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Ivan Brooks Sr Aug 2018
We are all here today
Courtesy of yesterday.
So fear not tomorrow,
It's a gift from God to borrow.

Take a look at everything,
Do you miss anything?
Everything, everyone here today,
Began their journies yesterday.
  
Fear not what tomorrow brings,
It could be some good or bad things.
Things allowed by yesterday
Just to manifest themselves today.

Yesterday is the same as today,
It's just a day that has passed away.
Though it takes a part of us with it,
Tomorrow is what we all await.

©IvanBrooksPoetry
21/8/2018
Fear not yesterday, its a broken arrow.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
October 2013

for Maria and Logan...

you need two hands, one foot.
count my years.
each finger, worth a decade.
each toe, well, a century...

birthdays.

point of inflection,
point of opportunity,
presents itself,
to rewrite history.

a second coat of paint,
gift-wrapped in weak excuses.
how I lied, how I ain't,
grimm-fated fairy tales
somebody created.

invisible suits of gold-cloth
worn to my party of
past rewrit and
future foretold.

one single thought,
memory,
seizes my heart,
as I fall to my knees.
cracks my temperate ease,
renders open the
woof and weave
of recycled deceptions,
causing all to be revealed
and ask,

what if the poetry ceases?

you know prostrate?
you taste grief?

have you not but
one pain,
one act,
one deed,
one memorization,
act of cowardice,
act of desertion,
mistake maden, taken,
for which
forgiveness
can never
be given,
be taken,
attained?

do, does, did.

let me then
win the birthday lottery,
let floods of relief from
daily chores, not drown me,
chauffeurs to drive,
masseurs to massage,
cooks to cook,
les delicious treats,
keep theologians, logicians
on retainer, if need
explanations.

none know, can provide,
still and yet, a
priestly sacred chord,
grants relief,
absolution,
song of hallelujah
the ache of
perpetuity worry,
that ancient pain,
grows fresher daily,
the loss of one,
of my body,
my primal knot
unreasonable,
everything should be
permitted to be untied,
on my birthday, no?

this day, these days
breathe through words,
molecules of vowels,
stem cells of consonants,
the fabric, the tissues of life,
veins are a dictionary
of corpuscles,
red blood cells are
nouns of nutrients.

this day, these days,
the infection of my soul
is tempered, kept at bay,
tamped down from the
full flowering
of white blood cells
of rhyme, verse.

what if the poetry ceases?

Though the bones creak,
the body they carry. resurrect
for morning, afternoon
and evening prayers.

thrice daily poetry I recite,
roses red, violets blue,
my marrow transfused.

though my prayers refused,
the poetry act immolates
the fringes of my disease,
for which the common cure
is not currently invented....

what if the poetry ceases?

but be assured, told
scientists hard at work,
on the
forgive n' forget drug.

meantime,
take a bubble bath in
rosemary and mint
trap some words,
tap some words into
your cell phone bone,
the poetry heat that
provides aspirin relief.

through this poem,
on one day annual,
I am relieved, relived
the muse is feted, sated,

gone for few moments
concerns, worries of
exposure today,
agnostic's foxhole of hell
is dis-remembered,
the gloss returns,
the faux dispatched,

ain't birthdays grand?

what if the poetry ceases?

what rhymes with
Sorrow?
mmmmm,
could it be
Morrow?

bath drains, rosemary and mint
odors dismissed, the  Argentine disparu,
the Spanish Medievalists,
the Neo-Raphaelites,
all gone,
didn't they have birthdays too?

didn't know
the Renaissance come
and go,
and nobody
tole ya?

please recall t'is the day
after my sweet city recorded my
naissance in the
Hospital of the Flowers
on Fifth Avenue.

the 'crats put the datum
in the bureau with the
night creams and
the statistics
as follows:

on this day + a few,
six or twenty decades ago +
a few centuries,
a question was born,
and an ache that is
sometimes relieved,
by a poem song.

though do not celebrate,
t'is a day to calibrate,
review, edit, tinker,
rewrite, often a stinker.

always one thought recycles:

what if the poetry ceases?

(how will I breathe?)
Notes: my birthday was a few weeks ago. One of a number poems I've written about birthdays.  This one was modified, but only slightly for Maria and Logan.
D Awanis Oct 2016
// The day before yesterday

I couldn’t help myself but longing for your existence
It felt strange to have my body wrapped and my back rubbed by someone that is not you
It felt unfamiliar not to hear you talk about the weather and the sky after you question my day
It felt odd to feel the stain of coffee left on his lips—because it ain’t the one you used to sip

// Yesterday

I couldn’t help myself but wonder about the probability of us
Tell me that being stucked in traffic jam doesn’t make you wish you were spending it with me
Tell me that your feet don’t dance to Ella Fitzgerald and suddenly missing the tip of my toes on top of them
Tell me that when you look at her face, you don’t search even an ounce of my warmth there

// The day after yesterday

I’m quietly pleading for your mercy
Forgive me that I almost forget the way your laughter sounds or the way you sigh when you feel hopeless;
or the transition in your voice when you get mad but choose not to show it
or how your fingers fit the spaces between mine perfectly—and God, do I miss them
ryn Oct 2014
tell me...

will tomorrow bring,
     all the things
i'm longing...
    stowed upon its elusive wings,
tirelessly beating
    and fighting
to show what's dangling
and hanging...
          ready for the picking...

                          awaiting...
such time so it could begin its need for unloading,
                   delivering
                                      and dropping,
its gleaming
                      treasures
on those who are deserving,
        in no way lacking
so they could be at the receiving
end of this pressurising,
           inking
                      of dwindling
                                        words...

carel­ess thoughts conceived only to
              fuel
           my deranged ramblings...
incessant mutterings of a shattering
                         mind...

           bending backwards, almost breaking,
         risking...
the chance of ever fully
                                          mending...

hopin­g and praying
   for a sentence that's pending
dawn's approval...

allowing
   the rising
of the sun...
                  paving
            ways for thriving
                                          wishes,
unbarr­ing
                  gates for soaring
                                                dreams, unlocking
                   latches,

relieving...
the heightening
                     anxieties of grieving
                                                        ­ hearts.

constantly whispering
                               utterances, promising
good will, happiness
                              and titillating
                                                     ­ sanity.

we're thinking...
     the earth is spinning,
         the moon is setting,
     so the sun must be rising
                         but...

             tell me,
                           tomorrow...

                                *is it coming?
Jesse stillwater Sep 2018
Not many people know
where the old road goes
I’m older now and it seems
there are more and more
       paved roads
that lead to nowhere —
   most of the time

As a kid, living miles up
  a rough potholed,
country road — a hike away
from the edge a small town
  out in the sticks,..
you come to know onliness,
blind to a journey alone

   I never stepped on
cracks in a town sidewalk —
  never learned what
  "superstitious" was,
    like the other kids
        from town

It wasn't the cracks
  in the sidewalk
I feared to tread;
steppin' on 'em breaks nothing
  already broken —

It was just all so different
than the long walk home
where that old road goes —
grandma always said:
"follow the creek upstream;
it'll always lead you back
  where you belong"


   The washboards
in the steep narrow road
up the hill, were like
  muddy stair steps
in the rainy season

Sometimes I followed
on up the creek below
to the upper log bridge
     swimmin' hole,..
where I learned to listen
to the sweet melody
of unclouded days;
and for a moment
I thought I belonged

     I still haven't
found my way out
  of this memory
I’m holding onto —
because life is just
an unstoppable
season, passing by
    on its own;
   like the way
     rainwater
  in the swollen
creek bed flows:

   And I'm just
another passing September
no one will remember —

   most of the time


Jesse Stillwater ... September 2018
Ozioma Ogbaji Apr 2015
She left me confused
Did I push her away?
How do I hold on? How do I make her stay?

Like a dying man holding onto his last breath
I hold fast to her
But she slips away in the middle of the night

Yesterday is gone, today is here
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
A lifetime, yet just yesterday,
does not seem very far away.
When time was young and I was free
to be who I was made to be.

The eyes behind which I now hide
can’t show the sadness held inside.
This girl screams out for all to hear
in silent torture, hers to bear.

The shell of which I‘d been before,
has led me through a different door.
To dream of love another day
Just waiting to be blown away.

Upon this face the lines are etched
in bold to let all others guess.
The meaning of the truth I seek
to heal the very heart of me

I search to end this awful pain
that always lets me cry in vain
While loneliness my lifelong friend
has led me down this road again.
All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
Poetria Feb 2016
Today,
I'll give you tomorrow.

Tomorrow
will give you my grave.

My death
will bring you glad tidings,
and my body shall exclaim, singing

*'yesterday was a colourful day'
Experimenting with time.
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Yes, I remember you well, the curves of your face, your kiss,
your smell and look of love.
A lifetime ago now, I have visited that memory often in my dreams,
always trying to forget that moment in time.

Echoes of yesterday resonate within these empty walls
reminding me of the past I’ve left behind.
How different life with mercy could have been;  
kindness and compassion lacking, though pain remains.

Looking back I wonder, what life I could have made with you?
I grieved long over the image that soured long ago.
You claiming a life of love, betraying yourself and your beliefs,
yet breaking free from pain is what I choose to recall.

Seeing you now, I wonder how I could have believed that you
could have lifted me through this life,
and carried me though all that I have seen,
given me all that I’ve needed?
How could I have known you were not that strong?
All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
If you took it from the past,
-what a wonderful

If you took it from the past,
-what a wonderful

If you took it from the past,
-what a wonderful

Took it from a past,
-Wonderful World
I'm feeling nostalgic, but we're only a few moments in.
I guess something's missing, and I'm wondering where you've been.
I'm good at writing sad things
Nylee Mar 22
I bet you are tired now
Coz' you were in my dream
Yesterday night
Running a marathon.
Jon York Mar 23
Life is about change.
Sometimes it's painful.
Sometimes it's beautiful.
But most of the time it's both.
Sometimes you keep a lot
to yourself because it's
difficult to find people who
            understand.

But never regret being a good
person, to the  wrong people
because your behavior says
everything about you, and
their behavior says enough
            about them.

Love doesn't keep score.It
wipes the record clean each day.
It says good  morning to today
and goodbye  to yesterday.

Some people want material things,
me, I just want peace, happy times
            &  people to love.

The mind will not always remember
exactly what happened, but the
heart will always remember the
                  feeling.
                                  ­                                                     Jon York   2019
"My Yesterday is gone,
            tomorrow yet to come.
Sadness to it's demise,
             as Hope is on the rise."


Numb paper-folding feeling,
   not asleep and not awake...

My satiety's ob-vo-lution,
   all feeling for, feeling's sake.

Outside there's no revealing...
   all the chaos in my wake.

"My Yesterday is gone,
            tomorrow yet to come.
Sadness to it's demise,
             as Hope is on the rise."


"My Yesterday is gone,
            tomorrow yet to come."


"My Yesterday is gone,
            tomorrow yet to come."


Outside there's no revealing...
   all the chaos in my wake.

"My Yesterday is gone,
            tomorrow yet to come.
Sadness is on the rise,
      my Mind is in demise."

Life in a mental hospital.
Johnny walker Oct 2018
Yesterday, when life was lived
from day to day for I was
young and foolish then
Thought of past or present of
no concern for I was young
and foolish, Indestructible
I couldn't die, I knew not what
fear was, for I was young
and foolish then and never
made a plan
So many mistakes made when young
and foolish
Yesterday, clouds gathered in the sky
Covering the sun,
Yesterday, I saw the ravens fly
I saw the squirrels run.

The wind stormed on the walls in rage
Her fury knew no bounds,
Violently she rattled the cage
Of the hell hounds.

She flew from tree to tree
Unsettling its leaves and flowers,
A hive that sheltered a swarm of honeybee
Fell in the pond, for the frogs to devour.

A thunderclap echoed from a distance
A prelude to what is to come,
Shattering everything in existence
Leaving everything numb.

Enveloped in darkness
The canvas was coloured grey and black,
It had an air of stillness
Yet, there was something that it lacked.

And then it started to rain
On the brown soil of the small town,
Easing the pain
That was hidden behind the smile of a clown.










Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2019.
All Rights Reserved.
As usual, I leave the interpretations to you.
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