meals shared with loved ones.

You took great pleasure in introducing my friends to some of your favorite dishes such as
Cazuela de mariscos, paella marinera, caldo Gallego, stews, roasts, and your incomparable
Canelones, ñoquis, orejas, crepes, muñuelos, flan, and the rest of your long culinary repertoire.
In primary and middle school dad picked me up every day for lunch before going to work.

You and he worked the second shift and did not leave for work until around 2:00 p.m.
Many days, dad would bring a carload of classmates with me for lunch.
I remember as if it were yesterday the faces of my Jewish, Chinese, Japanese, German, Irish
And Italian friends when first introduced to octopus, Spanish tortilla, caldo Gallego, and flan.

The same was true during college and law school.  At times our home resembled an
U.N. General Assembly meeting—but always featuring food. You always treated my
Closest friends as if they were your children and a number of them to this day love
You as a second mother though they have not seen you for many years.

You had tremendous passion and affinity for being a mother (a great pity to have just one child).
It made you over-protective. You bought my clothes at an exclusive boutique. I became a
Living doll for someone denied such toys as a young girl. You would not let me out of your sight and
Kept me in a germ-free environment that eventually produced some negative health issues.

My pediatrician told you often “I want to see him with ***** finger nails and scraped knees.”
You dismissed the statement as a joke. You’d take me often to the park and to my
Favorite merry-go-round. But I had not one friend until I was seven or eight and then just one.
I did not have a real circle of friends until I was about 13 years old. Sad.

I was walking and talking up a storm in complete sentences when I was one year old.
You were concerned and took me to my pediatrician who laughed. He showed me a
Keychain and asked, “What is this Danny.” “Those are your car keys” I replied. After a longer
Evaluation he told my mom it was important to encourage and feed my curiosity.

According to you, I was unbearable (some things never change). I asked dad endless questions such as,
“Why is the sun hot? How far are the stars and what are they made of? Why
Can’t I see the reflection of a flashlight pointed at the sky at night? Why don’t airplanes
Have pontoons on top of the wheels so they can land on both water and land? Etc., etc., etc.

He would answer me patiently to the best of his ability and wait for the inevitable follow-ups.
I remember train and bus rides when very young sitting on his lap asking him a thousand Questions.
Unfortunately, when I asked you a question you could not answer, you more often than not made up an answer Rather than simply saying “I don’t know,” or “go ask dad” or even “go to hell you little monster!”

I drove you crazy. Whatever you were doing I wanted to learn to do, whether it was working on the
Sewing machine, knitting, cooking, ironing, or anything else that looked remotely interesting.
I can’t imagine your frustration. Yet you always found only joy in your little boy at all ages.
Such was your enormous love which surrounded me every day of my life and still does.

When you told me a story and I did not like the ending, such as with “Little Red Riding Hood,”
I demanded a better one and would cry interminably if I did not get it. Poor mom. What patience!
Reading or making up a story that little Danny did not approve of could be dangerous.
I remember one day in a movie theater watching the cartoons I loved (and still love).

Donald Duck came out from stage right eating a sandwich. Sitting between you and dad I asked you
For a sandwich. Rather than explaining that the sandwich was not real, that we’d go to dinner after the show
To eat my favorite steak sandwich (as usual), you simply told me that Donald Duck would soon bring me the sandwich. But when the scene changed, Donald Duck came back smacking his lips without the sandwich.

Then all hell broke loose. I wailed at the top of my lungs that Donald Duck had eaten my sandwich.
He had lied to me and not given me the promised sandwich. That was unbearable. There was
No way to console me or make me understand—too late—that Donald Duck was also hungry,
That it was his sandwich, not mine, or that what was on the screen was just a cartoon and not real.

He, Donald Duck, mi favorite Disney character (then and now) hade eaten this little boy’s Sandwich. Such a Betrayal by a loved one was inconceivable and unbearable. You and dad had to drag me out of the theater ranting And crying at the injustice at top volume. The tantrum (extremely rare for me then, less so now) went on for awhile, but all was well again when my beloved Aunt Nieves gave me a ******* with jam and told me Donald had sent it.

So much water under the bridge. Your own memories, like smoke in a soft breeze, have dissipated
Into insubstantial molecules like so many stars in the night sky that paint no coherent picture.
An entire life of vital conversations turned to the whispers of children in a violent tropical storm,
Insubstantial, imperceptible fragments—just a dream that interrupts an eternal nightmare.

That is your life today. Your memory was always prodigious. You knew the name of every person
You ever met, and those of their family members. You could recall entire conversations word for word.
Three years of schooling proved more than sufficient for you to go out into the world, carving your own
Path from the Inhospitable wilderness and learning to read and write at the age of 16.

You would have been a far better lawyer than I and a fiery litigator who would have fought injustice
Wherever you found it and always defended the rights of those who cannot defend themselves,
Especially children who were always your most fervent passion. You sacrificed everything for others,
Always put yourself dead-last, and never asked for anything in return.

You were an excellent dancer and could sing like an angel. Song was your release in times of joy and
In times of pain. You did not drink or smoke or over-indulge in anything. For much of your life your only minor Indulgence was a weekly trip to the beauty parlor—even in Spain where your washing and ironing income
Paid for that. You were never vain in any way, but your self-respect required you to try to look your best.

You loved people and unlike dad who was for the most part shy, you were quite happy in the all-to-infrequent
Role as the life of the party—singing, dressing up as Charlie Chaplin or a newborn for New Year’s Eve parties with Family and close friends. A natural story-teller until dementia robbed you of the ability to articulate your thoughts,
You’d entertain anyone who would listen with anecdotes, stories, jokes and lively conversation.

In short: you were an exceptional person with a large spirit, a mischievous streak, and an enormous heart.
I know I am not objective about you, but any of your surviving friends and family members who knew you
Well will attest to this and more in a nanosecond. You had an incredibly positive, indomitable attitude
That led you to rush in where angels fear to treat not out of foolishness but out of supreme confidence.

Life handed you cartloads of lemons—enough to pickle the most ardent optimist. And you made not just
Lemonade but lemon merengue pie, lemon sorbet, lemon drops, then ground up the rind for sweetest
Rice pudding, flan, fried dough and a dozen other delicacies. And when all the lemons were gone, you sowed the Seeds from which extraordinarily beautiful lemon trees grew with fruit sweeter than grapes, plums, or cherries.

I’ve always said with great pride that you were a far better writer than I. How many excellent novels,
Plays, and poems could you have written with half of my education and three times my workload?
There is no justice in this world. Why does God give bread to those without teeth? Your
Prodigious memory no longer allows you to recognize me. I was the last person you forgot.

But even now when you cannot have a conversation in any language, Sometimes your eyes sparkle, and
You call me “neniño” (my little boy in Galician) and I know that for an instant you are no longer alone.
But too son the light fades and the darkness returns. I can only see you a few hours one day a week.
My life circumstances do not leave me another option. The visits are bitter sweet but I’m grateful for them.

Someday I won’t even have that opportunity to spend a few hours with you. You’ll have no
Monument to mark your passing save in my memory so long as reason remains. An entire
Life of incalculable sacrifice will leave behind only the poorest living legacy of love
In your son who lacks appropriate words to adequately honor your memory, and always will.


*          *          *

The day has come, too son. October 11, 2018. The call came at 3:30 am.
An hour or two after I had fallen asleep. They tried CPR in vain. There will be no more
Opportunities to say, “I Love you,” to caress your hands and face, to softly sing in your ear,
To put cream on your hands, or to hope that this week you might remember me.

No more time to tell you the accomplishments of loved ones, who I saw, what they told me,
Who asked about you this week, or to pray with you, or to ask if you would give me a kiss by putting my
Cheek close to your lips, to feel joy when you graced me with many little kisses in response,
Or tell you “Maybe next time” when as more often than not the case for months you did not respond.

In saying good bye I’d give you the kiss and hug Alice always sent you,
Followed by three more kisses on the forehead from dad (he always gave you three) and one from me.
I’d leave the TV on to a channel with people and no sound and when possible
Wait for you to close your eyes before leaving.

Time has run out. No further extensions are possible. My prayers change from asking God to protect
You and by His Grace allow you to heal a little bit each day to praying that God protect your
Soul and dad’s and that He allow you to rest in peace in His kingdom. I miss you and Dad very much
And will do so as long as God grants me the gift of reason. I never knew what it is to be alone. I do now.

Four years seeing your blinding light reduced to a weak flickering candle in total darkness.
Four years fearing that you might be aware of your situation.
Four years praying that you would not feel pain, sadness or loneliness.
Four years learning to say goodbye. The rest of my life now waiting in the hope of seeing you again.

I love you mom, with all my heart, always and forever.
Written originally in Spanish and translated into English with minor additions on my mom's passing (October 2018).
Lazhar Bouazzi Jun 2018
******* is imagination
And the words
Crack the asphalt of the port
Like poppies. For the wind is gone.

And the sea must now sing alone
To the sunken city -
Underneath.
(C) LazharBouazzi, 4 June, 2018
Marla Jan 30
Days of angst
Pursue me through
Awkward moments galore,
The hangover to my prior life.
Middle school bells ring
In the corridors of my mind,
Harkening back to a time
When sharpened pencils where More important than rent.
High school bells bring me
A cold comfort I can't explain,
I guess not enough time
Has passed for me to smile.
If only these tears
Could be wiped from my face
Without the slow hand of time
Quelling my soul's embrace.
Perhaps I'd smile with heart.
Gary Brocks Sep 2018
1.
There was the tremor of leaves,
a rustle of bayonet grass
parried the multihued calm
of dawn's smeared light.
"This is what we trained for," the captain said.
We hunkered behind stacked bags of sand.

2.
Filigreed shafts of light pierce
the bullet perforated leaf canopy,
bellowed yells punctuate the swirl
and buffet of turbulent air:
“Contact”,  “2 O’Clock”, “Incoming”, “
"Moving”, “Reloading”, “Ammo”.

3.
Fingers twitch, the grit of soil
twisted through their grip;
moon slashed carcasses glint, spent shells,
Earth exhales a vermillion mist,
rising, echoless, in this
a cathedral of leaves.
180926F
Cimmerian Chaos, incediary
The Requiem of the Revenant:

Tis I,
The Breathing Song
Conjuring a vestige,
Ensorcelled by what I'd been envisaging.

Maimed by Tempus, The Temporal Arbiter
Words reverberating on the wavelength of my soul
Left me vibrating desolate and wayworn.
Utterances deluging me in the Dominion of Doubt
Until I reached a crossroads
For perilous was the pilgrimage I peregrinated.

The Penultimate Tribulation has begun
And though angst is festering in my flesh,
The Sacred Lotus of Dreams has not wilted,
Shalt it ever upon the Lake of the Holy Oracle;
Elysium of the Soul is awaiting those who are stalwart
In the Visage of the Shadows.*

∞Hallelujah∞

By Sanders M. Foulke III
Two month old free verse poem regarding my own martyrdom and tribulations in the flesh. My iniquities can bring about lightness and sanctity if I so speak it into my life. Surrendering over all suffering, woe, and lamentation over to the Ethereal leads to transcendence of blight and ascendence to Elysium of the Soul. Be encouraged when you suffer, for peril means not ending but genesis. Genesis of wisdom, love, power, justice, endurance, meekness, humility, loyalty, faith, hope, joy, and every other virtue that is His. Any feedback is most appreciated. Enjoy! God bless!
BJ Donovan Feb 10
requiem

   she asked "what hurts most?"
   i was mute but emotion swam
   inside my riptide out to sea.
   "i'm fine", i lied. let's drink.
"let the poor man rest".
he buried his life today.
his pregnant wife died and
his future died with them.
sorry for the insensitivity to case. i'm typing 1 handed. my other hand is busy holding my wine glass. i hope you understand.
When im sitting in the back of your car
And more than god wants to create I want to look into the rear view just to see your eyes.
But I can't look,
because what if I look and your eyes and they aren't looking at mine,
on top of that,
what if you aren't looking at me, because right now I need your attention,
I crave it like blood.
but I obstain like kryptonite.
just the sight of you not keeping me in your sights,
Alone,
In the car with you.
That fills me with an insignificance as insignificant as the star you passed on when you made a wish;
And I can't risk to feel that.
So I obstain from that,
out of preservation
Di Verce Sep 23
Dee heartgelds murried Maryy
Cask'd für Da Fodder's phyre
Felled him, made a mar'tyr
Chiree bert' a brr't boat.

Oedipus'd warned the learned
But not one had understooded -
Limpstanding on da watwa alone,
Dey dün drowninged all hope.

Wellcoming sis' sycos,
Snuffing out day shadows,
They've lost the cool brethren
Wit' whom first they formed home.

Bow ye!, b'rned ages' 'hero-anes',
Left unto the devicies' blows
Of half-manboy's gross vices,
Walled legion agao-in, cooin' be-side 'em, a-shem'D.
By Jeremiah

A lesson in Structure

A fulfillment of Oed Christened

ChLl LmP OhM PaN

χλΩπ

hops

hell o poet trees

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3333710/oed-christened/
a small zebra
winged pixie
and a honey bee
both suckle from
the same peach-fleshed
wild rose in my mind,
and in perfect peace,
with my memories of
you teaching me how
to catch trout when
you were the age that
i am now, now that
you've gone where
i cannot follow,
i will not follow
until it is my time,
and it is not,
not yet:

for in this glen, this magic dale,
wild flowers are not rare,
nor creatures from a fairy tale
that travel through the air.

they blanket the moist earth,
they cover like the dew,
as so do heart-felt verses
that fail when i'm with you.

you feel so close, so far away
to whom can i recite?
i lullaby the dancing grass,
and damsel flies in flight.

and the brookies are not biting,
not where i cast my fly,
but jump & dance where my fly's not,
no matter how i try.

and i, some silly jester-king,
stand stride this ****** dam,
that made the home for what i seek,
and makes me what i am.

and today i know of peace,
a peace most bittersweet,
for it is tinged with loneliness,
and dashes of defeat.

for today i know how adam felt
(before he finally wed his eve),
as lilith passed him by.
A stream is something a wise man contemplates, and a fool passes by.
the most
mysterious tears
are those we weep
over the absence
of those pains which
though we may not miss
have become deeply
accustomed to
and thus
so mourn
before we
then let them
fly free away
home to whence
they came, free
peter gabriel - solsbury hill
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_OO2PuGz-H8
Love does not die of just a single blow,
Its life flows out quite slowly over years,
One drop follows another as love flows,
From thousands of unfatal cuts and tears.

A thousand little stings from tongue or eye,
A thousand unkind words from me and you,
A thousand "I told you so’s" piled on high,
A thousand battles lost, refought anew.

Each wound a scab that grows harder with time,
Covering festering hurts that won't heal,
An unwise word morphs to betrayal sublime,
Suppurating reminders all too real.

Simple kindness is lost from lack of use,
And what remains just a facade in truth.
ryn Mar 2015
my whispers,
they float over the currents
braving the undulating waves in our overture...
around their necks, hung time-worn pendants

whispers...
struggling to convey my sentence
like wreaths adrift perhaps with hope
like a requiem filled perhaps with remorseful penance
but more like weakened footholds on a slippery *****...

this dream...
only spoke grandly of sprawling blackness
where nothing did gleam
only thoughts heavy but...
oddly weightless

except for...
a repertoire of transgressions...
raucous and obnoxious
mischievous taunts that pull me back
caging me,
enslaving me,
smothering me senseless

that was my consciousness
where second chances exist...
in faint sporadic eruptions
through the heavy curtains of uncertainty's mist

finally awakened by hastened breaths
heavy and laboured
as like previous temporary deaths

I could hear my heart
thumping...
beating...
fighting...
to set its beats apart

breathe deep...
allow the new day's air sink in
rise fully from sleep
wake up
and...
let today begin
Based on a dream.
Chris Jan 4
I tried to assemble
The pieces of Osiris
But all the stars aligned so
That i should fail again

I tried to revive the
Body of Lazarus
but the tomb had swallowed
The words of the messiah.

Long rang the bell
My soul had come to bitter end
Desperate chants
blood does glimmer on their hands
Hammers dance on nails
They urge the dead to stay contained
Slayer eats the slain
Til the end of time til last of days

I struggle to awaken
I'm morally brain dead
But all the ****** effort
sticks me to the ground

The burden of Atlas
Lays on my two shoulders
if I drop my sky
will anyone notice

Long live the king
The reaper hand in hand with me
choir commence to sing
heaven weeps for apathy
Hades take away
All the strife and all the pain
Pie Jesu Domine
dona eis requiem
.
Pie Jesu Domine, dona eis requiem- Merciful Lord Jesus grant them eternal rest
-This one is about futile attempts to right the wrongs and getting crushed in the process.
also
*Osiris- Egyptian god of the dead/underworld
*Lazarus-The dude revived by Jesus
*Hades-Greek god of the underworld
*Atlas- Titan cursed to carry the heavens on his shoulders lest they fall down
8M Aug 6
Another night, another period in solitude
At least, that's what I think
Everyone's asleep, counting the stars in their dreams
But the stars I count are all real

Silver mane, eyes of rubies
You seemed to have came out of a painting
And a heart not of stone, but of gold
That cared for every being I could think of

She caught me in her web, but she meant no ill will
That woman was proof kind spiders could exist
If only she could've stayed forever, with me
If only...

However, it wasn't meant to last
The battles threatened the safety of her
I promised I would protect her 'till the end of my days
Alas, it wasn't enough

A single slash, and you fell
A sobbing screech sadly cut short
Laying on the ground, you rubies fading
My loved, fading away

And now I bask in the eternal night
Writing this moonlit requiem
For no one in particular.
幽玄 Jul 2018
Coming by
To what seemed to you
that the other wanted to chat
It was opposite to an expectation
automated is such pessimism
Why not give it a second thought
falling through to such idealism
Either way all that was left
was their own discretion
Piled for me to discard
along with this repulsive ashtray
I feel what you need
that isn’t what was said exactly
Twinge was the sting
seemingly numb to them
Maybe a simple postcard would suffice
Little what words could do right?
What little could words have done to excavate
your attention from the deep water
Your without seeing your day melt away
There is a healer
somewhere
paving way to vulnerability
The hinges welded together
your bureau has no way of breathing
Ancient could these ways be
coily haven risen from your depths
Untouched by an intimate hand
Gone missing from
what is floating
toward your sound
les image has you going there
Don’t leave me behind
I’m without your liberation
Grace me with your discreet thoughts
over and over
Glimmers found in your darkness
See me lie inside your eyes
greatly absorbing
Show me what has not been already given
Shower me sensibly
Give what was given to you
Take me lightly
Don’t dispose me
lower us beyond these
Warm hide
Structure–disheveled— to your liking
stays open for disarrayed stares
A requiem for slightly
held memory
Gone on to mystery
‘nevermore’
washing up from your shores.

leftover.

It is hard to see those swaying around you to the tune of your madness that actually care, right?

Dedicated to: his resounding lilt
CK Baker Jun 2017
pale clouds at the summit
water color sky
cattle guard at wood bridge
creek bed running dry

split log fence downtrodden
razor back in wire
sinkhole on the wild plain
grouse fields under fire

pine bug and a lone wolf
clear cut on the trail
stump lake on the open range
kettle valley rail

raven on the hatheume
slash and burn and scar
blasted church in a tired sun
wild rose under char

thistle in the hollow
quails nest sitting high
carriage house at lone rock
curtains of july

smoke jaw in the canyon
percolator dream
silver sage in chapel
schneider's requiem

stockmen on the wrangle
big horn antler chase
table top at sunset
deacon creek in grace

quarry in a furry
lines of tinted red
spurs and blades and columns
patchwork of the dead

past the bow hill junction
cattle ropes are black
indian amphitheater
saddle on the rack

sun is at a high bake
sedimentary stone
three days on the morphine
skeleton and bone

cold water road is lonely
corrals are cut and paste
gone but not forgotten
the dust filled aftertaste
Jesse stillwater Nov 2018
Flaming bridges up in smoke—
ashes scattered in the wind
Requiem to passing yesterdays;
vestige of all that’s lost —
bestrewn in prevailing currents
amongst the drifting autumn leaves

No smoke on rising waters
— lingers between
growing distant shores
Untamed rivers rising
rinse away
the taste of sparks
spake from silent tongues

Portaging all that once was
with all that could never remain, 
back to the briny deep 
An uncontainable
rivers pilgrimage —
entombing reverently
ancient fractals of being

Sowing feral rivers' ashes —
sacrificial scatterings of destiny
washed afar unto the flotsam
on shoreless stormy  seas


Jesse Stillwater
November 2018

Mused by a poem by melissa rose

"Spreading my ashes"
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2808566/spreading-my-ashes/
How many times have I
how many times have I changed
how fluid is time when you change
back to the union of body and soul

The rush of death proceeds me
as angels fall to their knees
sing do they to me
in a most mighty requiem

Another transformation does come soon
I will miss my old self
but I know for a fact
that I will enjoy the new

The pig is out his pen
the cat is out of the bag
the barn door is open
for here comes the change in me


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Sometimes I feel the way I did
When I first watched,
"Requiem for a Dream"
Jennifer Conolley is on the phone
With Jared Leto
Asking if he was coming home soon
And she's crying and her makeup running
And he is crying and he is scared
And she's losing herself to the world
And he's losing his mind
And it just snaps you in half with pain
That scene made the movie for me
I still feel it, I'm still understanding it
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