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 Feb 2016
The Dedpoet
I grew up in a tough neighborhood,
Seen and experienced every kind of
Street hell you can think of.
Its no secret I was a drug addict,
I beat that.
Its no secret my mother was shot dead
In front of me.
I beat that.
All who know me,
Well, you all may not like me after
I told you I was dead.
I beat that.
So for those who are fighting,
Those who are bullying,
I send an open invitation to bully me.
To hate me, to write bad stuff
About The Dedpoet.
Leave all those other guys alone.
I can be your punching bag.
Because I can take it,
Because after all,
If we met in the streets I would
Hug you with a haiku,
I'd lay kisses on your cheek
With a thousand sonnets from
Neruda.
I'd read you Octavio Paz
Until you realized you are not a poet.
Poets do not bully,
They understand, they are philosophical
Word artists whom write the human
Condition and deal with the chaos
Of this world with peers.
So bully, so whomever you are,
Attack me, someone who knows
What you really are.
I can take it,
Just leave the real poets be,
This is an open invitation.
Let the fun begin, if you have the
Metaphorical ***** for it.
Leave my poets alone.
 Feb 2016
Eudora
I believe it's time I straightened up
Knocked the dust from off my mind
Make some room for different thoughts
Find which ones I need to wipe

Rancorous experiences and sombre days
Or unending expectations of the people around me
Do my utmost to please hearts in different ways
Throbbing particles in my head, no one could see


As I feel my way along the fray
The razors edge that cuts too deep
Only in my minds eye can I blink away
All those thoughts that pressure me

Yes it is indeed time..
To deterge the nagging wounds in my mind
And cease the harsh ringing when they chime
Breathe them all out while I let my myself unwind



Mike Hauser
**Eudora
It was a such pleasure writing this with the lovely, Mike Hauser. Thank you Mike, for inviting me to do this with you, again. :))
 Feb 2016
SøułSurvivør
°☆  ¤  ''☆•°
°°'~,,☆ ○•,,°°
~~~/\^/\/\^^--~~

we see the same stars
knowing somehow
the light enters
our corneas
at exactly
the same
time

yet we have such
varied ideas
about the

sky

we read the same books
the same letters which
make up the magical
ideograms we call

WORDS

yet our thoughts vary
as to meanings and
how they will
impact
us

but one thing we all
have in common

we ache to be understood
that our words adequately
describe our feelings
our hearts radiate
from the page to
enter readers
pupils like
the light
from


☆ STARS ☆


SoulSurvivor
(C) 2/19/2016
Written for Pamela Rae

Thank you for taking me
out of myself
and teaching me to
capture my sadness
and be
"mindful"

ALL THE BEST TO YOU, POETFRIEND!
to fly,

you must learn
how to

crawl

©IGMS
lesson #1 from butterfly

allow the process to take
and practice slowly
only then, you can truly fly

tap or click the
#igmslessonsfromanimals tag
button to read the other lessons
 Feb 2016
Nat Lipstadt
~~~
She's Dead (Don't Think Twice, It's All Right)

A poem, forty years in the making,
Part II of a trilogy

~~~

she's dead

my nemesis,
a truly personalized comic book
arch-villain,
all mine to own and bear,
a cost that I comically
and freely chose,
purchased with only,
just the,
larger part of my life

because of a blood letting,
me letting
a lax laziness of fear,
a kind of blood poison,
an emotional self-imposed over-ruling,
"just cry and bear it,
for the sake of
appearance, children,
whatever,"
that was the insane,
disorganized principle,
who made itself
the king of me

an ugly sweater gift to myself
and
ashamedly,
wore its invisible effects
so quiet like,
this self-imposition,
of long standing,
a faithful traveling companion,
quietly unravelling, deconstructing,
this bearer-wearer

I married the wrong woman,

now she's dead

killed by the ovarian cancer
that I nursed her through in the early years
of its misshaped, too late discovery,
with bedside manners impeccable,
even secret whispers,
for who would believe me,
even begging God to give her
twenty years of
my own time

for he was so uselessly beaten down,
and unbearable miserable,
was-would-be gladly rid
of the final semester,
exiting more gracefully
than via other
contemplated and cowardly
methods of terminations

pronounced cured,
she decided a second cure,
like extra points for
a bonus question answered,
was just what the doc ordered

so she cured herself of
me

with a divorcing, stabbing,
emotional killing motion,
so angry, a petulant childlike biting,
relentlessly, revenging,
for all the years that followed,
inflicting, afflicting
me with mine very own
mental cancerous moments

where
I hated
myself
for hating her,
a petulant child who never grew up,
much,
as much as
my censored heart
would permit,
this truth,
to admit

it debased me,
being a raging hater,
yet a hater,
of both
her and myself,
I was,
her best, most successful
victim
of her final
curse

"you're not over her"
all the fools used to say and
then, and even now,
asking pointedly,
why else this time,
one mo' time,
is this small matter
deserving of an ecrive
all its own?

I guess there are glimmers of
secrets in
a life lived in poetry,
(poetry, her unknowing Greek God's gift to me)
in everything,
even in a
confessional,
a special reserve vintage,
for admitting my imperfections

now she's dead,
losing a race to
her curse,
losing a race,
to the most cruelly, patient,
enemy that a human can face,
unwilling self-destruction,
setting one's own
holy temple on fire,
with great irony,
sourced from within,
this tinder
from the very body
she worshipped,
that went finale
crazy ablaze

where ya going with this,
you ask yourself?

a mixed up goodie bag,
of emotional conflicted torment,
brings me here,
to pen and paper

her leaving me
turned out
as the best thing ever,
drawing down my reservoirs of courage,
mined from the deepest arteries
of a damaged heart,
of a recovered addict

a thousand different tunes come to me,
all nurses aides,
to assist me to
stitch myself,
this memory wound
closed

the one that make the most sense,
an old Dylan lamentation,
correct only in exactly every phrase,
yet forced to admit,
I am indeed,
despite it,
for now,
yet,
thinking twice...
~~~

"It ain’t no use in callin’ out my name, gal
Like you never did before
It ain’t no use in callin’ out my name, gal
I can’t hear you anymore
I’m a-thinkin’ and a-wond’rin’ all the way down the road

I once loved a woman, a child I’m told
I give her my heart but she wanted my soul
But don’t think twice, it’s all right

I’m walkin’ down that long, lonesome road, babe
Where I’m bound, I can’t tell

But goodbye’s too good a word, gal
So I’ll just say fare thee well
I ain’t sayin’ you treated me unkind
You could have done better but I don’t mind

You just kinda wasted my precious time

But don’t think twice, it’s all right"
Jan . 17,  2015 ~

Don't Think Twice, It's All Right
by Bob Dylan


It ain’t no use to sit and wonder why, babe
It don’t matter, anyhow
An’ it ain’t no use to sit and wonder why, babe
If you don’t know by now
When your rooster crows at the break of dawn
Look out your window and I’ll be gone
You’re the reason I’m trav’lin’ on
Don’t think twice, it’s all right

It ain’t no use in turnin’ on your light, babe
That light I never knowed
An’ it ain’t no use in turnin’ on your light, babe
I’m on the dark side of the road
Still I wish there was somethin’ you would do or say
To try and make me change my mind and stay
We never did too much talkin’ anyway
So don’t think twice, it’s all right

It ain’t no use in callin’ out my name, gal
Like you never did before
It ain’t no use in callin’ out my name, gal
I can’t hear you anymore
I’m a-thinkin’ and a-wond’rin’ all the way down the road
I once loved a woman, a child I’m told
I give her my heart but she wanted my soul
But don’t think twice, it’s all right

I’m walkin’ down that long, lonesome road, babe
Where I’m bound, I can’t tell
But goodbye’s too good a word, gal
So I’ll just say fare thee well
I ain’t sayin’ you treated me unkind
You could have done better but I don’t mind
You just kinda wasted my precious time
But don’t think twice, it’s all right

Copyright © 1963 by Warner Bros. Inc.; renewed 1991 by Special Rider Music
 Feb 2016
SE Reimer
~

bits and pieces,
lines and creases,
dusty shelves
of storied past;
where could-haves
turned should-haves,
make half-lives gone by.
haunt in our reticence,
expressed in our sigh;
they hide in our silence,
betrayed by our tears,
from missed opportunities
     down through the years.

this is no stroll
o’er memory’s lane,
but a ***-holed, hard-roll
on a boulevard unnamed,
     where deepest regrets
          must defend against shame.

~

i make my peace
by drawing a line,
before it can fade
shifting with time.
i say “enough!
this far and no more!”

i give it my heel
and walk out that door.
past the garden,
past the fences,
to the edge of my mind,
resolve saying, “goodbye”  
      to this pain i have known.

then for reasons unfathomed
i turn at the bend,
to see what i'll miss
as if that place were my friend,
yet that house where i lived
so long and knew well,
was standing no longer,
up in smoke, gone in flames,
     now just ashes and bricks
          are all that remained.

~

so homeless i felt,
with no place to return.
no basement to bury
the ghosts of my past;
no attic to wander,
no hallways to creep,
no corners to ponder,
no front porch to weep,
lost without home,
     now no pillow to sleep.

“please turn around,”
spoke, a voice on the breeze
“there's a new life ahead”
and then, to my relief,
“you're not homeless, my son;
you’ve a new windowed view!
square your shoulders
to the pathway,
see the journey anew!
in promising thoughts
so hopefully wrought
of brand new can-be’s
that only dreamers can see
these, are your new life
you're not abandoned, but free.
     let regrets turn to fuel
          build steam from this fire.”


~

as i turned back to thank
the voice offering these words
i found no sage of advice
but here’s what i heard.
"offer thanks to your own heart,
to strength buried within.
the matches lay dormant
’til your heart found its stremgth.
the mere act of leaving
was the spark for your fire;
     for in striking your new path
          your past built your pyre.”


~

*post script.

after much stirring, much wrestling, we are now with anticipations imagining what will change as we light the fire.  i’m excited about the possibilities as we let go.
Just because you can’t hear me doesn’t mean I’m not there.
Every moment is a waking nightmare
Of anxiety and all I see’s a dangerous path that leads to apathy.
Just because I’m still kicking and breathing and fighting
Doesn’t mean that I’m not struggling
Doesn’t mean that I’m not juggling every single task
With kicking, breathing, and fighting just to stay afloat.
Just to keep from drowning.
Just to keep from shaking and crying and breaking and dying and
Screaming out to the world

I am not okay!

And you know what that’s okay.
Because I don’t have to be okay every single day just to be able to say
Everything is fine.
Everything is not fine.
And when the world comes crashing down around you
And you feel like you’re about to burst because of all the emotions that you aren’t feeling
And when the world starts reeling and spinning under your feet
And you feel like you’re sinning because you don’t feel complete,
Take a moment

To breathe.

Because no matter what you believe
One day you will feel again
You’ll feel the sun on your face, a loved one’s embrace and then
You’ll finally feel
alive.
I wrote this because whenever I see stories of depression, I never see one that I can really relate to my story. So, I figured I might as well tell it.
Sometimes words speak themselves
Sometimes hands move on their own
Sometimes, just sometimes, ideas leap to life
And they do it all alone

That’s the magic of a muse
When the world is colors and words
And not clouds and rainy days
But sunshine and happy little birds

And you sing write me write me
Well okay if you insist
But if you insist so vehemently
I must insist on this

Let me write you as I write you
Please, do not complain
For while muse may not come easy
Success is even harder to obtain

Not every word is perfect
In fact, most are not
But please do not begrudge me
It may be harder than you thought

To take your inspiration
And turn it into gold…
Don’t worry, I’ll be quiet now
And do as I am told
 Jan 2016
lluvia de abril
A faultless poem
inkless, without erasures
written in fixed glances
in agreement
a matchless pact

Each verse, a touch
a breath, a gaze

suddenly, their storm
unleashed
ink runs intense
crimson hearts bleed
bodies collapse

their surrender writes an end
a kiss
their thirst, a perpetual desire
to rewrite with fault
they call it a draft
and find a blank page
Write me a poem, he said. So she takes his hand and...
01/30/2016
 Jan 2016
Joe Cole
Purely hypothetical

You spend hours manufacturing the perfect phrase
Sometimes hours, sometimes days
To gain recognition for your works of art???

But all of you still have much to learn
(Although I'm not the best teacher)
I say to you try not to hard
Because eventually you will be heard
But we the old who hold the flag
That you in time will hold
We, we your fathers won't criticise
For though growing old
We might prompt and guide
Your young pens are the future
Ours the old drying ink
Hopefully the guiding words of hope
You now write for us my children
While we now write for love
When I set my "write for me challenge we achieved six dailies)

But, now write for you, not for the fathers
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