At this age you should be fine
You have a job and some friends and a lover
don't mention the classes your taking this semester
Its been at least 10 years since it ended
you can't quite remember the details of when
You've been trying to forget for so long
its like forgetting a pop song
but this isnt some cheerful
or happy up beat
this isnt lryics you'd like to repeat
See a little boy thought you were a toy
doctor and marriage his
script to ensure you took the
part in his play
You took the bait and obeyed
as long as you were quiet
You could play with his games
You never knew quite the problem with the
noise
until you grew older and your throat grew
a boulder
your lungs filled half way permanently hindered
You began to wonder what you had done wrong
If you had taught him the unrepeatable song
the one your tongue tied can't sputter
mixed up words
to a horrible song you remember
on repeat in the back of
A brain so set on forgetting
but the radio only plays your unrepeatable
songs
so many versions you cant possibly
escape any longer
the words bubble up your half filled throat
threatening to explode
the words that won't sing
and maybe it happened and maybe you broke
and maybe the melody won't ever be known
but you're still on surviving
so let it be known:
you aren't what you've been through,
but what you become.

a plain poem (the first time I came in you)*

a plain poem, light and effervescent, a flim-flan tasting,
plein de absurde rimes, full of nonsensical rhymes,
a lattice of criss crossing pastry sugary lines, the ones,
cannot, struggle to deduce, induce, reduce
from my constipated vocabulary

oh well
~
the first time I came in you,
entered, bidden welcome,
suffused a bridge between
the party of the first part,
the party of the second part,
sugar lightness airy nonsense,
two spirits dancing the singular
pas de deux of their finite lives,
a performance unbeatable,
unrepeatable,
lost to the perfection annals

Shockingly, Surprisingly, Summarily,
did not compose an ode,
don't mine a new vein of ore,
even write a plain poe poem

as best can recall,
at the candle melting of the
sealing wax of the deal,
gave an honest speech,
instantly falling fast asleep
with nary a grunted word

ever since l,
cannot write of plain love plainly,
so she makes me pay with a
new living elegant elegy daily,
a quatrain, what a pain,
this iambic panting meter
love poem writing

jeez louise,
how I wish could write of
roses red and violets blue,
get back to sleep,
oh well then,
back to work

got to make those sad moans,
hers, go away,
so please excuse me

near ten years later,
still paying the dues of the
initializing error of my way

she rumbles-mumbles in her
pre-awakening dream state,
so please excuse, got to go, think up
some implicated complicated  
verses to soothe away
her simple poorly hidden anxieties

you see,
I am happy paying
on and on,
writing like the devil furious,
she is stirring, coffee soon,
cafe au lait
if you get my meaning,
but still cannot beat,
repeat, re-alive
that simple plain living poem notated,
when first I came in her*


<•;)

9/24/17 6:49am ~7:17am

There he goes bidding good bye..
and people here take a long sigh..
when they roll down his records which are so high!

He was born a different kind.
With his shining glory visible even to the blind,
his name itself calms down a terrible person's mind.

He is a man with an amazing sense of purpose
n the owner of a distinct personality
In whom patience and simplicity is bestowed immeasurably..

And that's all which led him to the title of GOD
Who miracles the world of cricket with bat n ball!

Here I bid him bye
Along with million other fans
Who alike me can't think of a match sans that man.
A thunderstorm will seize this day,
and we have a zillion words of thanks to say,
Who turned our life in this memorable way..

And this is my wish for him on this last game.

There wouldn't be any man who can erase your name
Cos,
the rest only seek fame!
You are the one, who won million hearts,prayers..
You have aspired to inspire.

Here we end that wonderful tale of a great man
Which budded here in our land of India.

And this tale is unbeatable and unrepeatable
Cos there's none who has set their sail as he did. :)




                                                          ­                                  (C)SharonThomas

it's that little voice inside your head that screams anything is possible ******, go shave your head go kiss that human that looks so beautiful tonight. It doesn't matter who you are today if you want to be someone new tomorrow. i find glowing and growing with this unattainable energy each time I visit the big apple seeing one thousand faces today I'll never see again past this moment.

we are so ******* little in the bigger scheme of life, in the most beautiful, unique, unrepeatable way.

While I press my palm to hers,
I want to complete the world
our fingers folding into the fabric of skin

Aching to taste the tongue of my lover
To wash away the flavor of mango,
So that I’ll never seek a sweeter fruit again

As I close my eyes, in the blackening
I want to hear her raining
star drops into my night.

Imagining my last jar of breath taken,
Its lid twisted off, emptied into providence,
Then she filling the slack sails within me

All that I need for my humility
Is to be placed gently
in the vessel of her beauty…

then pushed softly from the dunes
into a stock-still ocean sans a single ripple
saffron petals, long leaves, moon softened

To love her in unrepeatable ways
and never miss a moment,
of our ever having done so

Her pulse, the only sound imagined
when nightingales go silent…
when winds wisps are somnolent

From the mystery of my heart as I sleep
My muse glides through the darkness
Into the morning of the madrugada.

There’s God in this rain.
And he’s washing out the colors.
There’s a Greyness, worth noting,
That steals your spirit through your eyes.
There are cigarettes in the amp.
I’m home.

There’s a blur, surrounding the line
Between the edges of him,
And where they meet everything else.
His arms flailing, brain on fire,
Jamming to the song,
With just the drums around him.

She’s broken, but a non-believer.
The bane of her existence being that
She’s bearing existence, but she’s still 
Smoking union butts
She had no intention of
Signing up to receive.

I find myself longing for
Fall’s warmer whispers.
Too dried out, I’m 
Sweating through all my
Summer shirts.

We stood stateside to ******,
Saddened and somber but still
Awake, tailed by cops that were
Bored, and our parents. I remember
He wore red a lot that year.
It was all that would hide the blood stains, on his sleeves,
From where he’d stitched his heart.

Looking through cabinets to
Find old winter hats,
And auburn-stained reminders,
Of past seasons 
You’d loved and lost.
And the drives to 
Second states, for
Finding friends in unfamiliar
Circumstances, when the air
In your face is cold enough to chill,
But bitterly addicting.

And divines have prepped their
Snowy canvas, blowing the
Corpses of the crops
To the floor of their woody settings.
A fresh start for all of us God-likes, 
To crunch leaves under our 
Brand new boots.

And he’s got his records, and
Some books to go with them,
And a drawing from a bus ride that
Took longer than he’d planned for. 
And he can’t wait to show it to everyone, and
Embellish the story it told him.

She’s got her thumb out, somewhere.
Praying for a chance to write the Bible down 
On the inside of a Buick.
She hasn’t loved her mother in weeks.
She and I don’t talk much anymore.

But I’m praying too, to the
Gods I keep. And spending each Sunday
Still, all-set for snow.

So bask in the glow of your cell phone light.
Dance to the unrepeatable beat in your head.
Tread lightly where the ice is thinner,
But fear not for lack of hands
To pull you back up should you fall through.
The Greyness shall not claim us all.

Every instant comes before us in a rush
Every moment is a spark in the sky
The possibilities, so vastly infinite
I no longer can ignore that your life
Is tied to mine

A small red string connects us
Weaving through time and windows
Across streets and stars
To loop around our wrists
Always tugging
A destiny neither can deny

A moment, unrepeatable and endless
To forever echo in my mind
A temporary magic
Our existences collide

To write,
to write it down?

All words
were taken,
in lines of
unrepeatable,
irreproachable
wholeness.

Then,
that sudden whirl.
Words popping,
flooding it all.

To accept:
expression is a drawing
and the self an esquisse
to built upon.
Flaws are expected.
Because it all
comes down to a need.
And that is okay.

The love is gone, right? There's no chance we'll ever get back together? Because I can't be here halfway. I can't look at you and not see the boy I fell in love with -the boy who's hands shake constantly, the boy who pulled me closer in bed, the boy who whispered unrepeatable things in my ears. I can't look at you and forget that -I can't see you as just another person. How could you look at me knowing that what was once yours isn't anymore; that the body you once ran your hands all over is off limits, that the words 'i love you' will no longer spill out of my mouth for you. How can you be okay with that? Because I'm not, and I wish I was, but I'm not. Because I ******* love you more than I have ever loved anybody, and I can't flip a switch and bring back only the part of you that was my best-friend. Even though I miss that part of you too. I wish I could be satisfied with part of you, but I can't forget that I had all of you at one time. I can't be satisfied with half of you when once I had all of you. And it hurts, and it *****, because I want you in my life but it hurts. Sometimes I wish we never fell in love because I would have my best friend right now. Maybe that's all we ever should've been, and we ruined it. And I can't forgive myself. Because here I am caught between two extremes of having to let you go and not being able to, and knowing whatever choice I make is going to send me screaming to the sky, clutching my chest, and curled on the floor in a pain that will never fully heal.

Take my soul,
crushed in your palms you quiver with enjoyment,
as you feel it slip through in between your fingers
Unworthy of my smile I laugh instead,
praying deep down within that things would return the same.

The anger flares and swells through my veins,
memory by memory my pulse reaches closer to its ******.
Your voice whispers untold lies, but all I hear is screaming.
Are we all meant to be empty handed?
Now I’m not coming back,
I’m just chasing,
what I can't reach.

Clenching to a unrepeatable memory,
the grasp gets more difficult to keep intact
I thought this died so long ago,
but reoccurring shame eats me.
Wounds unseal,
bleeding so much more then ever.
Hold me as it flows.

She is a caregiver.
She who gives complete care is she whose care is completely given -
So much care to give yet none remains for herself.

Built 6 ft. tall she carries:
A Rolleiflex 3.5T,
A phony french accent
And an enigmatical past.

Ms Mayer.

As her lens soaks up the quintessence of normality in
A diluted Chicago suburb or
The emphatic streets of Manhattan;
She was wired to observe.
Her nature, craving to sustain unrepeatable moments.
Instances so human,
A simple photograph just isn’t quite enough
To capture them.

V. Meyer.

She relies unwaveringly on an object whose sole purpose is to
Look through,
To surpass.
But to her it acts contradictorily as
A barrier,
A rationalized blindness.

An outside eye peering into the lives of others
But never within herself.
She is the lady who would rather look through a lens than into a mirror
Because her refracted self is slightly easier confronted than that reflected.

Vivian Maier.

I struggle to say what hasn’t been said
I could go on about her for hours
My sanity was hanging by a thread
And she got inside my minds locked towers

She is more unique than the galaxy
She is more than the name she was given
Her compassion defies all gravity
this beauty, I don’t know where to begin

There are 228 recorded spellings of the name “Unique”

Each is desperate to be unrepeatable, individual, non-conformist, idiosyncratic, original, other.

She didn’t have to try: she was born to be unique.

She is as unique as the name she was given, and the one she has made for herself.

She is beautiful as the words she writes and the ideas she shares with the world

She can make you laugh so hard that you get a weeks worth of 8-minute abs and your face is crimson

She can sing so you forget the world around you as every cell in your body begs to listen to more

When you have lost your way, she will be your tether, keeping you true to yourself

She will remind you every day why out of 7 billion people you will choose her over everyone else because she.

is something else

She will love.

She will love and love and love and love and love and love and she will spread joy with her restless soul because it is too wonderful not to share

She will be herself, and that is more than enough.

Sebastian quivered as he made his report.
Science - We did quiz. I 102 percent
History - We did read chapter. I finish first and wrote answers to questions. All correct.
English - We did grammar lesson. Adjectives. Describe words. No grading.
Sebastian hesitated, just slightly, and his father exploded.
Mathematics! Report Mathematics! Show Me!
Tears streaming. Hands trembling.
Sebastian removed the math papers from his tiny Hello Kitty backpack.
97 percent. Not perfect. Not the best in class.
The rest is unrepeatable.
Humiliation is much worse in Mandarin.

The only way
                  to live is
           to  accept  each
             minute as an
      unrepeatable miracle,
           which is exactly
      what  it  is -- a  miracle
         and unrepeatable
                 and know
   sometimes it's good to pause
             in our pursuit of
        happiness and  just  be
                    happy
             and remember,
     one thought driven home
              is better than
           three left on base.

        The human body was  
             wisely designed
       so  that we can neither
   pat  our  own  back  nor kick
         ourselves too easily
  and  remember  that  no one
          lives in perfection
     and  tomorrow  is  a  new
           untarnished day,
              and you can
         be hurt only if you
                  care a lot.
                                                            ­                      Jon York   2019

It is an honor to hold your hand in grief
as it is to hold mine while I weep

It is a privilege to see the books you selected on your bookshelf by hand as it is an honor see the titles that tilt on the shelves of mine

You are sacred and so am I

It is an honor to hear you sing in the morning hours and it is an honor to hear me sing to the falling rain

It is a privilege to enter the sanctuary of your mind and soul- the one you have watered with love, care and delicacy as it is an privilege to be allowed to enter the sanctuary of my mind and soul


You are sacred and so am I

Once upon a time
In a distant land
Lived a king.

He was a bloodthirsty tyrant,
A lover of massacres,
Excited by war,
With a lust for fight.

Every day the axe fell
Upon the head of some dissenter,
Every night the body
Of some enemy
Dangled on the castle's walls.

He showed no mercy,
He felt no pain
In witnessing the horrors
Of his ****** rule.
War was his entertainment,
****** his joy.
He had no friends.
He knew
Only enemies and servants.

So this king
Once went to war,
With his knights
and his horsemen,
Aiming at a merciless victory.
His horse was the on of champions,
His sword the masterpiece of blades.
His shield was shiny and strong.

But he lost the war.

And then the enemy captured him
And put him in jail,
Almost naked, wound and fragile.

The tower he was in was cold,
The chains were tight,
His fate unsure.
Nothing was left of his glory.

The first day he cursed
The enemy and all his ancestry,
The second he promised
All the money
He could give
To the prison's watchmen.
The third he just yelled
Unrepeatable slurs
And unspeakable atrocities.
But the fourth day
Something happened.

The king started to feel.
All the pain he inflicted upon others
Was now his pain,
Their suffering was now
The same he was feeling,
Their moaning was now
The only sound he could utter.
His was the head cut by the axe,
His the feet dangling from the walls.
His the wounds and the mutilations
Of every veteran of war.
He felt all of that
And he cried.

And so he cried,
And he cried, he cried
For hours and then for days.
He asked no mercy,
For him never granted it
For his victims.
He begged no forgiveness,
Because he was aware of his nature.

But he was forgiven.
The winning king
Had mercy of the tyrant,
Hearing his crying
In the middle of the night.
He set the ****** enemy free
And all of his army
Was able to follow him
Back to his kingdom
Knowing that something changed
In the tyrant's heart.

And so it was.

The king was amazed
By an act of kindness
He could not even conceive.
He felt so strange.
Suddenly he has become
Permeable to the pain of others.
Suddenly he gained empathy
For all the suffering
He could never feel before.
He felt so human.
All his life he wanted to
Distinguish himself
From the common men.
Now he just felt
Like he could live
In the heart of every man.

When the king died,
Many years after that fatal battle,
Everyone remembered him
As a wise, tender man,
A lover of peace,
Moved by compassion,
Delighted by love.
No one knew what happened,
But everyone
In that lucky kingdom
Knew that it was something
Unspeakably beautiful.

This happens to many men:
They're cruel when they're sheltered
By power and glory
Validated by honors and praise.
But none of them can stand
The power of an heart screaming,
When the discover this ancient truth:
Money and power
Make people different,
But common pain make us all equal.

i made the trip to our hometown
down that old street and to my old bedroom
i thought going back would help me get away
it only reminded me of you more

in my bed, it’s like muscle memory
a gentle reminder of us lying together
staring up at the plastic constellations on my ceiling
rambling how we would see the real stars in oregon

we packed our bags and headed west
following a map of state lines and truck stops
with every mile a new memory
every turn a chip in the mask

we got a cup of coffee at nancy’s diner
as the waitress poured you called her something unrepeatable
and when she spilled a little on the table
you attacked before she could say sorry

we made it to omaha at golden hour
in the hotel room, i took an unexpected polaroid of you
but not as unexpected as when you slapped it out of my hand
and told me “i don’t like surprises.”

the way i saw you was deteriorating 5 months deep
chiseling away with every backhanded comment
your silver tongue kept me around
no matter how sharp it cut

the stars started to dim out there
though i wanted them to shine forever
your virtue shattered on the dock that night
when hands reached for my face, i never turned back

i took a red eye when it hurt
there was silence throughout the plane
in my hand, fragments of stars and deceit
i keep it clenched, close to my self doubt

when you look back
do you remember the flowers through the fog of the window?
or do you just remember
the petals in the sink and the glass on the floor?

i remember your facade but try to forget
i tell myself the truth no matter how much it hurts
sometimes i can’t help myself but to think
what if we went back to the phase of the masks?

"It wasn't the heart that wanted
To be like the intruder,
Time is short and short as the diver,
Without his camouflage under the floor.

"Too bad for me, I didn't love;
Too bad for me, I didn't give myself up.

"There are people like me.
There are worse, in my situation.

"I am not grateful.
I am inconsiderate.
So much so that I don't know who did it:
A perfect world, all in my lap.

"I am not Emil Cerda,
I am an unrepeatable time,
And sad;
That wants to be hired,
That wants to be read.
But, God made me like this.
Thank you Jesus,
But today, maybe I will die better."

In the avenues of thought you stirred up ripples
And waves, and raised all the dust that had settled
On everything that sat within the circumference
Of a space between two meanings
A tale of two cities

And stared down the twin barrel of ill fate
While the large jawed kings of your time
And the plain faced queens of circumstance
Searched for deeper meaning in their alleged souls

Upon a time, standing upon a place of memories
Which time had mugged and murdered
And killed half the things you had treasured
Questions led to answers
And the answers to more questions
If it was a match you would have known
You were no match
So you threw in the towel and quit trying

And mumbled an unrepeatable obscenity
And offered your toil tortured *******
And cussed out an irrevocable infinity

A man with two legs and a crutch, clasping
A pair of blistered hands, clutching
A collection of mirrors containing the images
Of a man who fit that exact description
Whose eyes stared into far spaces
A man crippled and crumbling
Whose feet stomped in lanky paces
Upon a path at half past forgotten
And all the large jawed kings of time
And all the plain faced queens of circumstance

In the wake of all the drama that began to unfold
You caught yourself fumbling in half steps
Afraid and cold, feeling suddenly old
To the rhythm of a heart that beat in half measures
And the sign said - Closed because of weather
From which you derived no pleasure

In the shadow of memory, upon a time of plenty
You lingered upon feasts once partaken
Where the sun had shone bright on many
In a sea of plenty you had nothing, life dilapidated
It was there, you would have sworn to it
It was there, this fact, as you had known it
Handled by those hands, of own eyes obligated

Incandescence shines through this dullness
Lights up the passages of time and allows us
To pass through and to pass up opportunities
To lose our ways in the vast perpetuity

Where silence raged with the raw tonnage
Of a boundless herd of oceanic waves

And speech and noise went unheard and unheeded
The matters which mattered were sealed and hidden
Clusters of mutterings staggered and settled
And in settling, died and gathered dust
Much as they do now. Much as they did now

In the end we clung to the branches of abstracts
Something hidden to the eyes but open to the mind
Let the reader understand, the rock on which I stand

Brown sands on my body,
reflections of a self-absorbed face,
an oath never said,
and without even a goodbye.

Bodies that have crossed,
one night destinations,
words in the cold air,
and a drop rolling on the skin.

The fleeting miracle of two open souls,
where the language ends,
and the eyes whisper,
and the skins speak.

A beauty that hurts now,
that hurts in memory,
that is definitively lodged,
digging into my being.

The knowledge that this something was profound,
it was finite,
it was surprising
  and unrepeatable.

Sweet pain of a night,
lived night,
in the light of a day,
in which the emptiness is felt.

Pick a day.
The random date generator chose:
January 13, 1835
There are still generations formed
from those that fell in
love, married,
birthed sons and daughters
on that day.
Each an unrepeatable existence.

Family lore and crests
enshrine the first kiss,
the birds that soared the sky,
the color of flowers in his/her hand,
words spoken and written in the heart,
the dress she wore,
the beard he had
and discarded or kept,
the Fahrenheit/Celsius of
the exact hour, minute second
of their first heat,
the time that their fingers
stopped accidentally
brushing against each other,
the number of teeth
shown in the first smile.

Count the time
from first hello to last goodbye.
Enshrine that number
of seconds, minutes, hours,
days, weeks, months, years,
in the tales told about them
by their children.
Knit together
all the overlapping
welcomes and farewells
into the colorful threads
of all the houses born and fallen.

I look at that history
and I love you
solidly in the echoes
of all the past.
You fill my time,
even my sadness.
I have gazed too long
Into the light of you.
I only see
the burnt-in after glow
of all the whiteness.