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Callie Richter Aug 2018
i've never been
to any other
highschool
in my life.
therefore,
i cannot speak
for all schools.
but, i can speak
for my school.
about every other
student here is
a druggie.
which means
you have your choice
of two crowds.
but once you choose,
at the beginning
of your freshman year,
you can't change your mind.
and the teachers here
rarely teach.
they throw slideshows up
and blame you for not
paying attention
if you actually get
the nerve
to go up
and ask for help.
our principal
promotes
mental health,
but doesn't give any
resources for
mental breakdowns,
anxiety, or
depression.
sitting in classrooms
for eight hours,
with people you
can't stand,
with nowhere to go
will completely
destroy someone
especially someone
already
suffering.
aya sakura Mar 2010
meadows that stays so green at spring
and so bared in autumn
magically white in winter
scorching and gold in the air of summers

perennial.

how do they do that?
to stay the same on the foundation
yet ever-changing on the surface.


what difference does it make really?
what kinds?
of the surcoats of hazel and acorns
or the blankets of snow on the slender branches
of trees?


don't they, even once
feel weary of all the undercurrents,
of shifting shapes of shadows?


and stand their ground
and shouted their demands
and push at intractable walls?


and flop down
and sift like flour
and grate like mozzarella?


to toss the gauntlet
say


'enough!'


doesn't anyone ever muses then
of whether the slideshows of nature
being flagrantly displayed and paraded
before their soon indifferent eyes
would feel of their performance.


but oh,
those poor meadows,
those poor meadows,
those pitiable meadows.


continue with your acts and scenes
that shall never pauses nor halt
oh no, no.


for you are impressive actors
on the forested stage
and the eyes, belligerent
yes, they are
will be watching the other way


never straight to your eyes
your artic, chilled
encasing a turbulent, melting, whirling
hot caramel core
yeap, right there on your irises and pupils.


so go on
go on


my delectable
my neglected
my pushover
my poor meadows.
Jeremy Betts Feb 2018
What. Just. Happened?
I'm still here, in the throes of terror, probably forever, but that was close
I don't know how many more of those devastating blows from life's twisted episodes I can take before I get exposed and everybody knows that this smile's a fake, adorned like over warn costumes on Broadway shows
A mangled backdrop set prop to keep from view that I got behind the scenes woes
With each smile the lie grows
Gotta live with this Pinocchio nose
Black out curtains dress the windows so the only parts of me I expose are silhouette shadows
Like house siding, I stack the facade till a barrier grows
It adds curb appeal and social value I suppose
But for me it's a false face to hide the lows
Getting me through this reality that blows
A life time of running into doors with a sign reading "sorry we're closed"
Hanging next to the mandatory posted notice of demolition proposed
Life's ultimate plan to bulldoze any happy settlement till all that's left are foreclosed burrows
Unwelcoming ghettoes
A real to life Gotham City narrows
Every one knows **** flows down stream and my life's the delta where it all goes
Rainbows triggering everyday psychos
Sorrows flicker by like sickening slideshows
Arms and legs strewn all around, some separated from torsos
From heros to zeros, no back again as I decompose into the shallows

It's basically not a place anybody would actually choose to be
But when it's your own psyche it's hard to see any way out of the intensity that will always accompany insanity
And no one can hear your inner voice plea for much needed mercy
Beging to be set free but this inescapable captivity is your eternity
So wait, is this outcome then a certainty?
A destiny unremarkably average and already planned out for me?
It certainly seems to be
Especially now that I see clearly that comedy lies within my tragedy
But only because hindsight is 20/20
In the moment nothing's funny
A well lit path is not part of my journey
Mines a lifetime walked through a dark ally
The thoughts that emerge from the shadows come in a hurry, a savage flurry of the eire
Physically consumed with how badly this could turn out for me
Any second I could come face to face with an enemy sent by a deity with the soul purpose to immediately end this agony but I can guarantee I'm not that lucky

It's a shame this evil never left after it came
The residual, dry back shot residue stain and remain after every time I'm ******, but those rinse off in the rain that came all the same
Causing me to claim I'll never see life the same
Now docile and tame, a king slain by his own sword, self inflicted pain
My shelf life would be considered inhumane
A body originally set to be a temple now unlivable domain
Why is it the opposite I hear 'em saying when it comes to the brain of the insane?
What I can't figure out is what's there to gain keeping me here on this plane?
An existence broken and lame, no highs, no fame
No title bout, no championship game
I'd like to say it's done in vain but the fact is maybe this is where I'VE chosen to remain
But if there is no one to blame, to frame, to claim did this to me then the chain that holds me here I should be able to explain away so I don't know how to explain why I stay

And I always find myself stubbornly staying in this mindset like I'm developing the onset of stalk home syndrome
Eventually the environment seems normal but it's a Truman show dome
Entertainment at the expense of a grown man condoned
And the freedom shown is an illusion cause there's only so far you are able to rome
It never occurred to me that it was strange to be in this place alone
At first, while trying to escape, I wore my finger tips to the bone
But now I've got it so bad that I call this catacomb home
No land line phone, no WiFi hotspot zone
Cut off from the outside inside this prison of skull and bone
It's getting harder to tell as the problems begin to become overgrown
My flaws are blown out of proportion as they engulf my preset headstone
It seems so obvious that I shouldn't be here, I deserve a permanent place in a corner alone with a dunce cap cone or next to the rest labeled drone.
And I'm pretty sure I've waited to long to atone so the best I can hope for now are some ruby slippers or the larger piece of the wishbone

©2018
judy smith May 2015
There was none of your itsy-bitsy, teenie-****** bikinis at a fashion show of vintage swimwear in aid of the Cleveland Pools.

The costumes on show on the catwalk at Green Park Station were a much more modest affair, with a lot less flesh on view, and with some very interesting costumes which seemed to amuse the younger audience.

The Vintage Swimwear fashion show celebrated the last 200 years of bathing suits – the pools celebrate their 200th birthday next year.

Costumes from the last two centuries were modelled down the catwalk, with some interesting reactions from the audience, many of them design or fashion students from Bath Spa University.

It was a great turnout according to Sally Helvey from the Cleveland Pools Trust.

"We had a great night, and it really was great fun," she said.

There was a bar and barbecue hosted by Green Park Brasserie, and ice cream from a vintage Humphry van.

The audience also enjoyed a photography booth, and picture and video slideshows.

The Cleveland Pools is the only surviving Georgian Lido in the country, with a beautiful outdoor pool nestling in the back woods by the River Avon near the Bathwick estate.

But it is very derelict and will need millions spent on it before it can be re-opened again to the public. Last summer the trust received the welcome news the amenity is to be granted more than £4 million from the Heritage Lottery Fund, so plans are in place to have the pools restored and open for use again possibly as early as 2017.

A lot more funding needs to be raised to try and match the funds given by the HLF, and the fashion show, organised by Bath Spa student Jenny Brown, was just one of many events being organised over the summer.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses
ConnectHook Feb 2017
♪ ♩ ♫ ♬♪ ♪ ♩ ♫

[for Snare Drum]

Client-centered, data-driven,
yet their sins are unforgiven.
Tweaking the assessment standard
while the Word of God is slandered.
Current practice (science-based)
meanwhile, souls are laid to waste.
Evidence-based evaluations
fail to stall abominations.
Power slideshows, bullet-pointed
bypass Christ, the Lord’s anointed.
Titled expert: talking wraith,
buzzword-based, devoid of faith.
Sources cited, praxis theorized.
Mankind’s plight ignored, unrealized.
Humankind enthroned, enshrined,
entombed in shadows yet unshined.
Branding, marketing, organized crime:
brother – can you spare a paradigm?
par·a·did·dle:
one of the basic rudiments of drumming, consisting of four even strokes
played in the order L-R-L-L or R-L-R-R.
♪ ♩ ♫ ♬♪ ♩ ♫ ♬♪ ♫ ♪ ♩ ♫ ♬♪ ♪ ♩ ♫
mt Aug 2011
Memories haunt me,

Macabre slideshows,

In my mind



They twist and taunt me

The happiness,

That’s lost in time



The future looms

It’s soon to be,

Trapped within my memory



If it’s good I feel at ease

The outlook’s bright,

I smile.



Else I’m down

Upon my knees,

I drown in self denial.
2006 *then*
Kelly Jan 2021
I used to turn my brain off for days
But now I think in waves
Incessant slideshows


of you
Agony, is such a pity
Kylin Luna Sep 2010
As if I have been the long a waited
Radiation suffocating,
Patient in bed, empty men around me
Almost perfect now.

You carry your organs beautifully
Smiling wrinkles,
And in your words I can capture
Slideshows of your days
And nights also,
I spin them around in my mind
As I feed on daily doses
Of Ripened morphine
And self pity.

Soon you disappear and with you,
Another light bulb tickles itself
And shatters into darkness.
Butch Decatoria Dec 2015
Dead leaves fall from a living tree,
captured by a breeze, to gather at my feet
tiny mounds
of earth browns
and ill-colored greens
piled on one another / rustling / serpentine screams

tiny graveyards
un-esteemed;
reminding me of last evening's
public television show (almost
appalling)

a special / they called it
on letters from the holocaust,

a reading / from surviving
members now grey and slowing

as they speak (aging)
in sepia slideshows during their
somber, teary-eyed recollecting;
lifting ghosts and rocks

heavy, from the moss
of their memory
silver photos of nannas, sisters,
brothers and fathers lost
fading details of the war

which time has (and they gladly)
frost, depressing
me with my big screen magnavox,

i remote control a pause...

&

still dead leaves of cemetary browns
and soldier greens,
lifeless and lifted by the wind
without empathy / or guilt of sins

an airy power, a commanding force / unseen
gathering / stems or limbs
of these casualties / of autumn
none following the flight

of concord cold fronts

clustering together / piled / inartistically
at my sandals, toes wriggling
crunching underneath my feet

weathered

death seems simple - like a mindless breeze,
natural and indifferent dust devils

it is the way of things
shifting graveyards of leaves
as if a memorial of use-to-be's
from a roar of sightless tragedies
memorium of wars
tombs of bodies / images of defeat

not so simple or beloved

the nature of such things
in these leaves i see
of thee i sing....
Katie Katie Sep 2016
We soar above the mystical white clouds
The only thing separating us is the translucent glass
We watch as it slideshows the roads we've surpassed

The city lights shine bright as we fly into the night
Above the city, above superior odds
At last, we feel in our hearts that we've won the fight

Against ourselves, against our fears,
Against the struggles, thick and thin
Against adversity, physical and mental, we'll continue to win

Our next journey awaits us, 1000 more miles to go
We are newly bred soldiers, we stand ready to roll
Transformed sons and daughters, we make our way home

The same hometown and same people await
Yet the graduates returning through the gates
Are now American soldiers, standing prouder than ever today
20160903
Stuti Tripathi Mar 2016
The slideshows keep on flashing in my eyes..
This sinless, innocent girl has grown to be wise..
From riding on a swing in the lap of my mother..
and sobbing secretly after fight with the brother..
The father's  little Serin has built up her wings..
Set up to face the autumns and the springs..

The big and magnificent aura in which I elevate every year..
I welcome my day with both fear and cheer..
The set of balloons, banners and streamers arranged..
The chocolate cake on the table and the gifts exchanged..
The memories alive have kept me alive..
The happiness which I gather; I instantly archive..

On this day, I pray to god at the rate of my blinks..
Though, he answers me sometimes with his misty blinks..
But, the canvas is vast and the palette is laden..
Each day, I rise and mature to be maiden..
Yes, I am the sailor.. The sea is mine..
I am the sun and my job is to shine..

                                     - Stuti Tripathi
Birthday is an extremely important day for any person in the whole year. There are encumbered with the countless memories ,enough to bring a big curve of smile on your face. However, every year they introduce you to a cosmos of new tests, challenges and ultimately a different life that needs to be cared by you for gratifying harvests.
Cullen Donohue Dec 2019
My grandma’s favorite holiday was groundhog day.

I don’t know if she just loved the fanfare of it all;
If she thought it was so trivial and fun;
If Pansawtukee Phil was just too adorable;

Or maybe she was just a fan of Bill Murray?

(Which I mean—who isn’t?)

My grandma always had a knack for everything, not just the weird holidays:

It was continuing to remind me that penguins have knees,
And instilling at least one of her grandchildren with a love of the X-Files that never faded,
(Me again)
And people watching
from the car outside of Byerley’s —
Insisting it was going to be her novel
“Tales from the Parking Lot.”

She also used to tell us that my grandfather had been reincarnated as a cardinal.

And she would tell us,
In the springtime,
He, (or the cardinal,)
Would come visit.

And, my grandma adored talking.

She would tell anyone her life story
Whether they wanted to hear it,

Or not.

This included:  
nurses,
doctors,
a man named David at the Jewelry store,
some of my friends when we were just driving through on a road trip from college and stopped to say, “hello,”

Really, anyone who would listen.

She called it her gift of gab.

And, she was also really into scrapbooking
and creating slideshows of pictures
Simple ways of preserving the memories of loved ones

I don’t quite remember when her memory started slipping
When Alzheimer’s started digging it’s claws into
The facts, the stories...

Even the reality she knew and loved.

I’m sure, looking back, it was slow at first.
Like those first moments when Bill Murray wakes to the song “I Got You Babe,”

Again.

Not quite sure what is happening,
But confused.

The fear doesn’t begin until later,
As the events repeat again and again.

I remember my mother telling me of a moment
Where my grandmother was reliving her
Junior prom.

She lived with us then, and my mom had a baby monitor set up in her mother-in-law suite.

My mom woke to a crash through the baby monitor.
And when she rushed downstairs,
She found my grandma’s robes were laid out all around the room.

My grandma was on the ground,
The TV on top of her.

Her explanation of what happened is she was trying to steal the TV to buy a prettier dress.

In her lucid moments,
We told my grandma this story.

And she laughed
and laughed,
With the same confidence Bill Murray
has later in the film

Having accepted reality,
having accepted this fate.

Reliving days past
Knowing that a future
may never come.

It might be that the reason
She loved groundhog’s day was

The promise that spring is coming,
And with it, the cardinals,
And with it, new life.
Onoma May 2017
freshly minted leaves
cognizing warmth as
earthen birthmarks
of shade.

who's ready to float on
slideshows of deepening
color?
whose ready to feel what
that might mean this year?

crowns have been placed
amidst the tangled outreach
of boughs.
beauty is an awesome
responsibility.
few are dying of.
Sally A Bayan Jan 2017
They're white flags...waving,
on stretched dreary nights, til morn,
when breeze blows stead'ly...

they're screened slideshows of
dreamed moments......a face, a name,
tease the aching  heart...

thoughts of what's not here
stir the mind and the senses,
when eyes are closed shut

sober moments break,
pieces shimmer in the dark
................serenity fades...

i look up...beg, that
my dreams and wishes, become
miracles...from God...


Sally


Copyright January 6, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Hank Van Well Jr Oct 2014
The corner

An open volume lay dormant
Misted in a fine layer of dust ,
and cratered with droplets of dried up tears ,
A hollow pen ,
, fallen
, like that tree in the forest without an ear to listen
Highlights of a love
Slideshows , formed in words
Painted in ink
Just to reminisce
Pages filled in a foreground of love , affection , and happiness ,
But the background , empty
a promising future faded
As the foundation which all would be built is gone
The pen lay dormant amidst a pile of white
Lifeless dawns , that stretch into lost evenings
No future left to write
Inspiration dried up
The pen lay barren  
In a corner left alone
Since she said goodbye ...
Queen Oct 2016
Full room of people
smiles on their face
and I couldn't feel
more displaced
their talking about the good days
when you were alive and well
but all I can focus on
is your empty shell
I try to block their words
hide from the facts
by keeping the drinks flowing
keeping the smile showing
but no one truly knowing
the bitterness that's growing
that's called "ME"
I remain silent
but allow my mind to race
and all it does
is load slideshows of your face
125 YEARS is what you promised me
I use to laugh, and say, "yeah right"
but their wasn't a doubt in my mind
you wouldn't be right
I would have settled for another year
maybe three
but you left way to suddenly
So I sit in the full room of people
with a smile on my face
no one knowing
what's truly taking place!
I miss my dad everyday!!!
i have made some slideshows there for you to view
pictures with my poems there are quite a few
if you would like to see them here is what to do.

type in  William Worthless  Youtube
in the google search

you will fine them there that is where they perch.

hope that you will like them and you can let me know
maybe leave some feedback for my picture show.
Miranda May 2020
I can fathom a million possibilities
A million situations
A million lifetimes
But I always find myself thinking of you

Day in and day out, from dusk till dawn
No matter the hour, minute or second
No matter the situation or mood I’m in
You still somehow wander through my mind

I see you exploring every inch of my mind
Peeking into every crevice and every book
All the nooks and crannies within me
You find all the secret doors through my castle

You find the incessant tributes to my past
Missives containing more rage and depression then my eyes reveal
I see you and you see me
You look through the slideshows of memories

The memoirs to my lost loves
Chronicles of abandonment
Accounts of mental illness
Tomes containing the confusion I walk in

Your brown eyes peer deeply into the cerulean sea
You dive into the flooded catacombs of my mind
Explore the wreckage I was borne into
I think about you all the time

I think about the infinite capacities of the past, present and future
From walking down an aisle to declaring my love for you in front of both of our meager family and bountiful friends
To creating a fruit of our love
You plant good vibes into my mind
Give me a newfound confidence
Through boudoir photos and sweet nothings
You chase me through every world I’ve created for myself
But when you grab me, I don’t flinch and cry

Instead, I let you gaze into my eyes
The hurricane of emotions you witness whirling around
From worry to love
From frustration to happiness

You speak eloquently to me
Well formulated passion speaks volumes
Our first kiss was more powerful than a supernova
It felt so much more different

I didn’t have to be vigilant of your words
For the first time in nineteen years, I believed your love
I believed in what I considered to be beautifully impossible; love
The mystery of love is something perhaps we cannot solve, yet we yearn for
Butch Decatoria Dec 2020
Dead leaves fall from a living tree,
captured by a breeze, to gather at my feet
tiny mounds
of earth browns
and ill-colored greens
piled on one another / rustling / autumn winds
serpentine screams

tiny graveyards
un-esteemed;
reminding me of last evening's
public television’s episode (almost
appalling)

a special / they call it
on letters from the holocaust,
readings / from surviving
members now lost
Gone grey and slowing

as they speak unnerved (aging)
deep sepia slideshows during
their somber, teary-eyed recollections / lifting
ghosts and rocks of faithful memory

heavy, from the loss
of their progenies...
Those silver photos of nannas, sisters,
brothers and fathers
fading details of what it cost
the camaraderie of suffering

which time has (and they gladly)
frost, depressing
me/ with my big screen magnavox,

i remote control a pause...

&

So...
The still dead leaves of cemetery browns
and soldier greens,
lifeless and lifted by the wind
without empathy / or guilt of sins

an airy power, a commanding force / unseen
gathering / stems or limbs
of these casualties / of autumns
Long winters so profound
none following the flight

of cold fronts in blithe

clustering together / piled / artisanal scenes
at my sandals, toes wriggling
crunching underneath / souls

weathered / beaten / down

death seems simple - like a mindless breeze,
nature’s indifferent devil
dust to rust
it is the way of things
We shifting / graveyards of leaves
as if a memorial of use-to-be's
from a roar of sightless tragedies
memorium of wars
tombs of bodies / images of defeat

not so simple or beloved

the nature of such things
in these leaves i see
of thee i sing....
Joshua Buskirk Mar 2021
In the days wrapping around
When my personal calendar flips its new page
Memories meld into year-end slideshows
That become marathons
Of past ones I’d forgotten I curated before.

My first car,
I haven’t recalled it in years,
Has been circling the last day
An old Tempo
Too slow to keep a beat
An interior a shade darker
then it shows on the outside.

It would frighten and stall
From thunder crashes & train tracks crossings
We’d take longer trips,
Circumnavigating any obstructions
Even if it means,
We’d miss the opening bands
Or the best joke told over pints at the bar that night
We’d stay home if dark clouds were on the horizon

When playing its slideshow retrospective,
From Twenty calendars past
In split-screen with my most recent
I lose track
Of which side
Is showing
which show
And just how much
I still drive that long-gone car.
ConnectHook Apr 24
On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose . . .

Networking, presenting the numbers
Adjusting the data for benchmarks
Reviewing best practices
Speaking vapid motivational drivel
Accompanied by pastel-toned slideshows
Full of dull corporate graphics—

   On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose . . .

Acting with intention
Staying centered
Celebrating balance and cultivating awareness
Curating selfless acts of charity
(yet still suppressing God at heart)
Being connected in authentic community—

   On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose . . .

Believing in yourself to achieve your goals
Seeking your own inner light to guide you
Recognizing how deserving you are
Working towards what makes you happy
(denying there will be a judgement of your soul)
Creating your own reality—

   On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose . . .
PROMPT 24:
write a poem that begins with a line from another poem, but then goes elsewhere with it.


Lucifer in Starlight

ON a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose.
Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend
Above the rolling ball in cloud part screened,
Where sinners hugged their spectre of repose.
Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those.
And now upon his western wing he leaned,
Now his huge bulk o’er Afric’s sands careened,
Now the black planet shadowed Arctic snows.
Soaring through wider zones that pricked his scars
With memory of the old revolt from Awe,
He reached a middle height, and at the stars,
Which are the brain of heaven, he looked, and sank.
Around the ancient track marched, rank on rank,
The army of unalterable law.

George Meredith (1828–1909)

— The End —