You are no more
Than the smell of memory
As the rain brings you down
From the wisteria
You are no more
Than the smell of memory
As the rain brings you down
From the wisteria
You’ve left me with a square-ish space
These four walls and hours baked
With horns, insults, demands pounding through.
The drywall can’t hold back the swell
So my space shrinks and time retells
The same stories of trippy, sleepless, broken nights.
Squished and squished and cut down some more
To fit your size, should I go out the door
Not daring to protect my face, my heart,
My lungs that cry to breathe apart
From the taunts that follow masks or medicine.
God forbid that we should be free
To live in peace or quiet or safety
That we should learn from what has kept us whole so far –
So scream and pollute and tear from me
My flags, my stoop, my grocery
And call it your freedom, duly crowned.
I want to give more than I can
All those years without you
The baked grass of my childhood
And the nights in red and black
It comes with wanting more of you
The yous that I can never meet
Samson hair and fresh-eyed grin
You as you are now
With all you were then
What place is this
A hostile defense
A victim and a tyrant
That I heedlessly chose
For myself
When we step into time again
Memory is slow to show
The truth of discontinuity
And the silence that has grown
–
What time has left, what we have lost
A spectre blooming overblown
Conversations we still carry on
With the ones we used to know
–
If the unspoken can be a legacy
If disbelief can make life so
We can forget what has been changing
And the silence that still grows
–
https://ottawacitizen.remembering.ca/obituary/michael-ip-1082083615
You told me I was missing Monster
And until I saw the insides of
Doki Doki Literature Club
I would be incomplete
But I am always looking
Away from darkness, unless
Mundane worries lurk
Or there is the perfect niche
To hide my messes away
I believe you even though
I will never watch or play them
And if you were here, I’d gladly hear
You saying it all again
https://ottawacitizen.remembering.ca/obituary/michael-ip-1082083615
Night grows reflective
When on your way home
There is another tempo
For being alone
–
Image from Wallpaper Flare
Bobby Werther, at a luncheon
Partook of melon medley sorbet
And then reacted so badly, he
Was laid up the next four days
So he called for an appointment
And two years later, duly went
To be plastered with little patches
Of potent allergens
“This is the fruit sampler?” he asked
To which, “Oh yes,” the nurses said
So Bobby went home and itched
The next week and a bit
Then he returned to the clinic
With its exhorbitant parking rate
Unshowered, as instructed
Since his last appointment date
That day, the doctor appeared
And seeing him, declared
“You are quite allergic to shelfish,
And that is all I see – take care!”
“But what about the melons?”
Bobby asked as she rose to go
“Well, we didn’t have all the samples,”
She said. “They’re a hassle to get, you know.
So you may be allergic to a melon
And it may be prudent to abstain,
But its the shellfish and the crayfish
That would surely fry your brains.”
“Oh, but that I knew,” said Bobby
“I always avoid crustaceans
Had I known about those patches
I’d have asked to skip them.”
But the doctor was long gone
Nurses hustling in her wake
So Bobby shrugged and got his coat
And went to pay the parking rate
| Heart on Fire |
Thoughts, Stories, Poems
Un poème n'est jamais fini, seulement abandonné. A poem is never finished, only abandoned."Paul Valéry"
The Poetry of Emotion
Read on, it's good for the brain.
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My Own Paradise: Life on Seven and a Half Acres