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july hearne Oct 2018
i wonder if you still collect postcards
i could send you a postcard
i'de have to find one
i'm sure it wouldn't be hard

sometimes i think of the bad
paint job in your dark red kitchen
and all your cheap furniture
and your emily strange stage
that went on too late in life

i've been back in town for almost six years now
but i wish i was back in chicago

i hate it here
i hate the people here
they are a lost cause
they had many protests for christine ford
but none for the children ed murray *****
because ed's rapes don't matter, not important,
don't matter

**** is only a pecking order,
sometimes fake **** is more important than real ****
it's just all about whatever's convenient

my sister's daughter and husband hate me now
but that's ok because i have no use for them either

i wish i would have seized the opportunity back in chicago
and married that guy who hated obama as much as i did
but i didn't realize how perfect that guy was at the time
because i was stuck on some canadian *******
who didn't treat me like i was a woman who was worth anything
he was in a band and his songs on sound cloud are not any good, but he is still proud of them
that was his prime

bet he loves trudeau and the hundred million of immigrants
who are coming to save canada,
it's the thing to do

that guy back in chicago only knew one song
Dire Straits 'So Far Away'
but i've always loved that song
wish i would have known
wish i would have known

but no, i got to come back here,
i knew how it was going to be back here
what would never happen,
how the people here would never stop being nasty
always with such dormant self righteous nastiness inside of them
always lying in wait
always knew that
but didn't realize how much i would have to pay for it
didn't realize how greedy socialist pigs can be

wish i would have married that guy back in chicago
when i had the chance, he really liked me and we got along
and he was well paid executive, but he said he wore
pleated front pants and it freaked me out at the time
so it's ten years later and too late now
and your youngest daughter is probably your son now
Canada should take in the Hondurans since Justin is so willing to take in ISIS. Hopefully there will still be room for all the Handmaids who need to escape the oh so oppressive USA.
JayceeJellies Jan 2015
She comes over for the night,
She seems to be alright.
I'm not sure if I like her yet,
But that doesn't seem to matter.

She started to stay over on school nights,
Something just didn't seem right.
Soon enough she never really left,
Her and my little sister were basically compressed.

I'm not trying to sound selfish,
And no I'm not really jealous.
But I am feeling quite confused,
Why are you telling me this unfortunate news?

She hasn't left for weeks.
I'm sick of being the subject of greed.
I just want my family back.
Just tell me that she'll eventually leave.

I'm now starting to feel neglected.
I've been replaced in every way that I had imagined.
But you don't seem to see it the way that I do,
I don't think the girl is leaving any time soon.
Sara Kellie Oct 2018
I'm here.
You lost your way kid
and I can't see you no more.
Did the lights go out?
Did the mist decend?
You lost your way kid
and I can't see you no more.

The light's back on
and the mist has gone
. . . and I'm here,
so I can see you once more.
I'm here kid.

Poetry by Kaydee.
Inspiration from 'Leave a Light On' by Tom Watson.
Danneli Aug 2018
The moon and the sun
They hang in the sky
Our stories become
The stories they like

The sun is indeed
Lovely and true
Bright and complete
And as flowery as you

The moon lights a path
Along darkened trails
It comforts our wrath
And tells no one's tales

White in the sky
Pure and desired
The sun tells no lies
And fights like a fire

The moon falls for kin
Makes way for her sun
For she knows she can't win
What is already won

They're filled with such grace
Love, beauty and truth
But at the end of their race
The secrets stay mute.
The secrets stay mute. The moon makes way for the sun, and her heart full of secrets is forever quiet. Mute.
I'm a spinster,
sick of seeing my
sisters treated as
picked and wilted.
Their petals
ripped and ragged.
In a cloudy vase --
the water needs changing,
but what's the point,
at this point?
She died when
you picked her --
cut from her roots,
She is lacking nutrition,
She can no longer absorb
the wind's wild sustenance.
She is too preoccupied
trying to survive,
and ill-cared for.

when she is dry
into the compost,
she goes.
rooting another
told to wait
for someone to
pick her.

But if you think
a flower is beautiful,
let her remain
with her sisters.
I have many wonderful, smart, independent women in my life who deserve better from their partners.
Deb Jones Dec 2018
Together we stand strong
We are made of steel
Holding hands
Our core beliefs
Give us backbone
The values that stick
To our hearts and guts
That can’t taken
Or pulled away.
An inherent truth
It’s wrong to lie.
It’s wrong to steal.
It’s wrong to cause harm

Its essential to find
Out why our sisters
Do what they do.
To have compassion for them
To recognize the mental Issues that is hard
For us to fathom
Knowing life experiences
Has molded them, Circumstances have
Carved them
When we were carved and Molded just like them.
Why did we survive it
Without breaking.
The two of us have been able To forgive but not forget. Together we let the hurt go. Only together.
Most important
Is that we know
Everyone has a dark side.
A shadow self.
The part that exists in
Absolutely everyone
That we keep hidden
Because it isn’t pretty
Or easy to accept
Or easy to love.
You understand me.
And I understand you.
You speak me
And I speak you
Iskra Nov 2018
Bare feet lit down on a slim shelf of sand,
Only to rise with a turn of pale hands
A comet flashed by in the sky’s afterglow
And bejeweled ***** scuttled briskly below.

Breezy white silk fluttered faintly as I rose,
Met by plum-violet ink of a sky far too close
Stepping down onto stairs of smoke-polished stone,
Engraved with runes of alabaster and bone.

Inside of low doors gleamed emeralds green,
Cherubic smiles tugged at my sleeves,
Golden haired, their laughter swelled,
They weren’t little girls, but something... else.

Years will pass,
I’ll revisit that place,
To collect pyrite from the shore,
And just below the looming space,
On serpents’ wings I’ll watch them soar.
A very important dream, but I’m not entirely sure what it could mean
Iska Apr 13
I rarely write poetry for others
I find it to be a waste of words
But occasionally I will stumble
Upon a soul who deserves
To be heard.

So this one is for the girl
With the gleaming red hair
The one who bares an impish grin
Cursed with a storm that blazes within.

Hush little soldier,
Bow your weary head.
You hold the world on your shoulder
Your shaking knees bear the weight
your teeth ache with the effort
As you take one faltering step after another.

Sweat beads upon your brow,
As you attempt to accomplish,
that which grand Atlas could not,
To live and to grow,
to wander free
Whilst holding the world on your battered and bruised shoulders
Determined to succeed.

And then you stumble.
And then you fall.
The world has defeated you
You were merely human after all.

And now this maiden,
both young and fair,
draws in a breath of frigid air.

With steel for eyes
she bites her tongue.
Tasting a mouth
of copper and blood,
she forces her shuddering limbs to move...
and she stumbles to her feet.
Heedless to the seeming defeat.

With rasping breath,
her demeanor grim,
she squares her shoulders
and slowly begins.
Much like clever Sisyphus,
to move the Earth as a boulder,
up and down each hill.

And as I beheld the spectacle,
I am at a loss for words.
For in your eyes,
I beheld a fire
That scorches me down to my core.
I realized you had the strength to crush mountains as you began to step forward once more.

And in you, I saw my mirror,
I then realized you were quite like me,
Willing to sacrifice yourself, so that no others would bleed.

Oh brave Warrior, beware!
The Earth is no easy boulder to bear. For it will roll back and crush you. All that is needed is a simple gust of air.

But you, much like I, know this.
I can see it in your eyes.
You are no foolish simpleton.
If this were to happen,  
You would get up once more
and simply start over again.

So, my sweet summer soul,
I see you, and what a sight you are to behold. And since defeat is not in your nature...
I will stand by you.
And together this boulder we’ll roll.
For the Earth is quite a burden,
But one that is far easier with two.
And I am willing to go the distance,
Side by side with you.

So come, unbreakable spirit,
Let us begin at dawn,
And together we’ll conquer the mountains.
Together we’ll devour the sun.
And once we have accomplished,
That which grand Atlas could not,
We will know that the deed is done.
Having defied all odds,
It is we, in the end, who have won.

To the girl with hair of flames
May you never burn out
But if you do
I will ignite your flames
From the beginning  was the Wyrrd,
and the Wyrrd  was in the hands of the Norns.
These three weird sisters held men's fates .
They handled , measured and cut
the strands of fate
Some think them witches
or else the classical Fates.
These are the Norns.
They measure out our days.
Do not look
Do not dare to gaze upon
The faces of Fate
The Weird sisters

Flee, Macbeth, thane of Cawdor!

Fly Thane of Glamis
Admittedly, a weird poem
Houda Jan 2018
My sister has brown eyes. Some would argue that they are hazel, but I know better. Her eyes hold all the secrets of the earth and are as rich in color and depth as the land. Copper against soft caramel. A brilliant ring of gold.

My sister has freckles speckled across her skin like stars in the night sky. If you look hard and long enough you can find your favorite constellations dancing across her cheeks. A delicate blanket of brown sugar sprinkled on her face.

My sister has a smile that puts the Cheshire cat to shame. A smile that splits her face wide open. A smile that makes her eyes crinkle and her nose scrunch up. A smile so wide it makes the oceans look like meager ponds. A smile, always on the verge of laughter.

My sister has a laugh as loud and powerful as the thunderous sound of waves crushing against rock. A laugh that makes wrinkles worth having. I know my sister’s laugh like I know my own mind. Although I have never heard it.

My sister knows a girl she has never met before. A girl that has her eyes – but darker. A girl that has her freckles – but fewer. A girl that has her smile – but duller. Her laugh – but quieter. My sister knows a girl that shares her blood – but hers burns hotter. My sister knows me, although she has never met me.
Terry Collett Dec 2018
Sara ran her fingers
over the keyboard
in a thunderous mood;
the Beethoven sonata
became distorted.

Maggie was mixing
the contents for a cake
with a large wooden spoon.

Once the cook
would have made
the cake
and prepared meals,
but they could not afford
a cook full-time,
not since their father's death,
and duties paid
and taxes sorted.

Maggie knew Sara
was in a mood
by the way she played;
the sounds crashed
around the other room

She left the stirring
and walked into
the sitting room
where Sara
was hammering
the Beethoven
into submission.

Sara, stop this,
or the neighbours
will complain,
Maggie said.

Sara paused
in mid run:
Don't you like
my Beethoven?

Yes, when you play it
at the correct speed
and timbre,
Maggie said;
what is the matter?

Sara stared
at the keyboard:
Edward is taking you
from me.

Maggie walked
to where Sara sat:
No he isn't;
no one will take me
from you;
but I love Edward,
and one day,
he may ask me
to marry him.

See; he is going
to take you
from me,
Sara hammered
out notes
to her words.

Maggie hugged
her sister
and calmed her:
I will still have you
with me.

Sara didn't want
him about;
she loathed it
when he was
about her
or her sister:
I want you,
not him.

Maggie hugged
her younger sister
You must understand,
Sara, I love him.

Sara looked up
at her sister:
Don't leave me alone;
always look after me;
don't let them put me
in an asylum.

Maggie choked
on the words:
Never would
I let them.

Sara played
the Beethoven
softer and at
the correct speed.

Maggie stood away;
it was going to be
an awkward day.
Two sisters in London in 1922
M-E Feb 5
Yellow Daffodil: Protecting and still. Encouraging on the mountain, encouraging down the hill.

Red Carnation: Vivid aspiration. A candle incinerate. Nature inspirate.

Blue Periwinkle: Glisten and twinkle in dew. You made me love to read and read in love. Happiness from above.

Three flowers of my colorful life. It wouldn't be, without primary.
Smoke Scribe Aug 2018
Imagine that
I could write a salve,
compose an ointment of verbal herbs to heal,
even mere protect the already-torn-so-easy mental flesh,
just to disguise/hide the multi-colored bruising our
fickle mistress-in-common provides when you are down so far
another bruise joining the cast like a  floodplain subsuming one more feeding creek bed into the shapelessness of indistinguishability

imagine that

where atoms hide eternal between creation and destruction,
borrow brief the set exact you require to restore the taken years
from fathers/mothers/brothers/sisters,
return that which went unused by the uninvited, unseemly human whim of war and lies for no gain

imagine that

the deep sinkhole of despair that ***** one in, years in the formation, appearing in instance, and worse does not drowns but leaves helpless, unable to climb out, and all our scratching digs us in deeper until we cannot be, seen or heard or just be

imagine that

a check comes in the mail, payable left open for filling-in,
in the amount of full restoration, with no additional fees of guilt needed for deposit and cashing/caching out: and you wake up
and the stony chest is breathing lungs free

imagine that

and I do; for I am the smoke of return and rest, sky inscribing,
knowing precise needs and the screams and the years unfair taken,
they are screened through the five perceptions, and the word weaver
sets the loom for each peculiar requisition, no imagination needed

imagine that

you lament and anger demand verifiable proofs mathematical,
cursing the knights of false hopes with untethered regret

I do not imagine that; hear it and accept; my task, imagine that, making you imagine that, thus commencement of repair begins

we imagine that

for this how new healthy cells  are born

quiet-now,  go, imagine-that, now
if you recognize yourself within, it is no accident!
thank u all for the love and appreciation. one writes many poems in many disguises, so it is hard to believe  that an 8 month old poem, sent to you for safekeeping, is shortly thereafter barely recalled.
and then is rebirthed, and wouldn’t change a word...
imagine that!
Emrullah Apr 14
what do i love...?

everytime someone asks me that,
i think of my family. my parents, brother and sister,
niece and nephews, but...

that would be a lie. would i die for them? yes. but only because they are family, there are a few persons among them whom i cannot stand.
if some of them were not my kin, i wouldnt even consider putting my hand into a fire for them.

its hard to admit but its the truth.

the real things that you love are,
things which shouldnt mean anything to you. but they still do.
for example;
its hard to admit but its the truth.
A smudge and gift of tobacco tie  
Given to me on the urban forest’s edge
Alive with spirits dancing with soles’
Muted drumbeat as the rhythm in their song

Lost sisters
Without their shoes

Lost sisters
Leave their markings

Velvet footprints
Next to Big Bear’s

Scarlet on  
Big Bear’s Path

Remembered Sisters
Dance with us again

Best friend
Included in Limited Edition Chapbook "They Sing to Us" (Ed. Brandt, Di, 2016, Radish Press). Unfortunately my surname was misspelled as "McKrith".

"They Sing to Us"  was inspired by the Walking With Our Sisters Exhibit that was hosted at Brandon University in March of 2016. The exhibition featured 108 moccasin vamps created to honor the lives of children whose lives were lost in the residential school system. The original Walking With Our Sisters exhibition features 1,808 vamps commemorating the 1200 + Indigenous women and girls who have gone missing in Canada since 1980.
Cindra Carr Jun 2011
Eighteen misses and three survivors
Two broken marriages with one spiteful lost love
Two warring sisters and too many brothers
Numbers don’t always make the lives of another
Crocheted angels and heartfelt hugs
Gone are the days of each of those
Responsible, avoidant, and spoiled
Resentment, confusion, and miscommunication
Ghosts of the past
Harried, busy, and distant
Buy back the time
Patience, hope, and acceptance
Crowding the cast
Three lives play out creating six more
One life still here caught in time
One life locked in with ghosts of the past

"Don't be silly, Dad, I'm your only daughter."

"Yes. But you'd still be my favorite even if you had a dozen sisters and as many brothers."

"And your mother is my favorite wife."

"Oh Dad, you only have one."

"... At a time. And anyway, she would be my favorite wife even if the other wives were favorites too. If I loved them all as much as you."
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle and in paperback. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry by common means.)
1.  Your cornflower blue eyes crinkled and laughing, sometimes flashing like the storms you love to chase

2. Your strawberry blond mop that smelled nothing like fruit but instead of sweat and grime, clinging to your brow when you removed that Pepsi baseball cap

3. Easter egg hunts on your birthday, like plastic flowers in melted snow and you up trees and on the roof of grandma's garage

4. Rare compromises that built tree forts or wound up the tire swing until it bounced and whirled its passenger like a spinning top

5. When everything you did, I wanted to do too--whether it was rescuing the princess or flying an X-wing

6. Diddy and Dixie Kong headlocked and tangled in armpits, wrestling for the Super Nintendo controller or for the remote for the VCR until Donkey had enough and made them both watch Barney

7. The laughter of you and your friends from the basement or slipping around the corner, back when I said “Me too” and meant “include me”

8. Games of war crouched behind the couches when the only war you dreamt about was the one in Narnia

9. The cliff in Hawaii over the smoking volcanic ocean water and Mom screaming for you to come down

10. When you push me, like the dominoes you used to line up and watch devotedly as they toppled over, one after the other because sometimes general incivility is the very essence of love.
Alyssa Nichole Apr 2017
Sisters and Brothers                 
Irritating each other                                     Bond thats unbreakable                               Love that last forever                                     Incredibly annoying at times                        Greatly appreciated                                        Surviving everything together             ~Alyssa Nichole
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