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~

“i’m loosing my before,”
she says as she peers
o’er her morning cup,
she struggles to recall,
to separate before and aft,
it's a place where blurring lines,
become blurred memories.
where BC and AD intersect;
that place within her mind,
where she drew a line
’cross sands of time,
’til the winds of living
blew her line away.
of life before this Cancer,
living before this Cost;
of silence 'fore the Call,
that told her all was lost.
his voice no longer lingers,
in her dreams he used to come;
now he's just a vapor,
but a ghost of what he was.
for now it's only after
Dreariness, Decay and Death;
now it’s sleepless nights,
while in picture books he rests.
his footsteps all but gone,
and only cards and photographs
to remind of seasons once upon,
a time of laughter and rejoicing,
replaced by cup of bitter tears.
the after-date of endings,
of after-hearts were pierced;
after-leaves have all decayed,
the after-disappearance,
of joy that he defined.
these the after-leavings,
the dregs from life distilled;
left to wonder, life to ponder,
the “why” a heart stood still.
of a BC and an AD,
a BC time, Before the Call;
when life was torn in two,
leaving shredded remnants;
and now the AD, After Daniel,
a time to pick up tattered pieces,
to find the peace in what remains;
this the place where legends born,
when all that’s left is but a name.

~

*post script.

there are few events in one’s lifetime that mark time, a before and after, like loss.  whether death, divorce, or deep disappointment... each a BC/AD moment that our human condition can so easily let define what remains; our after.  yet too, if we do not rush it, there can come a time when we are able to redefine our losses into legend... an AD that is an after-definition of sorts; where a crown of beauty replaces ashes and the oil of joy is exchanged for the bitter wine of mourning.  (Isaiah 61:3)    

to my sweet wife and to each of you, my friends who grieve, whatever your “AD”, know this... while the heart beats, there is yet hope!  hugs, hope and health to each, to all!!
your poet friend and lover of your posts,
(: Steve
The glory of nature
in all of its transformations
the dawning of consciousness
the surrender of love
the struggle for survival
the dance between
the  light and darkness

The meteor shower
the child's first step
the child's first smile
the cocoon unspun
the spider's daily web
the many mornings
come and gone

This observer of
what is and what is not
consumed with awe

Melting solids
to dust
liquid to vapors
riding life's lightening
thunder's laughter

From oppression to freedom
From slumber to wisdom

The glory of all nature
instantaneous and gone
the ink on the page
the sun gone nova
the event horizon
random particles
converge into being
dissipate and defuse
from movement to entropy
ashes to ashes
stardust to stardust

The poet ever singing
the glory of transformations.
The rain makes me ache with memories
Black coffee, your books, and my singing
You were something borrowed
I was something blue
Honestly, the rain reminds me of you

In spring I drank mostly wine
Listened to Buckley all the time
Constantly pestered you with the knowledge I held
Of a poet that was six feet under and very pale

But you'd listen

And in a sweeping moment I knew
There may never be a love like you
Your art spoke of this type of entanglement
And it seemed by the pictures it strangles quick

Yet, the world felt softer now I think it through
Because I'd rather go back than sit here and brew
This coffee taste black, cold, and shrew
This isn't what reminds me of you
My mind is a conflagration
You’re the river next to it
That’s you and I in our simplest forms
Utterly pathetic, utterly human

A mountain of tissues have been used
I try to reach out to the pool
A simple swim is all I ask for
An opportunity to enjoy the cold current you put me in
Maybe crawl onto a little bank.
Breath freely for once and for a while

Despite the cocktails we keep emptying, we both know we’ll never make a decent cocktail together.
“Feminism shouldn’t exist” the guy next to me in class tells me with conviction in his eyes. “Females have more rights than men, their period just makes them whiney as ****”

Well, you might not be a guy who walks around grabbing girls’ *****, believing that the clearly uncomfortable smile she send you, after you had starred non-stop at her for 5 minutes straight was consent.
Or a guy who comes up to a girl at prom not being able to understand that she doesn’t have a date because “all the guys I know would **** to pieces”
But just because you don’t do this (and THANK YOU for that), don’t ******* tell me these men don’t exsist, when each of every example in this poem is a different guy in my life..

You’re not the one who couldn’t walk down the school hals without 10 guys catcalling and starring  at your ***, all while you stare the floor.
I guess it’s my fault for wearing leggings or running pants, thinking it was a smart idea because I planned on going running later. Or at least that’s what I’m told at the guidance.
Unfortunately them not being ‘real pants’ doesn’t make your hands on them less real.

You’re not the one therefore starting to wear as baggy close as possible, because apparently that’s the way of escaping male gaze and more importantly hands, just to be met by comments going: “did you get up last minute this morning,” or “why did you give up trying? You used to dress so cute”
Trying on WHAT?
Yes, I am giving up, because I don’t know how to make you look into my eyes without giving me the elevator glance first.

But, I shouldn’t be complaining. Pretty girls don’t have anything to complain about – right?
They’re pretty, they’re going to do fine in life as long as the know how to take off their clothes.
Being pretty is the reason guys pay you attention, and you should be glad, cuz ugly get none.
So I’m taught to sit back and accept harassment, because the only other option is not getting is, and you wouldn’t want that, would you?
All while girls compete trying to become as pretty as me and all the other pretty girls.
Because it doesn’t matter how funny or smart you are as girl, if you aren’t pretty, it doesn’t really matter.
BUT, if you are, being smart is hot – not geeky, and any other slightly not good characteristic will be overlooked.
And taking off your clothes is a great tool to get your way.
Just accept life is easier you for, man.

But you misunderstood something.
Girl don’t try to be pretty to have that kind of ‘privilige’ or to get an easier life.
They try to be pretty, because it the only way you survive.
I DO realize that obviously people are more attracted to those considered 'pretty' and there's nothing wrong with finding a woman pretty - but the way you act on it might be wrong.
Also, I realize females start to objectify males more and more too, and obviously that's not any better. I'm just telling about my personal experience with what I consider innapropiate behaviour.
Make me build barriers and walls,
Medieval guards would look upon,
Once the stone is risen, hardly it falls,
When it's over my head, I'm gone.
Lie to me.

Lower the temperature with your tounge,
One deegre by one until it goes,
'Till it's Northern Sea through my lung,
Across the ice, no flower grows.
Lie to me.

Destroy the morning sky with your words,
My coffee with two spoons of anger,
Better lost than lies as shepards,
Cover my eyes, be my strangler.
Lie to me.

Wash out your lips of the sugar stanes,
Dry them 'till the sweetness is no more,
Your kiss will taste like coffee grains,
Once so tired, my mouth won't be sore.
*Lie to me.
Writers write not to fill bookshelves;
Writers write to fulfil themselves.
They write because they feel a need,
Words they know others may never read.
Your eyes look like salt water,
I'll shake it with ice,
And pour it in a clouded glass,
And down it in one swallow.

I'm feeling self destructive,
Want to do it with me?

Your hair is soft
And familiar to my finger tips,
So it will feel at home,
Between my fingers,
Rolled in lit paper.

Sometimes
It feels like we're just a
Bad habit.

But it's probably just anxiety
Again.
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