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JB Claywell Oct 2015
He went to see the oldboy in the hospital.
It was his job to check in on all the oldboys
and oldgirls that they assigned to him.  
He liked his job very much
the oldboys and/or girls had some of the best stories
or sometimes it was good just to visit with them
and watch the boredom or sadness leave them for a bit,
while they were visiting or chatting.

This particular oldboy was one of his favorites.
The oldboy reminded Jay of both himself and his father in an odd way.
For one, the oldboy had a lot of tattoos
and was always mad about something.
The oldboy had the proverbial soapbox
and wasn’t afraid to stand on it.
Also, the oldboy cussed a lot.
The oldboy was short/fat/bald too,
like Jay’s Pop was and Jay liked,
honestly to see this particular oldboy because
he felt like it gave him a glimpse into his own future.
It didn’t help though that the oldboy liked to smoke
those little blue cigars
and drink a lot of coffee
and whiskey,
because Jay liked, in moderation/sort of,
***** and smoke and cheeseburger sandwiches
and doughnuts
and bacon
and all that stuff that was surely shortening his life.
Jay didn’t like to think about that,
but he liked the look-forward that the oldboy afforded him.

Anyway, the hospital visit came about
and Jay made his way to the third floor
turning left and right scanning the signs
for the right room number.
He found it pretty fast
and made his way to the oldboy’s room.
The room was sad straightaway.
The little closet with the shelves just had a ratty pair of shorts
and a holey tshirt on it.  
The bed was made up tight and clean.
It looked like no one had slept in there the night before.        
There was the oldboy asleep in the hospital room recliner-chair.
He was in his hospital gown and drawers
with ratty old sandals on his feet. His chin was tucked in between his ***** and his gut
and he was snoring loudly.
Hey, Oldboy!
ZZZZzzzz
Hey, Oldboy, ya’wake?
ZZZzzzz
Hey!!  Ya’in here!!??
MMmmhmm?!
Hey, ya okay? Why ya in’here? Whatsamatter? Ya’needsomethin’?
Oh, hiya Jay.
Thanks fer comin’round.
His leftside looks a little hangdog.
They’s tellsa me I’da has had a stroke.
Oh, that’s a ****** shame, Oldboy!  
What the hell’ya gonna do now?
Oh, I’sa don’t right know, Jay.  
I’ma sad shape,
an’ I’ma miss my dog.
Lookit, Oldboy…
I’m calling The State.
I’m telling that they cannot send you
to the house without some extra time for someone to
lookout for you.
They’ve gotta keep someone
keeping  an eyeball on you.
They can’t send you home
with nobody keeping tabs on you.

Hey, that’s a good plan.
In this life ya gotta hava pal
and that pal’s gotta lookowt for ya.
Thanks fer comin’ by, Jay…
MMMhmmmZZZzz.

The Oldboy fell asleep
and Jay talked to some nurses
asking them not to send the oldboy home
until they’d talked to The State
and gotten him some extra help
and they said that they would do that
and they asked Jay to sign a release
and they woke the oldboy up
to ask him if it was okay that they talk to Jay
and the oldboy scribbled his name
on the paper and zonked out
and the nurses talked to Jay
and Jay made ‘em promise to do the good stuff
they said they would
and then he left
and went down the elevator
to the parking lot
and lit a cigarette
and felt sad and sorry
for the oldboy.
*

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications
a work poem
Laura Duran Mar 2018
She wasn't just a "visitor"  she'd been here a while
She sat in her corner chair, word search in hand
She always had a blanket around her shoulders
A big bag filled with snacks open at her side

Some times she'd have company
Out-of-town family maybe or perhaps a friend
They'd sit and chat, drink coffee from a paper cup
But mostly, she sat alone

She'd always leave her corner neat and clean
During visiting hours a "newbie" would never know
That corner chair was taken....that was her chair
After visiting hours she'd stretch out and re-claim her area

We knew though, we'd never take her spot
We some times met at the coffee ***
"How's your husband?"  "The same...How's your dad?"  "The same"
"Keep praying."  "I will....you too."  

Then one morning I watched as she packed her things away
With tears in her eyes, she looked at me then slowly shook her head
As she walked passed me, we clasped hands for a moment
"Keep praying" she whispered, then she walked away

Perhaps it was just a coincidence....but
No one sat in her corner chair all day
She was only one person and yet...
The ICU waiting room felt empty without her

The lady in the corner chair
Jo Hummel Oct 2014
Monday,
starting the week with a kiss good morning and the scent of breakfast blend in the air.
No time for eggs, we'll settle for Eggos and Poptarts.
A hurried goodbye and meaningful promises to return soon.

Tuesday,
waking up late,
****,
going in in a rush, no time for a shower,
quick kiss and we're out the door.

Wednesday,
traffic is crazy, no break today.
In a hurry to get back home.

Thursday,
leftovers again, really wanting to spend all day together,
only cuddling close at night.

Friday,
longer with the promise of an enjoyable presence tonight.
A romantic comedy, maybe,
some homemade spaghetti and a glass of wine,
relaxing into each other's curves late into the evening.

Saturday,
No time to rest, so many plans been made,
maybe dropping by IHOP and laughing at the complicated orders.
Hanging with family or friends, visiting the city,
coming home and getting warm, playing games and feeding the cats.
Gentle teasing making the night right.

Sunday,
Brushing the hair out of your face and laughing because we woke up at noon.
Making a big breakfast because we'll feed ourselves and our friends, assuming we ever leave the house.
Spending most of the day lazing around and watching cheesy horror movies, yelling at the protagonists for being stupid, making a big dinner to last us the week
and accidentally saying "good morning" instead of "goodnight" because it's past our bedtime and we're closer to the weekend.

A life of love,
because we have each other.
I want this, I want you, more than anything...
Victor D López Dec 2018
You were born five years before the Spanish Civil War that would see your father exiled.
Language came later to you than your little brother Manuel. And you stuttered for a time.
Unlike those who speak incessantly with nothing to say, you were quiet and reserved.
Your mother mistook shyness for dimness, a tragic mistake that scarred you for life.

When your brother Manuel died at the age of three from meningitis, you heard your mom
Exclaim: “God took my bright boy and left me the dull one.” You were four or five.
You never forgot those words. How could you? Yet you loved your mom with all your heart.
But you also withdrew further into a shell, solitude your companion and best friend.

You were, in fact, an exceptional child. Stuttering went away at five or so never to return,
And by the time you were in middle school, your teacher called your mom in for a rare
Conference and told her that yours was a gifted mind, and that you should be prepared
For university study in the sciences, particularly engineering.

She wrote your father exiled in Argentina to tell him the good news, that your teachers
Believed you would easily gain entrance to the (then and now) highly selective public university
Where seats were few, prized and very difficult to attain based on merit-based competitive
Exams. Your father’s response? “Buy him a couple of oxen and let him plow the fields.”

That reply from a highly respected man who was a big fish in a tiny pond in his native Oleiros
Of the time is beyond comprehension. He had apparently opted to preserve his own self-
Interest in having his son continue his family business and also work the family lands in his
Absence. That scar too was added to those that would never heal in your pure, huge heart.

Left with no support for living expenses for college (all it would have required), you moved on,
Disappointed and hurt, but not angry or bitter; you would simply find another way.
You took the competitive exams for the two local military training schools that would provide
An excellent vocational education and pay you a small salary in exchange for military service.

Of hundreds of applicants for the prized few seats in each of the two institutions, you
Scored first for the toughest of the two and thirteenth for the second. You had your pick.
You chose Fabrica de Armas, the lesser of the two, so that a classmate who had scored just
Below the cut-off at the better school could be admitted. That was you. Always and forever.

At the military school, you were finally in your element. You were to become a world-class
Machinist there—a profession that would have gotten you well paid work anywhere on earth
For as long as you wanted it. You were truly a mechanical genius who years later would add
Electronics, auto mechanics and specialized welding to his toolkit through formal training.

Given a well-stocked machine shop, you could reverse engineer every machine without
Blueprints and build a duplicate machine shop. You became a gifted master mechanic
And worked in line and supervisory positions at a handful of companies throughout your life in
Argentina and in the U.S., including Westinghouse, Warner-Lambert, and Pepsi Co.

You loved learning, especially in your fields (electronics, mechanics, welding) and expected
Perfection in everything you did. Every difficult job at work was given to you everywhere you
Worked. You would not sleep at night when a problem needed solving. You’d sketch
And calculate and re-sketch solutions and worked even in your dreams with singular passion.

You were more than a match for the academic and physical rigors of military school,
But life was difficult for you in the Franco era when some instructors would
Deprecatingly refer to you as “Roxo”—Galician for “red”-- reflecting your father’s
Support for the failed Republic. Eventually, the abuse was too much for you to bear.

Once while standing at attention in a corridor with the other cadets waiting for
Roll call, you were repeatedly poked in the back surreptitiously. Moving would cause
Demerits and demerits could cause loss of points on your final grade and arrest for
Successive weekends. You took it awhile, then lost your temper.

You turned to the cadet behind you and in a fluid motion grabbed him by his buttoned jacket
And one-handedly hung him up on a hook above a window where you were standing in line.
He thrashed about, hanging by the back of his jacket, until he was brought down by irate Military instructors.
You got weekend arrest for many weeks and a 10% final grade reduction.

A similar fate befell a co-worker a few years later in Buenos Aires who called you a
*******. You lifted him one handed by his throat and held him there until
Your co-workers intervened, forcibly persuading you to put him down.
That lesson was learned by all in no uncertain terms: Leave Felipe’s mom alone.

You were incredibly strong, especially in your youth—no doubt in part because of rigorous farm
Work, military school training and competitive sports. As a teenager, you once unwisely bent
Down to pick something up in view of a ram, presenting the animal an irresistible target.
It butted you and sent you flying into a haystack. It, too, quickly learned its lesson.

You dusted yourself off, charged the ram, grabbed it by the horns and twirled it around once,
Throwing it atop the same haystack as it had you. The animal was unhurt, but learned to
Give you a wide berth from that day forward. Overall, you were very slow to anger absent
Head-butting, repeated pokings, or disrespectful references to your mom by anyone.    

I seldom saw you angry and it was mom, not you, who was the disciplinarian, slipper in hand.
There were very few slaps from you for me. Mom would smack my behind with a slipper often
When I was little, mostly because I could be a real pain, wanting to know/try/do everything
Completely oblivious to the meaning of the word “no” or of my own limitations.

Mom would sometimes insist you give me a proper beating. On one such occasion for a
Forgotten transgression when I was nine, you  took me to your bedroom, took off your belt, sat
Me next to you and whipped your own arm and hand a few times, whispering to me “cry”,
Which I was happy to do unbidden. “Don’t tell mom.” I did not. No doubt she knew.

The prospect of serving in a military that considered you a traitor by blood became harder and
Harder to bear, and in the third year of school, one year prior to graduation, you left to join
Your exiled father in Argentina, to start a new life. You left behind a mother and two sisters you
Dearly loved to try your fortune in a new land. Your dog thereafter refused food, dying of grief.

You arrived in Buenos Aires to see a father you had not seen for ten years at the age of 17.
You were too young to work legally, but looked older than your years (a shared trait),
So you lied about your age and immediately found work as a Machinist/Mechanic first grade.
That was unheard of and brought you some jealousy and complaints in the union shop.

The union complained to the general manager about your top-salary and rank. He answered,
“I’ll give the same rank and salary to anyone in the company who can do what Felipe can do.”
No doubt the jealousy and grumblings continued by some for a time. But there were no takers.
And you soon won the group over, becoming their protected “baby-brother” mascot.

Your dad left for Spain within a year or so of your arrival when Franco issued a general pardon
To all dissidents who had not spilt blood (e.g., non combatants). He wanted you to return to
Help him reclaim the family business taken over by your mom in his absence with your help.
But you refused to give up the high salary, respect and independence denied you at home.

You were perhaps 18 and alone, living in a single room by a schoolhouse you had shared with Your dad.
But you had also found a new loving family in your uncle José, one of your father’s Brothers, and his family. José, and one of his daughters, Nieves and her
Husband, Emilio, and
Their children, Susana, Oscar (Ruben Gordé), and Osvaldo, became your new nuclear family.

You married mom in 1955 and had two failed business ventures in the quickly fading
Post-WW II Argentina of the late 1950s and early 1960s.The first, a machine shop, left
You with a small fortune in unpaid government contract work.  The second, a grocery store,
Also failed due to hyperinflation and credit extended too easily to needy customers.

Throughout this, you continued earning an exceptionally good salary. But in the mid 1960’s,
Nearly all of it went to pay back creditors of the failed grocery store. We had some really hard
Times. Someday I’ll write about that in some detail. Mom went to work as a maid, including for
Wealthy friends, and you left home at 4:00 a.m. to return long after dark to pay the bills.


The only luxury you and mom retained was my Catholic school tuition. There was no other
Extravagance. Not paying bills was never an option for you or mom. It never entered your
Minds. It was not a matter of law or pride, but a matter of honor. There were at least three very
Lean years where you and mom worked hard, earned well but we were truly poor.

You and mom took great pains to hide this from me—and suffered great privations to insulate
Me as best you could from the fallout of a shattered economy and your refusal to cut your loses
Had done to your life savings and to our once-comfortable middle-class life.
We came to the U.S. in the late 1960s after waiting for more than three years for visas—to a new land of hope.

Your sister and brother-in-law, Marisa and Manuel, made their own sacrifices to help bring us
Here. You had about $1,000 from the down payment on our tiny down-sized house, And
Mom’s pawned jewelry. (Hyperinflation and expenses ate up the remaining mortgage payments
Due). Other prized possessions were left in a trunk until you could reclaim them. You never did.

Even the airline tickets were paid for by Marisa and Manuel. You insisted upon arriving on
Written terms for repayment including interest. You were hired on the spot on your first
Interview as a mechanic, First Grade, despite not speaking a word of English. Two months later,
The debt was repaid, mom was working too and we moved into our first apartment.

You worked long hours, including Saturdays and daily overtime, to remake a nest egg.
Declining health forced you to retire at 63 and shortly thereafter you and mom moved out of
Queens into Orange County. You bought a townhouse two hours from my permanent residence
Upstate NY and for the next decade were happy, traveling with friends and visiting us often.

Then things started to change. Heart issues (two pacemakers), colon cancer, melanoma,
Liver and kidney disease caused by your many medications, high blood pressure, gout,
Gall bladder surgery, diabetes . . . . And still you moved forward, like the Energizer Bunny,
Patched up, battered, scarred, bruised but unstoppable and unflappable.

Then mom started to show signs of memory loss along with her other health issues. She was
Good at hiding her own ailments, and we noticed much later than we should have that there
Was a serious problem. Two years ago, her dementia worsening but still functional, she had
Gall bladder surgery with complications that required four separate surgeries in three months.

She never recovered and had to be placed in a nursing home. Several, in fact, as at first she
Refused food and you and I refused to simply let her waste away, which might have been
Kinder, but for the fact that “mientras hay vida, hay esperanza” as Spaniards say.
(While there is Life there is hope.) There is nothing beyond the power of God. Miracles do happen.

For two years you lived alone, refusing outside help, engendering numerous arguments about
Having someone go by a few times a week to help clean, cook, do chores. You were nothing if
Not stubborn (yet another shared trait). The last argument on the subject about two weeks ago
Ended in your crying. You’d accept no outside help until mom returned home. Period.

You were in great pain because of bulging discs in your spine and walked with one of those
Rolling seats with handlebars that mom and I picked out for you some years ago. You’d sit
As needed when the pain was too much, then continue with very little by way of complaints.
Ten days ago you finally agreed that you needed to get to the hospital to drain abdominal fluid.

Your failing liver produced it and it swelled your abdomen and lower extremities to the point
Where putting on shoes or clothing was very difficult, as was breathing. You called me from a
Local store crying that you could not find pants that would fit you. We talked, long distance,
And I calmed you down, as always, not allowing you to wallow in self pity but trying to help.

You went home and found a new pair of stretch pants Alice and I had bought you and you were
Happy. You had two changes of clothes that still fit to take to the hospital. No sweat, all was
Well. The procedure was not dangerous and you’d undergone it several times in recent years.
It would require a couple of days at the hospital and I’d see you again on the weekend.

I could not be with you on Monday, February 22 when you had to go to the hospital, as I nearly
Always had, because of work. You were supposed to be admitted the previous Friday, but
Doctors have days off too, and yours could not see you until Monday when I could not get off
Work. But you were not concerned; this was just routine. You’d be fine. I’d see you in just days.

We’d go see mom Friday, when you’d be much lighter and feel much better. Perhaps we’d go
Shopping for clothes if the procedure still left you too bloated for your usual clothes.
You drove to your doctor and then transported by ambulette. I was concerned, but not too Worried.
You called me sometime between five or six p.m. to tell me you were fine, resting.

“Don’t worry. I’m safe here and well cared for.” We talked for a little while about the usual
Things, with my assuring you I’d see you Friday or Saturday. You were tired and wanted to sleep
And I told you to call me if you woke up later that night or I’d speak to you the following day.
Around 10:00 p.m. I got a call from your cell and answered in the usual upbeat manner.

“Hey, Papi.” On the other side was a nurse telling me my dad had fallen. I assured her she was
Mistaken, as my dad was there for a routine procedure to drain abdominal fluid. “You don’t
Understand. He fell from his bed and struck his head on a nightstand or something
And his heart has stopped. We’re working on him for 20 minutes and it does not look good.”

“Can you get here?” I could not. I had had two or three glasses of wine shortly before the call
With dinner. I could not drive the three hours to Middletown. I cried. I prayed.
Fifteen minutes Later I got the call that you were gone. Lost in grief, not knowing what to do, I called my wife.
Shortly thereafter came a call from the coroner. An autopsy was required. I could not see you.

Four days later your body was finally released to the funeral director I had selected for his
Experience with the process of interment in Spain. I saw you for the last time to identify
Your body. I kissed my fingers and touched your mangled brow. I could not even have the
Comfort of an open casket viewing. You wanted cremation. You body awaits it as I write this.

You were alone, even in death alone. In the hospital as strangers worked on you. In the medical
Examiner’s office as you awaited the autopsy. In the autopsy table as they poked and prodded
And further rent your flesh looking for irrelevant clues that would change nothing and benefit
No one, least of all you. I could not be with you for days, and then only for a painful moment.

We will have a memorial service next Friday with your ashes and a mass on Saturday. I will
Never again see you in this life. Alice and I will take you home to your home town, to the
Cemetery in Oleiros, La Coruña, Spain this summer. There you will await the love of your life.
Who will join you in the fullness of time. She could not understand my tears or your passing.

There is one blessing to dementia. She asks for her mom, and says she is worried because she
Has not come to visit in some time. She is coming, she assures me whenever I see her.
You visited her every day except when health absolutely prevented it. You spent this February 10
Apart, your 61st wedding anniversary, too sick to visit her. Nor was I there. First time.

I hope you did not realize you were apart on the 10th but doubt it to be the case. I
Did not mention it, hoping you’d forgotten, and neither did you. You were my link to mom.
She cannot dial or answer a phone, so you would put your cell phone to her ear whenever I
Was not in class or meetings and could speak to her. She always recognized me by phone.

I am three hours from her. I could visit at most once or twice a month. Now even that phone
Lifeline is severed. Mom is completely alone, afraid, confused, and I cannot in the short term at
Least do much about that. You were not supposed to die first. It was my greatest fear, and
Yours, but as with so many things that we cannot change I put it in the back of my mind.

It kept me up many nights, but, like you, I still believed—and believe—in miracles.
I would speak every night with my you, often for an hour, on the way home from work late at
Night during my hour-long commute, or from home on days I worked from home as I cooked
Dinner. I mostly let you talk, trying to give you what comfort and social outlet I could.

You were lonely, sad, stuck in an endless cycle of emotional and physical pain.
Lately you were especially reticent to get off the phone. When mom was home and still
Relatively well, I’d call every day too but usually spoke to you only a few minutes and you’d
Transfer the phone to mom, with whom I usually chatted much longer.

For months, you’d had difficulty hanging up. I knew you did not want to go back to the couch,
To a meaningless TV program, or to writing more bills. You’d say good-bye, or “enough for
Today” and immediately begin a new thread, then repeat the cycle, sometimes five or six times.
You even told me, at least once crying recently, “Just hang up on me or I’ll just keep talking.”

I loved you, dad, with all my heart. We argued, and I’d often scream at you in frustration,
Knowing you would never take it to heart and would usually just ignore me and do as
You pleased. I knew how desperately you needed me, and I tried to be as patient as I could.
But there were days when I was just too tired, too frustrated, too full of other problems.

There were days when I got frustrated with you just staying on the phone for an hour when I
Needed to call Alice, to eat my cold dinner, or even to watch a favorite program. I felt guilty
And very seldom cut a conversation short, but I was frustrated nonetheless even knowing
How much you needed me and also how much I needed you, and how little you asked of me.  

How I would love to hear your voice again, even if you wanted to complain about the same old
Things or tell me in minutest detail some unimportant aspect of your day. I thought I would
Have you at least a little longer. A year? Two? God only knew, and I could hope. There would be
Time. I had so much more to share with you, so much more to learn when life eased up a bit.

You taught me to fish (it did not take) and to hunt (that took even less) and much of what I
Know about mechanics, and electronics. We worked on our cars together for years—from brake
Jobs, to mufflers, to real tune-ups in the days when points, condensers, and timing lights had Meaning, to rebuilding carburetors and fixing rust and dents, and power windows and more.

We were friends, good friends, who went on Sunday drives to favorite restaurants or shopping
For tools when I was single and lived at home. You taught me everything in life that I need to
Know about all the things that matter. The rest is meaningless paper and window dressing.
I knew all your few faults and your many colossal strengths and knew you to be the better man.

Not even close. I could never do what you did. I could never excel in my fields as you did in
Yours.  You were the real deal in every way, from every angle, throughout your life. I did not
Always treat you that way. But I loved you very deeply as anyone who knew us knows.
More importantly, you knew it. I told you often, unembarrassed in the telling. I love you, Dad.

The world was enriched by your journey. You do not leave behind wealth, or a body or work to
Outlive you. You never had your fifteen minutes in the sun. But you mattered. God knows your
Virtue, your absolute integrity, and the purity of your heart. I will never know a better man.
I will love you and miss you and carry you in my heart every day of my life. God bless you, dad.
You can hear all six of my Unsung Heroes poems read by me in my podcasts at https://open.spotify.com/show/1zgnkuAIVJaQ0Gb6pOfQOH. (plus much more of my fiction, non-fiction and poetry in English and Spanish)
Bailey Mar 2016
Today I saw a picture of me in your jacket
and my face fell down like rain
I just can't stop the racket
replaying in my brain
Thrown away
Thrown away
I'm not broken Daddy--please
Why did your love for me fade...
Nineteen days ago
I tore myself from you
Like the soft side of Velcro
Healthy enough to get a clue
Because you stopped calling me "baby"
You started to be grumpy
Didn't try to talk to me
All you did was touch me
In front of your friends like--
Like I was a prize
Which I sort of liked but
Then I realized
I became a body for you
Your way to accessorize
And now you're fine
Even when I said goodbye
My voice was shaking
Even after the news
Of you with her
Because I didn't want to hurt you
You were the boy who
Was better than the ones who bruised  me
And abused me
You used to hate the ones who used me
I don't know where your heart went
I held on so tight
But it slipped away
What didn't I do right?
I'm haunted by
The best memories of my life
I never thought you'd be added
To the faces that scare me at night
You protected  me
Scrubbed the dead skin off
'Til I was squeaky clean
And then you started making me feel *****
The worst part
Is that I feel guilty
Though you broke my heart
I'm just wilting
Like some stupid flower
You picked
Not because it was special
But because it was crying
Please leave me alone
Stop visiting me
I'm supposed to be safe at home
Please, please
I can't wait
Until the day
I stop loving you
And the things you say
Today I saw a picture of me in your jacket
And I wondered as I prayed
Why I deserve
The racket in my brain
This is about the ex love of my life.
JB Dec 2018
I'm not a touchy feely person
I'm not going to exploit you to friends and acquaintances
I'm not going to cry about how much I miss you
I'm not going to be a victim
Or an attention seeker.

I am going to be,
You are simply visiting

I am not going to change the sheets if you don't like them
or the kitchen
my shoes
or my heart

I just am, you are a visitor
An onlooker
An acquaintance that I let in
Never mind if I want to be alone
You want to break down the door
mk Jul 2015
i imagine my grave to be in my backyard
under the old oak tree
no marker or stone
just soil sprinkled over me

close to the house full of memories
where my children were birthed
anniversaries, birthdays, family dinners
my favorite place on earth

i want the birds to build their nests
and their young to sing their songs
above me, they shall rejoice
remind of when I was once young

please grow daisies on my grave
the yellow ones are the best
they'll bloom & spread
and provide tiny creatures with a place to rest

don't worry about visiting me
i'll be as happy as can be
just knowing you're living your life
with purpose, happiness, productively

when, however, you miss me so
come sit at the bark of the tree
tell me about your worries & joys
let it all out to me

i'll listen & my response will come
with the waves of the breeze
you'll find rest in that heart of yours
and we shall both be at peace

eventually spring shall come & flowers shall bloom
then turn into autumn then summer
i'll silently watch the beauty of each
& watch the warm breeze turn into winter

when winter comes and the trees are bare
i'll enjoy the warmth deep down
i'll picture my loved ones near the fireplace
and my face will brighten with a smile, not a frown

i ask for nothing to remember me by
no need to even leave a trace
just know that under the soil of the old oak tree
*there's a smile on my face
// with flowers on my grave, for once, i may look beautiful //
Steve Page Apr 2020
When I first discovered hot buttered toast I caught a glimpse of heaven.
I was 15 and visiting friends.
I had only been allowed stork margerine at home and had grown to tolerate it.
But that was a poor reflection of the real thing.
Now I knew heaven:
Standing by the toaster, with tea in a mug and hot, butter-dripping toast.
Grew up in the 60s and 70s. Butter was seem as a luxury not to be wasted.
yāsha Jun 2023
i crave for loneliness to brush my hair,
mother me tenderly to sleep
as you did when i had carvings
on my left wrist at twelve years old
—a braille i fondled with every day,
                   i. don't want. to be. here.

somehow, my nightly hiccups
never drove me to my end.
i am still gentle because
you follow me wherever i go;
visiting me at the right moments
especially when i am accompanied
by my own ***** and the cold bathroom floor—
          and then you stay quiet the whole hour
          to give me some time to grieve.

i wear you like a protective charm now,
for you are the only love i've ever known.
julia lovechild Apr 2015
some say, if you pay very close attention.. life doesn't actually ****. I mean look at the weather, some days we see this beautiful flaming ball in the sky that makes us warm. or heck somedays freaking water just magically falls from the sky and if you listen and look closely it's beautiful. now for people, some can me cold hearted, rude, and judgy but that's only 10% of us, the rest of the humans are amazing and kind, innocent, imaginative, interesting and just ******* cool. as for education, you may hate it now, but once you get to college and get an actually job it's amazing. and that cute apt you've been wishing for in nyc, if you dream it you can do it. just keep learning and moving forward. now cars are the coolest ******* things ever, you get into a piece of metal and go anywhere. anywhere you want, hell u could even drive to Oregon right now if you really wanted to. memories, coolest thing ever. basically something that happened in the past that you can remember. and anything can trigger a memory. like a song, smell, place, person. a memory is the coolest thing ever because it's something you'll never forget. like your trip to six flags, your dad taking you out of ice cream when you got a good grade, Christmas Day every single year, visiting your grandmother, freaking summer memories are the best. even the little things are amazing, like good friends, earning money, eating your fav food, being fabulous, getting to *** after you've held it in for 5 hrs, disneyland, traveling, airplanes, roadtrips, taking showers, sleeping, laughing, dancing, swimming, reading, and even smiling. so the next time you say your life *****, just look at the positive things and I promise you, you will be happy again.
I guess I thought I was pretty wise when I turned 13
Cece May 2012
I'm only
second choice
at best.

Better than the worst
but never do I win.

It's nice,
I guess.
Knowing that at least
I'm there...

This should probably be
concerning
but I cant find time to care.
Butterflies are visiting                                                            
for the first time in a while.                                                            
And I like it.                                                            
Vulnerability is taking over
but I dont want to stop.

So I won't.
smallhands Apr 2017
you'll always venture near dark gardens,
through mazes going along eastern hills
over fences you'll explore vast spaces
made of imaginary kingdoms

until the sun quits raying and shining down,
scamper into joyous field of flowering sepals just heavenly
see the valley's dandelions sway and drift side to side
under olive trees, from vine to vine

out even further lies some open-faced southern edens,
for visiting despite malevolent heathens not going their
expected ways

-c.j.
Mazen Edlibi Nov 2016
Hopelessly... trying to distract myself from remembering her!
                   I failed....
I failed miserably.... not to keep her smile away from my imagination...
I failed fiercely.... not to forget the cute small mule on her right arm!
I failed gracefully.... not to feel happy that I saw her!

Everything in me is calling every minute I was with her!
I met her recently and the sweetness of her soul visiting every corner of my day!

I look desperately for a single word from her!  
In secret...I'll keep my prayers to soothe my longing for her!
If I said...
                          "I miss her"
what would her world call that? ....Simply...
She still There!
ionized Aug 2012
you have a sort of frightening beauty, i thought, and moved my hands down your sides. not in a way that’s scary, but in a way that really makes you stop. and listen. i’m listening to the way you look tonight. i’m hearing everything i’ve ever wanted to hear. it’s like observing for the first time, myself, a child visiting you, the museum, or noticing the vibrant and voracious appearance of something you’ve never really looked at before. that’s what makes it frightening. the way you could pass by something a million times and never once really look at it. and when you do, perceptions of anything but the entrancing allurement stop. you are that way, except i know you, i know your face, your body, the way your lips lock into mine, and the hard lines that outline your jaw. i could go on and on describing each perfect square inch of your figure. you’re radiant.

then you looked at me and your eyes turned golden, and oh how in that instant i thought about how i knew you like i knew god, which is all too well, yet as though i’d never even seen anything like your kind of beauty before, every single time my eyes fall onto you. i said, “get naked and come into bed with me” and you responded “don’t tell me what to do” before  taking your clothes off and wrapping into those soft blankets with me.
Nhlanhla Moment Aug 2015
Fray has been and days have gone away
a youth denied his chance to find the glory of the hours
choked to no breath and succumbing to the evil undress
how wicked they are those who attack the innocent because it makes them feel better about themselves


A day denied as talent is under fire but gone the fry so they invite the dark cloud
a sound is denied and letters are hidden
but all the rays of sunshine can find time in the healing forgiving
So in death the young child is made to feel to free his will so love becomes the only deal


Caught in between the chaos of parents squabbling; it is so sad to be growing old only to be one's young recovery
A futuristic history as much mystery is open for uncovering - such clear discovery
A knit tapestry with divine wit and masterful chivalry
But by and by they try prevent this innocent light of truth and purity  from hovering

Visiting the graveyard once more where the corpse still cries where there are places sore from being bitten by the sour jaws of lost hopes and broken doors
Dead at age 6, at 9 losing a wing can an angel fix to solace bring to the fair flings of sages and Elementals sing
King and King, they bout and down each one to the ground he brings
Such a trill thrill when many are killed to subdue evil will
But please live soul to bring home to a family where faith was stolen and mischief chosen where dire indoctrination was woven

Oh child we and I self in him us we weep
part of me slice of a creed,  seed of the strong where many were weak and hearts meek
We I in him self of me us must weep
Talent the gift of the few gists or righteous fists that we keep
Please sing on in the clear skies
wail on in the mists
March in the desert sands and swim in the celestial seas
Free yourself of your own now
old soul dead so young
Whipped and crucified, wounded voice so loud
live again and heal in the numb, to rejoice in juices of the revival folk... In planes where time is none but eternity the sum.
many counts and strokes
life is a joke.
betterdays Mar 2014
got caught up in blue ink
fever last night,
reading h.p. pops and wrestling
with the words.
only to find the new day at hand

so now i am sitting in a meeting of great importance.

(eyes drooping, day  dreaming,
sheep visiting- NO, don't count the ****** things, YOU FOOL!
)

discusing matters of teaching and reaching decision on text,

(cotton pillows with smiles on their dials, beckon me over the fence to play with bo peeps sheep DO NOT COUNT THOSE SHEEP.)

books and performance scripts for the following  year, now is when

(sheep are such fluffy little things, you could just put your head down on their little tummies. LEAVE THE SHEEP ALONE HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU)

you make a case for new works
and differing the standard

(and there is just so many of the fuzzy little deweds, DON'T EWE DARE.  IF I HAVE TO COME OVER THERE  EWE'LL KNOW ABOUT IT!!!!!)

teaching formats

(one little sheepy, two  sheepy sleep, three little sleepy sheepy,,,,,,four llilĺlte sleeeepppyshee RIGHT!!pppy
NOW YOU HAVE DONE IT!!!! TIME FOR THE BIG GUNS
)

Bo, are you with us, I know this isn't the most exciting  discusion,
but it would be helpful if you could refrain from snoring.

(TOLD EWE!!)
internal dialogue poem
Brent Kincaid Sep 2015
I pity anyone visiting us with
A language besides English;
Who tries to understand the words
We like to use with relish.
We seem to say so many words
Just to keep our lips busy.
It occurs to me the so much of it
Has never graced a dictionary.

Upscaling, downsizing
Offloading the whole magilla
The whole nine yards, bottom liine
The big honcho, the whole enchilada
I was completely plussed and then
I had my self a hissy fit
I didn't know I had a flabber,
'Til someone went and gasted it.

Hanging out, kicking back
Into myself and whatever
***** it, man. I am like, wow.
And y'know, yodda yodda yodda.
Some mean kinda fudpucker
Betcher bippees, yabba dabba doo.
Mazoomas and headlights,
Totally hyped megabitch, too.

Talkin' about 'sup bro
Stufflike windas and winders.
Jammin and gittin widdit
And sumpinbout pillas and pillers.
So, I goes and he goes,
And I'm all jazzed and by golly.
It really rocks, rad to the max
Get down to some serious party.

Sixes an sevens, p's and q's
What's your point? Get real!
It's pretty much a ******
So, what's the big deal?
Too much, I mean it's tough,
And stuff, and really far out, man.
Twenty three skiddo old bean.
Just a flash in the pan.
It *****. It blows, It bites, big time
A wicked righteous mindfuck.
Get jiggy with it. Kiss my crank;
Slob my ****, Lord Love-a-duck.
Sabila Siddiqui Feb 2018
But the lovebirds turned into ravens and heart warmth into heartbreak. The pain felt inexplicable as I crumbled to the floor, face scrunching up to let out a gasp through the heart-wrenching sobs. It was as though someone ripped my heart out of my chest and bore a hole in my mind and soul with no hopes of repair.The future we painted was tinted and washed with the tears that scraped my cheek, that once used to blush. Our love didn’t have a Disney proof happy ending or of the star-crossed lovers that fought by one another’s side.
Visiting areas where we spent time dragged me through memories, attacking my nerves and ravaging upon what was left of my being. The home we built and leveled with intimacy, trust and love reduced to ruins, crumbling and collapsing. It’s like my heart is dying a slow death, shedding hope like leaves every day until there is none. Our love sailed for some time but only to end up shipwrecked. Fragile like the glass that awaited to broken until the shards fit no more.
Defeaned by the repetition of the melancholiac rhythms that soothe my spasming and scorched heart as the beat resonates with my heart and lyrics echoes in my skull. The wound that was cut bleeds deep for there was no scab to heal; endless anguish and agony. The pain felt like a constant ache, a constant stain on the floor and the pillow. But then it came in waves, crashing and enveloping me in its depths, stealing appetite and sleep. Drifting away from the shore where the people lie, I find myself drowning in isolation. Inhaling the heaviness that made me one with the sea.
The echoes of your words in my skull send pulsating self-doubt questions that make me question my worth. “Was he not the one?”. The world seems like it’s going to end and that I will never find love. But instead live with a heart yearning your name and the broken, hollow vessel that I have become.
You changed the way I thought of myself and now I don’t know who I am without you. The world seems to ripped from my arms for I didn’t have you to turn to. No one to catch me; to caress and to soothe. Your face is engraved in my memory, without you, everything seems meaningless. Saturating myself further in dreaded apathy. In a shattered state, I am further tortured in dreams if I were to find sleep in the darkness that consumes the night.
Plastered on a smile and laugh occasionally, when deep down I am longing, drowning and gasping to breathe with your name on my tongue.I mourn the unspoken words while my head hangs heavy in the thought of you, every fiber and cell missing you.
Salmabanu Hatim Apr 2018
We are nature's ***** of reproduction,
A new life begins inside us.
As our wings unfold,
the tiny petals one by one,
We expand our beauty,
From a bud to a flower,
From a child to a woman.
Sweet and succulent,
Butterflies and men around us flutter.
Exotic fragrance is our essence,
Colourful and elegant,
Seductive and ravishing,
Soft to tread on,
Abuse us not,
Or we wilt and die.
We delight the senses,
Bring a smile to the faces.
We, the flowers are a perfect gift for every occasion ,
To a mother,sister, daughter or lover,
As a bouquet, a wreath,a basket,
Expressing poetic sentiments.
Red roses, tulips and carnations,
A lover's gift.
Orange lilies and dahlias,
Hail memories of joy and happines,
Mother's Day,birthdays or special events.
A basket of yellow sunflowers,
daffodils and daisies,
Accompanied with gourmet, fruits and  chocolates,
Ideal for visiting the sick and friends.
Lilies , roses and chrysanthemums,
A wreath placed on a grave,
To respect the dead.
Last but not the least a bouquet of white orchids,
For newly wedded brides,
Pure and untouched.
We both are beautiful,
Lovely for sore eyes,
But, the lady has a soul,
We, the flowers have not.
Beautiful flowers and beautiful women are same,only flowers do not have a soul
Faleeha Hassan Mar 2016
Spare Flower    

The African night is beautiful,
In fact, it is divine’
Says the lady, visiting Iraq.
So I announce
I am the one leaving with your ignorance,
With minimum skin and a fractured soul.
The city is an adjective
And I have only my words.

This life eliminates the vocal paths from your being.
There is only departure
And my name was fitted to me.
I became the trustee of verse,
The spare flower;
The one talented in what has not yet been written.
No.
It never was
And never will be
That I form poems for you,
Grow them inside you,
Or write them in coercion.
So beat as you wish.
I am done with living in denial
I choose another life.
Madam,
my bed and the graveyard of my joy;
I crave with my longing the scent of water
but its stench pushes me away
to the gloom of the snow of Afyon,
the coughing of its chimneys,
the doubts of its elderly’s stumbling steps,
and squeals of the bones of trees
.
Translated by Dikra Ridha

Afyon is a town in the mountains of Turkey; it is where the poet was exiled.
…………………………

It is published in (ScreaminMams) magazine march 2016
© Copyright 2016, by Faleeha Hassan. All rights reserved under the Copyright laws of the United States of America and international copyright agreements.  No portion of this book maybe reproduced in any form, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author.    Email:  d.fh88@yahoo.com
rhiannon Feb 2019
Heart Broken!
Holly’s Story:

Snow swirled around the misty,dark forest as i walked through carefully.Dead leaves crunched and the wind blew heavily.Trees swayed from side to side,shaking colourful leaves onto the ground.Red,orange and green.The colours of the beautiful Autumn.I was alone,listening to the birds sing their sad,melancholy tunes as they flew past.Cold air blew against my back.I shuddered.And turned to the icy footpath.I skipped along merrily,chasing the little birds as i went.The dark approached and i found it harder to see where i was but i still happily played with the squirrels and robins as i walked home.

It was now pitch black outside and i completely lost where i was.I continued nervously.My heart beating fast.As i was walking i could hear footsteps moving towards me.I stopped and listened.The footsteps seemed to be getting closer to me and approaching more quickly.I turned around but couldn’t see anything.Then i tripped.I stood back up.As i was about to run something grabbed my arm and pulled me.Who was it?Where is it taking me?I scream.

I tried to wriggle however the hands gripped more tightly and and stayed firmly against my small,cold arms.A couple of minutes later,i stopped wriggling as i started to feel extremely tired and soon i fell asleep,breathing in the cold air.

The beautiful sun awoke me and i stood up,brushing the Autumn leaves off my ripped,muddy jeans.I walked through the hanging branches and shadowed trees.Something was moving in the distance.I concentrated hard and saw a dark figure moving towards me confidently.As it approached i could make out a face.It’s eyes as blue as the ocean and features pale.It stared at me with an expression of hatred and loathing.It was wearing dark clothes and was extremely thin.

It moved from behind the shadowed trees and i started to recognize it.My ex-boyfriend.He looked sad but he glared at me with hatred.It seemed like he wanted some sort of revenge on me but it was hard to tell as he also looked sad.As if he wanted to tell me something but just couldn’t bring it into words.

It all started last summer.It was the hottest day of the year.The sun beamed its hot rays and smiled cheerfully at the playful children.I walked through the grounds of the house to the lake.There stood Alex.I placed the flowers on the fountain side and picked up the vase.”Here,i’ll help you,”Alex said as he tried to grab hold of the vase.”No,no,i can do it.”i replied.He continued to pull,insisting that he should help and…The vase smashed into tiny pieces.I cried,”Now look what you have done!”I leapt into the lake to fetch the pieces.Soaked i climbed out and walked back to the house.I turned around,he was still there and looked shocked as if he didn’t know how to react.To some people it may have seemed silly but it was a really valuable vase of my granddad's and the only thing i had to keep as memories of him.And it is now unrepairable.

It was mid-afternoon and our servant,Becky was cooking a roast dinner for my older brother,Max,who was returning
home from Cambridge University.No one was in the mood for a hot meal when it was already extremely hot.Alex sat next to me at dinner.It was awkward as no one knew what to say.I was still really upset with him.

He phoned me and messaged me after that saying that if i let him help it wouldn’t break.I started to ignore him for weeks and he said,”we can’t stay together if we are not even talking,it wouldn’t be right,i’m sorry!”

I know i should just forgive him but it upsets me too much.He walked further out of the forest and stared at the sky.It feels like he might be trying to bring back the happy memories we had together before we split up.I still think about it sometimes and feel sorry for him that he is so heart-broken.I just can’t quite explain it to him.

Alex’s Story:

Watching the distance between us both when we used to be so close just breaks my heart.I think back to all the memories we had together and happy things we done and just wish it could still be like that now.If only Holly understood how much it means to me.I sit on the snowy bank and the dead Autumn leaves and write in my spotty note book.

“It’s hard to believe

That you no longer

Care about my feelings,

Knowing that we

Were once so

Close to each

Other.

Why can’t the

Bond we had

Still be there?

Sitting in the

Darkness,

Remembering the

Happy times we

Once shared,

I hate the

Distance that

There is

Now between

Us.

Why don’t you

Understand?

Why don’t you

Care.”

I then put my notebook in my pocket and alone i stay in the cold,dark forest.Maybe one day Holly will understand.

A few years later!

I still go past Holly’s house sometimes to remind myself of all the happy memories that we shared.I never see her anymore though now that i am a famous Poet and Author.We never got back together even though i really wish we did.I love visiting the area Holly lived with the beautiful flowers and colourful leaves surrounding the forest and all the cute,little animals that sing their sad songs of Autumn.It’s peaceful! But sad! The magic that Holly brought to it is no longer there and i’m always there alone now so it isn’t as special as the times i spent with Holly.The wildlife no longer moves cheerfully in the wind and the leaves don’t have their sparkle that they used to have.Even the snow doesn’t swirl around the dark sky anymore.Everything has changed.

There is only one thing that keeps me going and that keeps me going and that is my books i write.Without them i would be trapped inside my own thoughts and sad memories.
A sad heart breaking story!Bound to bring you to tears.
Anderson M Oct 2013
A bullfrog serenades his mate
With a booming baritone in anticipation to conjugate
Whilst the wind hums softly
Dry leaves rustling incessantly.
Within the vicinity, bees buzz
The air abuzz
With beautiful chirpings from birds
Visiting colorful flowers and buds
For nectaries
Nature’s nitty gritty pleasantries
The wind croons in a haphazard harmony
A bearable monotony
Of sorts
All these are exclusive happenings in exotic resorts.
Nature is the epitome of harmony
serenity kind of a peaceful confusion of sorts
ERR Nov 2012
You spoke to me again
I thought you were done visiting
But awoken, your form the cause to stir

Things have been different
Sometimes, just sometimes
I admit, the image
Of you disappears and I doubt
If you were real

Food tastes different
Trees grow strangely
People are boring

I think about
Where, or what
You are

When I died, my
Body seemed
So
Suffocating

I laughed more, at
Serious things
No pain in the
Hot or sharp

Do you live like exhaled cigarettes, silent and
Blending sick with winter breath?
I was adrift above the city
Same as smog, but heavy dropped and return
Forever, then
You must have kept on rising

Why continue to show self to
Me when there is nothing to be helped
On and gone accepted was a blessed dressing on stretched messy testing
Of mortal skin ripped many over?

Tap dancing the Morse message
On the sensitive ruby stillflow stream
That had loved you goodbye
Final

I love the nightwalks
With the ghouls and spirits
And giggling about what it
Is to be beyond

But the bond is a brain is a broken is a binding
Paper signing
To be a devil is a labor
When waging daily
War one wakes weary

I see why you don’t often
Come back but
“I will again”
Anticipation?

Tingle with the sensory tense
Of the Vanishers who
Smile in reflections half seen
And questioned
Slipping back into shadows
Of inner eyes
And thunder storms
Of the mind
Marshal Gebbie Jun 2012
Greetings Sissa,

Sunday morning early we walked along the wild black sand beach at the bottom of our road at Taranaki. For once the sea was quiescent, tranquil even. A gentle surge but the air was freezing. A heavy white frost cloaked our pasture at home and the grazing cows were snorting eruptions of hot breath from their nostrils. Over our shoulder old Egmont loomed, whiter than white with a heavy mantle of fresh snow, the foothills just behind home had a good coating too.

Quite often janet & I will bolt out of the sack, just before dawn, have a quick cuppa & drive up to Pukeiti for a walk through the gardens & the bush. We get the beautiful dawn chorus of the birdlife and it is SPECTACULAR!

We planted out some flowering “Companionata” cherry trees..great for the visiting tui’s in spring. They get highly territorial…my tree!..and have ding **** battles, chasing each other at high speed through the bush. Amazing aerobatics. We’ve got dozens of these trees scattered around the place now…in ten years the spring blossom show will be amazing.

Had a bit of bad luck with the vehicle lately, blew the core out of the radiator & cooked the motor, fixed that, drove 24ks down the road and the motor computer died. These things are like hen’s teeth to replace. I found there is a national waiting list of 11 owners sitting on dead landcruisers waiting for 2nd hand computers for the 93 auto model!!! And the 2nd hand computers here are selling for $3000!!
I even wrote to Greg in the States to see if he could pick one up for me…. Then I happened upon this little Asian bloke, just around the corner, who said”Oh I can fix that for you”!....cost me $196….I nearly kissed him!
Anyway mobile again and the old crate is running ,once again, like ****** clock!....but expensive when she stuffs up.

We are both working like automatons….you and your old man would know ALL about that!
We work 12 hours /day, 6 days/week then we jump in the car and launch off to Taranaki, 5 hours distant, to work our arses off, down there all Saturday, then, the next day, Sunday, pack up and barrel off 5 hours up the road back to Auckland… just in time to ****** a few hours sleep before the coming weeks work!....*******!

Sometimes I wonder what the hell it is all about.

Quite enjoying the new job, I’m the “Plant Coordinator” for the Waterview Project.
I keep track of all the plant scattered over miles and miles of construction site, tabulate plant movements, keep the hire companies honest and keep our operators operating! Involves constant driving from site to site, constant computer entries in my trusty laptop and a hellava lot of vigilance because every ******* is trying to beat the ****** system. Much more interesting than the Storman’s job, much more vibrant, much more confrontational!

Just the thing for an adolescent 67 year old.

That’s it from me…. Hope you are happy and keeping it all together. Hope the kids are doing well… mine are all pretty busy and happy with their lot…. Got a lovely call from Boaz at some unearthly hour on Sunday morning… Looks like he will be back in godzone during August.
Obama’s government is giving foreign workers a hard time in the States….too many Yanks out of work in their own country…so he is awaiting his Visa renewal and is doubtful that it will eventuate. Incredibly, his boss just told him that he would like to keep Boaz there, (In the States) for another five years of the projects life!!
Pretty ****** good for a country boy from National Park!

Gotta go, luvya Siss, love to Royboy & a big smootch for the girls.

M
Catherine Jan 2014
“Stand up and show every one how tall you are”, that is what Grandma would

always say. She showed us off and I took a secret pride in parading around on

display for whichever stranger had wandered into her room on that particular

visiting day. Grandma noticed the finer details, the things that we sometimes

took for granted as a healthy and growing family. Visiting her would bring us

back to these basic observations; she always made Grandmotherly comments

on how much we had grown, how we had improved in our various instruments,

increased by five shoe sizes, grown our hair and moved onto the next stages in

school and life.

Grandma lived a long and interesting life. As a young woman she was moulded

by the war before living through a lifetime of change and revolution, a lifetime

in which Granddad and her raised four children. It would be impossible to sum

her up in this short speech. Nevertheless, one thing springs to mind when I think

of her – that she was a strong woman. Over the past two years I have come to

fully appreciate the relationship that we had with her, and the security that her

constant presence in our lives gave us. How could my mind ever erase those

wonderful afternoons when Grandma would present us with an assortment of

stale, out of code sweets in recycled shortbread tins and empty Clover tubs? I

don’t think that my digestive system has recovered yet. Nor could I ever forget

the numerous afternoons spent running wildly through the orchard in Grandma

and Granddad’s back garden, chasing the flurries of butterflies that inhabited

the rose bush every year while Granddad lovingly looked on, only intervening

to rescue the poor insects when we accidentally grasped their patterned wings

too tightly. I can see Grandma perched on the bench by the conservatory, and

suddenly my mind overflows with memories from the bungalow that we all

know so well. The smell of Grandma’s freshly baked Eve’s pudding is not one I

often stumble upon in Bangkok but I can smell it now, and of course I remember

sitting around the dining room table eating greasy fish and chips from the local

chippy. I remember the room off the kitchen where we would lose ourselves in

all of the toys and games, cast a sceptical eye over the ancient television before

moving on to study the shelf of family photographs where I first learnt about all

of the other generations that make up our family.

This is what today is about; it is about surrounding Grandma with the generation

that will live on. One generation ends but another generation continues on in

its place. This morning is about seizing on the fragments of Grandma’s life that

we all share, the memories that we remember together as a family. Death can

be an uncomfortable subject, especially when we feel we have to dwell on the

person’s absence, on the fact that this person has gone and that we can no longer

feel, touch or smell them. But I believe that we should celebrate the life that our

Grandma had.

We miss her, and we love her.
Mandii Morbid Nov 2024
I have never felt it in a place.
Only moments, with people I loved, in fleeting feelings that were shown.

But never had there been a space.
One I called my own.
Never had there been a place I could truly call my home.

I've been a wanderer it seems,
through each and every bed.
I've been a walker in their dreams.
I've been a lost soul, only visiting instead.
A lonely ghost to host.
A momentary thought in their head.
A passing ship at most.
A book that won't be re-read.

But never had there been a space.
One I called my own.
Never had there been a place I could truly call my home.

I'm a vagabond, one second here,
Then doomed to disappear.
Hoping to be opaque, but only coming out sheer.
A changeling, an outsider, missing the in-between.
Losing all my magic, till there's none left to be seen.

But never had there been a space
One I called my own.
Never had there been a place...
Because I'm never
                           never
                               home.
A little review from a friend that perfectly emphasizes what I am trying to convey here: "Captures the ache of feeling unrooted, as though your true “home” exists only in transient connections, not physical spaces. Each stanza flows with a sense of yearning and loneliness—of being a "wanderer" and a "ghost" who’s never fully seen. The repetition of never home adds a haunting resonance, emphasizing this longing for belonging and self-discovery. There’s a fragile strength in this vulnerability, and it feels deeply honest. Your words bring a complex, poignant reflection to life."
Julie Langlais Jan 2016
Hovering along the river.
A sacred water nourished by water lilies.
The sun kissing each petal evaporating the translucent water drops.
Visiting each lotus, wisdom lies in this pond.
Admiring the serenity and beauty each flower illustrates.
Gaze altered by darkness below.
Discovering the river’s bottom.
The complexity of each flower hides beneath the surface.
Countless lilies firmly rooted in dampened mud.
These magnificent flowers stem from malevolence.
Exploration of each lotus consumed by shadows.
These abused souls have endured untold suffering.
Resurfaced from unbearable knowledge.
Appreciating the resilience of this water garden.  
The buds that persisted despite horrific surroundings.
Examining this pond of loti, praising their bloom.
A water of survivors.
Radiance of inspiration.

© Jl 2015
7 | 31 Poems for August 2016

I wish heaven had visiting hours so everything you envisioned would be ours.
You promised me that I would never lose you to the wind no matter how hard it would blow.
But you’re gone now, you’re gone and the detrimental effect of your absence has started to show.
I still pray for better days to come my way but I can’t be too worried about what happens tomorrow.
I’m living on borrowed time; my days are numbered like a calendar and lately I’ve been feeling like the king of sorrow.
You showed me how to live life to the fullest but never taught me how to live without you.
Now my blue skies have faded to grey and my Mondays have gone blue.
You’ve drifted away like autumn leaves on a windy street, I guess heaven couldn’t wait for you.
But I am glad that you’re in a better place, the thought of you always puts a smile on my face.
I wish heaven had visiting hours so every beautiful thing you envisioned would be ours.
I wish heaven had visiting hours...
Today we weep
For all friends
Leaving us for their
Immaculate flow of feelings
Not wanted to be disturbed...
Between us is a mug of warm milk
Dissolved in the morning black coffee
Your hand leaned on the elbow and gentle
Fingers hold this white jar where cute teady bear
Is painted under the comforting quote in the cloud above:
"Only for You" ~ *in blue

"People are like angels      
with one wing. If we want  
to fly, we have            
to embrace."               
Holding a flowery bouquet...butterflies flutter
alive flowers growing... underneath it all...
    
Listening to the romantic symphonies,
Beautiful beyond the impermanent world of suffering and Disappointments
Nostalgia of old
Picturesque movie scenes gives our aching hearts
Hope for all the lost souls.
Aware of beauty, grateful for health, we cannot help ourselves...
Your beard is shaking a bit... upon your shoulder my cheek
is leaned, caressing your chest and the silky skin covering
the transparency of your bluest veins
Sol-tear trickles down my lips
I taste our sadness...
Our love
I smell
My fear and hope for my friends beloved young girl suffering anorexia
Your loss for your aunt - a departed part of your dna
Her spirit behind the veil of the bookshelves watching
At night us sleeping in utter silence needing to unchain.
Remorsing, for not visiting her as often...
My old, old aunts silent suffering glance
This silent loving reminder speaking to me
without words with love and sadness...
For me not visiting
My love,
we are not perfect ~
but we are alive!

"Two lost souls..."
*loving as much as we can.
Without music the world would be a horrible, desolated space.
Haley Rezac Jun 2013
Slipping
like sheets of glass
as clear as how
those eyes used to
look at me
under thinly-veiled
barely hidden
glances
that happened by the dozens
in under two minutes.

Falling
with the stars
that you wished upon
every night
until I felt the urge
to collect myself within
your skin
your arms
as pale as the moon
shined.

Escaping
into those spontaneous plans
we had of visiting
unknown corners of
the universe
in hopes of finding
our old secrets
stuffed between wrinkled
hourglasses
begging to emerge.

Disappearing
as quickly as the sun
when she wants to give life
to the moon,
our passion faded with the
strum of phantom heartbeats
keeping the same rhythm
in closed caskets with
intricately woven stories of
how we never said goodbye.
Joseph S C Pope Jun 2013
There is nothing new under the sun, but it was night and the indifferent blinks of gaseous lives above looked down while my friends and I were at a new fast food joint that moved next to a now lonely Wendy's, with a faded sign tarnished by something the new fast food joint had yet to experience—mundanity by time. But I had my notebook with me while we ate outside, but it was in the car. My mind is always in that book, and I remembered something I had written for a novel in progress: 'Nothing is new under the sun. How is it possible to watch stars die? There is nothing new to their dust. We are the flies of the universes.'
It was just when I had finished my BBQ pork sandwich when Ariana suggested visiting a graveyard. I had the idea to visit a Satanist graveyard that our friend, Lanessa warned us against for the better safety of our sane souls—good luck with that. I wanted a revival of fear. How the beast would rip at the roof off our metal can of a car—the greater our barbarism, the greater our admiration and imagination—the less admiration and imagination, the greater our barbarism. But Ariana disagrees with words I never say, Nick laughs with my simple words to that previous thought. How funny it would be to burn eternal.
But then he suggested we should go to the Trussel in Conway. I had no idea or quote to think about to contribute to this idea. I wander, as I like to, into the possibility that his idea is a good one. Like some wanting hipster, I dress in an old t-shirt with of mantra long forgotten in the meaning of its cadence.
That is the march of men and women into the sea—honest, but forgetful and forgotten.
I was wearing a shirt sleeve on my head I bought from a mall-chain hippie store, and exercise shorts, finished off with skele-toes shoes. I was ready for everything and nothing at the same time. And that fits, I suppose. But all that does matter—and doesn't, but it is hard as hell to read the mind of a reader—it's like having a lover, but s/he doesn't know what s/he wants from you—selfish *******.
But there I was,  on the road, laughing in the back seat, sitting next to a girl who was tired, but also out of place. I could see she wanted to close arms of another, the voice of another, the truth that sits next to her while watching tv every time she comes over to hang with him, but never accepts that truth. She is a liar, but only to herself. How can she live with that? The world may never know.
The simple rides into things you've never done before give some of the greatest insight you could imagine, but only on the simple things that come full circle later. That is a mantra you can't print on a t-shirt, but if it ever is, I'm copyrighting it. And if it's not possible, I'll make it possible!
When we got to the Trussel, the scenic path lit by ornamented lamps seemed tame once I stepped onto the old railroad tracks. They were rusted and bruised by the once crushing value of trains rolling across it's once sturdy structure. Now they were old, charred by the night, and more than just some abandoned railroad bridge—the Trussel was a camouflage symbol birthed by the moment I looked into a Garfish's eye as it nibbled on my cork while I was on a fishing trip with my granddad when I was eleven. I remember that moment so well as the pale, olive green eye looked at me with a sort of seething iron imprint—I needed that fear, it branded instead of whispering that knowledge into my ears.
That moment epitomizes my fear of heights over water—what lies beneath to rip, restrain, devour, impale, and or distract me.
But epitomize is a horrible word. It reeks of undeveloped understanding. Yet  I want a nimble connection with something as great as being remembered—a breathe of air and the ideas  thought by my younger self, but I will never see or remember what I thought about when I was that young—only the summary of my acts and words. And by that nothing has changed—am I too afraid to say what I need to say? Too afraid to hear what everyone else hears? Or is it the truth—depravity of depravities that has no idea of its potential, so I am tired of the words that describe my shortcomings and unextended gasping hope. I am tired of living in the land of Gatsby Syndrome waiting for Takotsubo Cardiomyopathy!
But when we got to where the Trussel actually began I felt the fear hit like the day it was born—all hope was drained, and I was okay with abandoning all aspirations of having fun and being myself in the face of public criticism. I was flushed out by the weasel in my belly—the ******* beneath those still waters. I compare it to someone being able to handle Waterboarding, but can't handle being insulted—it's that kind of pathetic.
I stood just on the last understandably steady railroad ties that I knew were safe and watched my friends sit off the edge of the bridge, taking in the cold wonder of the night, and I was told at least I was smarter than my dead cousin who managed to get on top of his high school in the middle of the night, but had to be cohearsed down for fifteen minutes by a future marine, and future mourner who still grieves with a smile on his face.
The future mourner, he laughs at the times he insulted, or made fun of, or chilled with his now dead friend. It's never the bad times he cries about, there are none—just the good times, because they don't make them like they used to.
I watched them in that moment, and I don't know if I can deal with knowing my life is real. I began to blame my morality on this fear even though I already justified the fear just seconds before. But as I write this, I look over my notes and see something I wrote a few days ago: 'Life is ******* with  us right now. You laugh and I laugh, but we're still getting ******. The demon's in our face.'
As morbid as that comes off, it resonates some truth—what is killing us is going to **** us no matter what we do—and I don't want to be epitomized by the acts and words I didn't say.
I was never in the moment as a kid—I was raised by by old people and kept back by my younger siblings. The experienced tried to teach me wisdom, and the inexperienced kept my imagination locked in time. I don't want to go home as much now because I see that the inexperienced are becoming wiser everyday and the experienced are dying before my eyes. My idea of things is enduring leprosy.
But back to the simple moments.
Ariana saw a playground as she stood up and investigated the Trussel. It was next to the river, behind the church, fenced off by the fellowship of the church to keep the young ones in and the troublesome out. Of course, we didn't realize there was a gate and it was locked until Nick stated the probable obvious within ten feet of the nostalgic playground. And that's when Ariana pointed out the bugs swarming the parking lot outdoor lamp that blazed the fleshiness of our presences into dense shadows and more than likely caught the eye of a suspicious driver in a truck passing by. But I was still on the bridge—back in the past, never the moment. Me and my friends are still children inside these ***** forms. I muttered to myself: “Life ain't about baby steps.”
Nick looked over and asked what I said. I turned around, dramatic, like I always like to and repeated louder this time, “Life ain't about baby steps.”
He asked if I needed to do this alone, and I said he could come along. I walked rhythmically across the railroad ties, and heard Ariana comment that getting to the railroad up the small, steep hill was like being in the Marines. I laughed sarcastically. Nick and I had been to Parris Island before, and I know they test your possible fears, but they beat the living **** out of them.
I casually walk into the room where my fear lives and tell it to get the **** out.
When I reached the precipice of the last railroad tie I stood on before, I felt the old remind me that death awaited me, but there was no epic soundtrack or incredible action scene where I stab a manifestation of my fear in heart—a bit fun it might have been, but not the truth. I bear-crawled over the crossings of the ties and the structure of the bridge itself. I felt Relowatiphsy—an open-minded apathy self-made philosophical term—take over me. It is much simpler than it sounds.
There was no cold wonder as I imagined. There was just a bleak mirror of water below, a stiff curtain of trees that shadowed it, and the curiosity of what lies in the dark continuing distance past the Trussel.
Nick sat with me and we talked about women and fear, or at least I did, and I hoped he felt what I did—there was a force there that is nabbed by everyone, but cherished by few—courage. And I thank him for it, but I know I did it. Now I want to go and jump in that still water below—Ariana later says she's happy I got over my fear, but I'll probably have a harder time during the day when I can see what I'm facing, but I see it differently. During the day, the demons are stone and far away—like looking down the barrels of a double-barreled shotgun uncocked and unloaded, but at night is when the chamber is full and ready to go, and you have no idea who is holding the gun with their finger on the trigger and your destination in mind.
Then we threw rocks into the water in contest to see who could throw past the moonlight into the shadowy distance . I aimed for the water marker, and got the closest with limited footing, using just my arm strength. But it wasn't long before we had to leave, making fun of people who do cooler things than us, on the way to the car. I had to ride in the back seat again because I forgot to call shotgun. But on the way home, the idea popped in our heads what we should get my hooka and go to Broadway, and get the materials so we could smoke on the beach.
Nick's girlfriend and her friend joined us.
I missed a few puns against my co-worker as I was sent to get free water from the candy store where I work. I ended up doing a chore because I was taller than most of the people there. Appropriate enough, it was filling the water bottles up in the refrigerator.
All the while I loathed the fact that I would have to be clocked in tomorrow by two in the afternoon. I grabbed the water and got out of there as fast as possible without appearing to be in a hurry.
Impression of caring matters more than the actuality where I work—and yes, that makes me a miserable ****.
Perhaps it's not too late to admit I am recovering pyromaniac from my childhood and the flavoring we use for the taffy is extremely flammable. It would be a shame to drench the store in what people love to smell everyday when they walk in, and light the gas stove. Then, maybe I could walk away real cool-like as this pimple in this tourist acne town pops like the Hindenburg. The impression of splendor is like a phoenix—it grows old, dies, resurrects into the same, but apparently different form, spreads it's wings, and eats and ***** on everything simple, or presumably so.
I forget the name of the beach, but it was the best time I've had in a while. I was whimsy, and high on the vastness of the stretch of beach around us. They could bury us here. But me in particular. I rolled from the middle of the beach to the water, stood in the waves and shouted my phrase I coined when I realize something as wonderful as conquering a fear or realizing a dream;
--******' off!
And I stared at the horizon. My friends came up behind me and I looked back to see it was Nick and his girlfriend hugging. I gave a soft smile, put my hands in my pocket, and turned back to stare at the clouded horizon. What beasts must lie out there—more ferocious than the simple fresh water beings that wait beneath the earlier placid waters. I was a fool to think that was the worst. Nick said as I pondered all that, that I looked like Gatsby, and I tried to give him a smile that you may only see once in a lifetime, but I'm sure it failed.
I wanted to tell him that, “You cannot make me happy. It is usually the people who have no intention of making me happy that makes me smile the quickest.” But I don't. Let me be Gatsby, or Fitzgerald, if to no one else, but myself.

Hell is the deterioration of all that matters, and as the five of us sat around the hooka, and inhaled the thick blueberry flavored smoke that hinted at the taste of the Blueberry flavoring I use to make Blueberry taffy, there was a satirical realization that the coal used to activate the tobacco and flavor in the bowl is sparking like a firework, and reminds us all of where we're going.
It's a love affair between that hopelessness and hope of some destination we've only read about, but never seen.
By this point Nick and I are covered in sand, because he joined me in fun of rolling down the beach. We want so bad to be Daoists—nonchalant to the oblivion as we sit in. Just on the rifts of the tide, he and I scooped handfuls of wet sand, and I lost my fear of making sense and let Relowatiphsy take over again.
“Look at the sand in your hands. It can be molded to the shapes your hands make. We scoop it out of the surf and it falls through our fingers. There are things we're afraid of out there, and we sit just out reach of them, but within the grasp of their impressions. The sand falls through our fingers, and it plops into the tide, sending back up drops of water to hit our hands—the molders of our lives.” I said all that in hope against the hopelessness of being forgotten.
Then he said, “What if this is life? Not just the metaphor, but the act of holding sand in our hands.
I relish in his idea of wiping away my fear of an unimportant life. And by this point, it's safe to assume I live to relish ideas.

The last bit of sand from the last handful of sand was washed from my hand and I looked back at the clouded horizon, pitch black with frightful clouds and said:
“Nick, if I don't become a writer. If I live a life where I just convince myself everything's fine, and that dream will come true after I finish all the practical prep I 'must' do. I will **** myself.
I looked at him, Relowatiphsy in my heart, and he said:
“As a friend, I'd be sad, but I'd understand. But that means you have to literally fight for your life now—regardlessly.”
And he left me with those words. Just the same as my granddad left me a serious heed before he wanted to talk about something more cheerful, when I asked about his glory days fishing the Great *** Dee River. He said: “I wish I'd been here before the white man polluted the river. It would've been something to fish this water then”, then he paused to catch his breath, “Guess there are some things that stay, and others than go.” Then joy returned, as it always does.

But the idea of what was happening to me didn't hit me until we were a few miles away from the beach, covered in sand, but the potential of the night after conquering my fear of heights over water had been shed in the ocean.
Around midnight, when the headache from the cheap hooka smoke wore off and the mystic veil of the clouds over the horizon has been closed in by the condensation on the windows of some Waffle House in Myrtle Beach. There was a wave of seriousness that broke over my imagination. Works calls for me tomorrow by two.
There's not much vacationing when you live in a vacation town.
And midnight—the witching hour—spooks away the posers too afraid to commit to rage against the fear.
But there are others—college students that walk in and complain about the temperature of the eating establishment, and the lack of ashtrays—how they must be thinking of dining and dashing—running from a box, but forever locked in it.

They make annoying music as I write this. That is how they deal with the inevitable death of the night. They bruise the air I breathe with love and faith and trust with no meaning—without even meaning it. But what do they know what I didn’t feel when I sat on that bridge or cowered on the fringes of the ocean? Their hands aren’t ***** like mine—their confidence does not seem fractured by these words that will never reach them, or their kids, or grandkids.
As day begins to move, I know I work at two and will be home by midnight again. The witching hour—where some stay and others go.
Theodore Bird Feb 2015
drowning in tiny oceans.
schiele-esque nudes
     in german poetry books.
speaking in tongues.
visiting graves
     in two different territories.
ginger cats with moonstone eyes.
****** noses
     in street lamp-yellowed alleys.
Dhia Awanis Nov 2020
Dear Grandma and Grandpa,

How's the Earth looking from up there?
I bet you wouldn't even bother about the livings anymore,
I bet you couldn't wait for the Heaven; the eternity

Dear Grandma and Grandpa,

Forgive me,
For every time I see a butterfly perched on my window I always thought that was you missing me
Forgive me,
For every time I see a cat around the backyard I always thought that was you visiting and checking up on me

Dear Grandma and Grandpa,

Now I'm at peace, realizing that you are free from any physical pains;
As you are no longer burdened by your glaucoma or sudden heart attack
As your fragile skins won't have to be bruised when you coincidentally knocked on the table
As you won't have to feel headache each time you're overwhelmed by the thoughts of your family

Dear Grandma and Grandpa,

Still, it doesn't feel right for my brain to comprehend that
My childrens won't ever get to hear the warmth of your voices;
Tasting the overburnt eggs and noodles you used to make;
Watching your favorite old movies in the afternoon;
Playing with the wrinkles on your hands;
or making fun of your white hair

Dear Grandma and Grandpa,

I know you will never know about this
But I'm down on my knees
Silently pray inbetween the night and the dawn;
So that the angels will not be too harsh on you
In hereafter
I miss you

— The End —