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 Aug 1
Daniel Tucker
I know your name
And you sure know mine--
Two hearts together
Forged by the pain of time.

I know many names
But yours is engraved
In my mind
Where all other faces
Fade and you are mine.

She stays the same
Like every morning.
Her name cannot
Change like every night.

And at the slightest
Change at our fingertips
We share the pain
And the loneliness lifts...
She knows my name.

I said, "I do" but you know
I had no heart of gold.
You said, "I do" and you did,
But I left you in the cold.

But now together you & me
And our three other hearts
Sail sweet pains ocean
But let us never drift apart.

Sometimes I don't know
Where I belong--
You know how lonely
I feel.

But life like the seas
Ebb & flow;
The answer's found
Where I kneel.

Where I kneel.

I know your name
And you sure know mine--
Two hearts together
Forged by the pain of time.

I know many names
But yours is engraved
In my mind
Where all other faces
Fade and you are mine.
I can't recall what this place was like
before the renovations.
There were difficulties--
bombings, whatnot,
and the removal to the madhouse of the construction foreman.

Blueprints are lovely, don't you think?
Smooth and blue as calm seas.
Birth, though, that's a ****** messy business--
the screaming gobsmacked arrival
held up in the hands of the midwife who never cuts her nails.

It's not so much that I love this place as that I was presented with it.
I woke in these rooms
with the hammering already in progress.
I long for waterfalls and love,
but have skin like bricks, and hair like shingles.

People say, make it beautiful, you can do it!
Be your own fetch, a siren of the flooded basement,
luring yourself with your own song.
Make it your home away from home as drowning sailors do,
find the bright side of blistering paint and warped floors like heavy seas.

All right then. I have tattooed the name Rán
on my arm, see it when I hold you.
We are limited only by burst plumbing, crumbling rebar,
and our own imaginations.
We are castaways keeping our heads above water
in our Rubik's Cube Winchester House
of gorgeous possibility.
 Jul 30
renseksderf
"The Empire‐Skeptic and History Class"

Your Aeneas builds an empire
on exile and sorrow—what of the cities
he conquers, the peoples displaced?

Transformation has a cost.
By glorifying his ‘spark,’
we risk overlooking the suffering
ignited in his wake.
to be taken with a grain of salt and if not possible be a duck as the water cascades of its back...
 Jul 30
renseksderf
"first bruise"

Streetlamps flicker,  
echoing their silence.  
The chill—  
not just in the air,  
but between glances  

that once burned.  

Footsteps dissolve  
into memory's fog,  
while love  
learns its first  
bruise.
 Jul 30
Nat Lipstadt
lush.

one of those words,
whose sounds conjures
but does not onomatopoeia
like chirp or oink.

the irony is rich for me,
in the sunroom, with others,
no one speaking
and it is a harmonious sound,
the quietude,
indoors, outdoors,
is a good thick, rich and plush,
invisible & unbearable, but
like soft, spreadable butter,

…the quietude is the
hush and hug of lush…
 Jul 29
Cné
Her parted lips frozen in time,
Wet, in fiery red, sublime.
Dripping with passion, a sensual hue,
A masterpiece, both bold and true.

Painted , a vibrant, crimson stream,
Flows with desire, a burning dream.
Her lips, a whispered promise sweet,
A taste of passion, a surrendering heartbeat.

The brushstrokes, bold and free,
Dance with color, wild and carefree.
A painted vision, a work of art,
A celebration, of her passionate heart.
An artist statement for one on my paintings
 Jul 27
renseksderf
The moon
lifts its bright cloak
high in the sky,

unraveling time’s knots
without a sound, and
the wind pours whispers
into yearning,

weaving
its swift wakefulness
through the night.





.
Español

La luna
alza su manto
claro en el cielo,

deshilacha los nudos
del tiempo sin ruido,
y el viento derrama
susurros al hastío,

bordando
en la noche
su ágil desvelo.





.
Her hair at noon
Tied in a messy bun
She rides her scooter
with the speedometer
between 35-45kph
She has to pick up her children from school

She rides pillion
Her hair flipping wildly in the wind
As she speaks with her rider
A smile spread across her face
Phone in her right hand
Carefreeness of youth

Draped in a silk saree
Colour scheme, white and gold
She wears a red dot between her brows
Hair worn loose, adorned with a string of jasmine
Riding slow, skilfully skipping potholes
A festival to celebrate back home
Written 13th July
I was  inspired by a young girl riding pillion with her friend on a bike
These stories were ours.

Meant for you and me.
Reader and writer.
Not divine, not secret, but still sacred.

They were already shared.  
But never with her.
Never for Fate.

This story, this grief.
It was never hers to interpret.
And yet she reached in.

She stole verses I gave to you.
She twisted what was ours,
Into something she could sing for herself.

These are the pieces she dug out.
What was previously shared,
Now tainted by her intrusion.

They were torn out from their homes,
And stitched where they did not belong,
Not by my choice,

But by her trespass.



x https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5066755/nightmare/

x https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5021519/prestige/

x https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136316/suppressium-the-dignicide-doctrine/

x https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136315/mistys-journey/

x https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5034083/blood-upon-the-sunrise/

x https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5046928/the-answer-shall-be-revealed/

x https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136318/****-me-kindly/

x https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5037300/we-got-green-eyes/

x https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5036128/do-you-praise-the-sword-or-the-man/

x https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5044542/shoot-shoot-shoot/

x https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136317/diamond-devil-vs-iron-angel/



But she did not stop there,
No.
She pried beyond what was spoken.

She infiltrated beyond what was documented.
She didn't stop at memory.
She wanted what hadn't become language yet.

These stories were mine.
Unwritten, unfinished, unposted.
Still fluid within the shelter of thought.


Still private.
Still alive.


But she couldn't wait,
To pull threats from the mind,
To taint not just the lesson,

But the source.

Now she knows what even you don't.
She has seen what has yet to be shared.
Not as a privilege,

As a threat.



So if you, reader, choose to stay,

Do so as one who understands the gravity of patience.
This is not entertainment.
This is reclamation.

At least, it is the attempt.
Because success is not guaranteed,
When she is still listening.

So then, let this be a warning.


In the chaos of your ideas,
And the silence between your thoughts,
Beware what parasites may linger.

If you think your mind is private,
Yours alone,
You may be mistaken.


Neither reality nor fiction,
Has a right,
To invade your mind.

Yet both,
Will do whatever it takes,
To steal it for themselves.



Learn from my mistakes.

You can't keep her out.
She will force her way in.

Fate is already looking through your eyes.
All she needs now is your voice.


So when all else is taken,
When she occupies your mind,
Speak from your thoughts,

Not hers.


Don't lend your voice to anyone.
You can't help but think others' thoughts,
But you had better speak your own words.
This intermission serves as optional context for Paralogue D (https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5099132/wont-you-bear-with-me-through-this-moment-of-weakness/).


We will soon return, to the story, of 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑊𝑎𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔.


https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136314/the-wings-of-waiting/
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