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Path Humble Jun 2018
left my phone unlocked
on the taxi’s back seat,
won't be the last time

called it a few times
finally, the driver picked up

he had a fare immediately after mine,
and was now headed way downtown,
and would call later
when fate returned him nearer my office

and so it came to pass,
very shortly thereafter,

we met on the street,
he rolled down  the window
and with the greatest smile of pleasure,
as if he had won the lottery
beaming,
handed me my phone

I had two $20's to cover any expense he might have incurred,
neatly folded in my hand  
and offered it right up, right away;
but the driver repeatedly pushed my hand away
as I insisted,
saying:

"No sir, no no, not necessary!

Allah sent me a fare
that took me soon back close to you, so,
  no loss of time did I suffer,
so your offer is kindly unnecessary!"


to which I replied,

"exactly!
Allah sent you to me
so I could reward you!"


and with an equally, beaming smile continued,

"our ride and meeting today,
together was pre-ordained it was


Inshallah!" ^

something he could not dispute...
or his amazement, disguise...

  we parted ways
   each believing,
   each receiving
a heavenly check plus,
each, credited with a mitzvah^^
on our
respective trip logs,
our humanly divine balance sheets,
kept by the
single
supreme taxi dispatcher
Arabic for ^"God/Allah willing" or "if God/Allah wills," frequently spoken by a Muslim


^^a meritorious or charitable act in the Jewish tradition

FYI,
NYC taxi cab drivers are suffering economically by the explosion of ride hailing app cars, many unable to pay their bills, earn a living, have committed suicide over the past few months
https://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/sixth-new-york-city-cab-driver-dies-suicide-after-struggling-n883886

true story, poetry is there for the taking
Logan Robertson Jun 2017
His Key Unlocked Her Door

As the piano man plays her song
The ivories of his eyes dance along
He plays on her keys
The sweetest melodies
Rising onto his pitch her heart twang

Logan Robertson

6/07/17
annh Jan 11
My friend, I would sooner fear the reason why
I did not grasp an opportunity with both hands
And wring the very essence of life from it;
Than I would fear the opportunity itself.
Inspired by an old key chain I rediscovered today - the words 'through unlocked doors' are embossed on the back of it. I think I'll start using it again. :)
clever Jan 13
a white picket fence and blue shutters
describes the house i see in my mind.
a quaint and childish fantasy,
with love blind and hands intertwined.
i left my shoes by the door
and i left that door unlocked.
you locked the door behind you
and didn't care enough to have knocked.
i built that house to have you in it,
and i wanted your shoes by the door.
but you don't bother with much of anything
and i can hear your steps against the floor.
then things get a little lonely
and you're the only one sleeping in the bed.
and i'm sitting on the hardwood because, well, actually, i forgot to imagine anything else in this godforsaken house except for that bed because i was too busy thinking of you.
anyways.
things got a little lonely and they hurt a little more.
then i made an effort to run from you,
but my shoes were still by the door.
the pavement probably would've felt worse than the pain i endure from trying to love you. at least, it feels better to think of it that way.
Jesse stillwater Jul 2018
there are the ones
that feel it climb up
the shadow towards the light,
hesitation on every rung,
each wave of the arising
      overwhelms  unabated ―
and woe betides those
who are on the run
from a storm's deluge


A rousing ocean breeze
stirs inside the memory
of an unframed seashell
lying on the hearth mantel;
heightened sensitivity
lapping soundlessly,
spindrift plashing
the shoreline
of another world's
feigned peace


Perhaps the muted voice
of guilty pleasures,
hushed by their own
hidden truths
Feeling the unfelt textures
of every stifled vibration
left unbreathed


The naked truth befallen
so cold and lonely
Running in circles,
volatile as all those
     unspoken excitations raging ―
and the whispers of those
who hear not
the voices in the wind


An emotionally enslaved  heart
tarries,  marooned high and dry
in a memory on a distant sand bar
     lain fallow for so long ―
stagnant darkness
of an unsated soul
gathered on the back
of a parched tongue
sullied wordless


Rising up through
a dusty hieroglyph corridor
through an unlocked
labyrinth gate;  vestige echoes
from somewhere left behind
in an incomprehensible
abandoned wake


It's getting harder and harder
   for an insatiable soul to breathe ...
   climbing up a tree trunk―
up within the silence
of the listening tree


  Toes dug into
the rough bark furrows ―
fingers reaching upwards
beyond their deepest known grasp


A shadow stranded
out on a hangin' bough
hearkening without ears that hear:
“perhaps they’ll listen now“  
the wingless bird sings
in psalms that fly away
on tattered feathers
over untamed waters roil


Back to nature’s waning youth,
the bough bends unbroken
to taste the freedom
of the wild absolving seas



Jesse Stillwater
June     2018
Notes:                                                                                                          
a friend sent  a link to a deeply thought provoking modern classic 70's song about Vincent Van Gogh and the complexities of imperfection some of us relate .... i'd listened to the words prior but never heard before now.

  Title is last final lyric line from:  "Vincent" (Starry, Starry night) 1971
Writer(s): DON MCLEAN, ENRICO NASCIMBENI,
ROBERTO VECCHIONI
trapped
in solitary confinement -

with the key to the exit
in your reach -

with nowhere to go
and no one to meet -

with nothing to do,
besides watching seconds,
evolve into minutes,
evolve into hours,
evolve into days.

would you leave?

- v.m
i'm honestly not sure what this is.
i have nothing to do so yeah
Isaac Aug 2018
This world is happening around you,
but a snippet of it
is in your control.

No one else has access to it
like you do.

You've unlocked its password,
and you're in.

You made it into this universe,
this story.

Now, what are you waiting for?
Make the most of it!

Go discover this world you are in!
Written 5 August 2018

Your body is your connection with this world and your involvement in it.
Meteo Nov 2015
Some nights I leave the door unlocked, though there is no proof, they are still after me. You are the last place I look for lost things. If I could stop thinking about you I would tell my psychiatrist but I wouldn't tell my priest. There is a lifetimes worth of new years promises pending upon your lips, nothing gets me through most nights like practicing in front of a mirror. I believe the fire inside of you will burn me, but I know no other way to get close to you.

Some nights I dream of you backwards and leave the doors unlocked, if you walked out on me, then I would know one of us wasn't telling the truth.

Lighthouses on purpose, fire escapes on mute. I am the patron Saint of second chances, I count the heartbeats away from you. I believe in nothing else. There is a rock in my breast pocket, I don't know how it got there, but it reminds me of you.
Left Foot Poet Nov 2017
surprise surprise I read between the lines,
gobbling up the bread crumbs youse guys leave in;
yours and hers in the edible empty spaces and
hints and clues from other lines from other places

grew up in a family of storytellers, historians and book writers:
we did not play Scrabble in my house; was too contentious,
and besides, someone excelled in literary obscura and
Ancient Poets,
which made it most unfaira

instead we read the dictionary for fun and
broke into the unlocked local library at night,
were called The Borrowers in our little town,
I think affectionately

The FBI employed my momma,
the Original Literary Profiler,
cause she could see the signature of the same writer,
no matter how many names or disguises he tried,
in everything they had written

  the skill was transferred genetically,
which is visible in all my escapades poetically:
I live here under many names so superciliously,
but I never have yet, fooled myself^
I did read a first chapter of my sister's book published in a newspaper many years ago; thinking it was a well written review,   when I discovered the true author's identity, my family teased me mercilessly
11-29-17 13:18 est

^ sometimes I read an oldie and think not bad, which  makes laugh when I say out loud,  
did I write that?
Chrissy Apr 2
Broken,
the key was broken in the key hole
so that door was never really closed
that's why it was so easy for you to re-enter my life
bob Apr 2018
Leaves the gate unlocked.
No need to knock.
No need to make a payment
on the hood of her car
for when the curtain's drawn

enter

and there on the kitchen counter
a cocktail waiting
for my consumption
on an island coaster
made of bamboo.

From the backroom
she calls over Marley's
No Woman No Cry
come here, baby.
And I do.
Sjr1000 Oct 2018
The goddess dressed in white
carrying the moon
walks up the stairs to my bedroom window
Plants it there

The room is alive with shadows
Echoes of the past

There's a pain
Where pleasure used to be
An exquisite ache no one can see
A lonely breeze that can't be touched
An endless night that can't be unlocked
The mind plays tricks with the shadows on the walls

Anxiety it comes and goes
that we all know,
But it continues to echo and grow

There's a frigid cold
Where warmth used to be.

The moon goddess winks at me,
"Go to sleep,
Goodnight,
Be free."
serpentinium Jul 2018
pompeii runs through our veins,
hot with the taste of ash & decay.

some of us are fortunate enough to
become ruins; others are ruinous,
sepulchers of epidemics, air-born, contagious.
a disease that could make London a cemetery.

we dress ourselves up like relics, clothed
in silk and gold and gossamer,
as if they could one day be armor.
as if they could bring us safety.
as if we deserve such things when everything we touch rusts.

it takes only twenty-two years for the
average person to realize they are a weapon.
that words are knives and actions are razor blades,
as if to remind the living that we
came into the world screaming—
and we have never been silent since.

we are the Morrigans, the cursed women,
those whose destiny is entwined with death.
we court death, invite her to our dinner table every night,
let her sleep in the guest room, leave the doors and
windows unlocked for her.

death, we realize as women forced to bear
the weight of the dead on our shoulders,
never comes as a thief.
she comes as a lover, smelling of lilac, a grin
too white and too large to be human.

still, we invite her in,
because even death, regardless of form,
makes for better company than the empty dark.
inspired by the line: we are naught but rot and ruin.
The chambers are unlocked
From the ground I've been a corpse to
I am yellowed knowing not
Of my rescue
I had killed the pain alot
Till the language of the world was lost
Serving to babble in the puddles
Left my will behind my past life
still hurt
still mad
still shattered

on some level

but I know
none of that matters
under the blazing light
of hearts flung into the fire

and at the end
of this precious life
what's going to count
is how well we stood

with starched spines
back to the black winds
whipping eager at our
worn, forlorn ears
and said

No.

to pain and fear
running the show

and got up
- ever up -

and unlocked
our fractured citadels
with key at center:

compassion -

the bridge to
everything
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