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Heidi Franke Apr 22
Memory garbage dump
Holding everything old
Aged releasing all

I've realized my brain
Swollen from decades of thought
Now, only wants now

Goodbye to the past
Earth quakes releasing the crust
Cliffs of synapse fall
Reaching an age of retirement I'm left with only what I remember, like they are prints that guide my future direction. Which would be disastrous. I want to purge my brain of all things past so I can live now and into my future. Nothing in the past shall remain. How I try.
Dylan A Apr 22
If yesterday had come for you,
               I’d mourn forever.

If today is that day you leave me,
          still I’ll never forget you.

If tomorrow already erased you,
     then maybe I should retrace it.
Another text I’ve written but can’t send to the only person I wish I could.
Steve Page Apr 20
I come from inner-city, stand-up strong tea, delivered early with grumpy care, and a ‘don't think about sleeping in’ fading down the stair. I come from cornflakes with full cream benefits and fuller if you get down at full tilt, before Dad manages to shake the delivered milk.

I come from warming up the telly in time for Crackerjack and Crossroads and the nearest of us having to get up for the lack of a remote control. I come from snooker in black and white and the thrill of home-grown wrestlers' faux fights. I come from aerial adjustments, the unity of the family three-piece, paying homage to the three-channel Buddha TV.

I come from tempers and broken locks, with after-work threats to knock your block off. I come from seeped in feelings of coming up short at each and every blue and white sport. I come from hereditary parenting, watery eyes, and the upholstered cushion of mum’s white lies. I come from long family road trips with back seats sun-baked, and car sickness triggered by wafts of St Bruno Flake.

I come from first gen suburbanites, budget tensions and dad's got three jobs cos things got tight. I come from the garden turned vegetable patch with biting rhubarb, rubber runner beans and the Sunday stench of stewed-to-death cabbage. I come from a street in open plan, holding homes and gardens in common, one big for-good-or-ill clan.

And if I could, I’d plan a street-long celebration: Party Sevens and Tizer and shades of beige food for every occasion. I’d put on the gramophone with the Joe Loss Band’s All Time Party Hits, and no room to spare, with the kettle on repeat and biscuits bits in mum's faded Tupperware.

And over mis-matched tea mugs, I’d tell them I’m okay, I’ve moved across this city to find my own way.  I’d assure them that blood is still the thicker, but please do me a favour and get over me and mine living north of the river.
From an exercise suggested by The Poetry lounge, London.
**** you thieving gulls,
bold and noisy bandits of the air
you will not still my thoughts,
I need to sit on a shiny plastic chair
scrape the legs across a bumpy concrete floor,
drink a cup of steaming words,
lose then find myself within the oceans roar,
come foaming water take me
wash my head
fold me and remake me
send me tumbling to the beach
to roll and scrape along the sand
throw my worries out of reach
snack on them for just a little while
swallowed whole by heaving marram grass
trapped within your ever shifting smile
I have this picture of you—or should I say, I own this picture of you—
that I have kept hidden in my chambers,
neither inside my diary nor within a vault,
but frozen in time within my mind.

It is both painful and lovely to watch,
my lingering feelings keeping me tied to it.
Yet, all it brings me now are memories that ache.

"You're sitting and smiling, posing for a picture,
your eyes concealed behind silver glasses.
This poem is part of my "I Sent The Text" Poetry series.
Immortality Apr 21
And at last—
the candle realized
it had burnt
by the thread,
it had kept safe
inside its heart.

But even in death,
as it watched the thread
burn along—
longed to protect it.
well, the candle was either the greatest fool or the truest lover
Maria Apr 16
You packed in yesterday
And all that you left
Is your touch on my hair
And only your breath.

You packed in yesterday
Just leaving behind
Kisses of your lips
And your cool "Unwind".

Maybe you want that
I'll entrust wholly
All my desires
To this night truly?

Just say me that!
And no other cue!
Nothing else matter
But being with you!

You packed in yesterday,
Leaving me memory
And this dead night,
Without you, but me.
This poem was born under very strange, not at all poetic circumstances. I was waiting for a medical procedure at an ophthalmological clinic. My eyes couldn't see. So I began to dig into my memory, into my past. I remembered a sad story from my life.  And that memory took the form of this poem.
Thank you for reading this poem! 💖
Dianali Apr 14
And I’m going to make you
so much of a memory,
That you’ll be more of a myth.
Linked somehow,
to the subtle pain
woven in
some parts of my voice.
Barely noticeable,
yet still lingering there.
Legend has it,
every now and then,
just between the happiest
and saddest
words I say,
If you listen carefully,
I’m just
Whispering your name.
A folk tale in my lore
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