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"Collection" by Harrie Costello -for you
A post card sent from far away, A letter given just to say, Crystal figures in grand display cases, Paintings hung of unseen places, Books that contain favourite paragraphs, A loved ones ancient telegraphs, Handmade dolls sit by side on a shelf, And car boot sale china to add to the kitchen delf, Photographs and figurines, Vinyl records to DVD’s Furniture pieces like ugly lamps, And nothing says “Holiday!” like souvenir stamps, Baby’s first shoes for the next ones feet, The first cut lock of hair and a box of small teeth, A box of cassette tapes of the years as we grow old, As to never forget any stories to be told, Notes that say sorry with writing that’s not so neat, Birthday cards from family, to whom you no longer speak, Primary school projects and old pairs of glasses, Behavior reports from secondary school classes, The loveliest bit of it all, to me Is the idea of collecting all those memories, Of a time that’s come, that’s been and gone, The cycle of change and how all will always carry on, Of swimming in the sea or taking a chance, And first heartbreak in a teenage romance, Of life and where it all goes wrong, And how easily it’s fixed with lines from a song, Of moments of sheer, unrelenting joy Like the birth of a bouncing baby boy, Or falling in love and finding a girl, Who you never knew would change your view of the world, Or the moments where what looked like tragedy, Were windows to what we came to be, To look back and see that each day was filled, With something at least, be it goodness or guilt, Love in life, is the greatest gift you’ll get, Someone’s time, thought and effort, you’ll never forget, A collection of words, be it written or said, Will always live inside the others head, A wistful thought To a dream come true I want to see it, And collect it all, With you.
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"mortality" by Connor Orrico
we collect stories and create ourselves until we forget and are forgotten and it is okay: it must be okay; we can be okay -- [ ]
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"Building a Dragon (or what the hell are we doing here?) by M.A.A.
Gather around, help finish the puzzle
every piece gone rogue
now, it’s a merciless road
hunting these jigging parts
puts us through some saws
and so it goes -
one piece from below, one from the top,
many through vertical realities
from the long stream of memory.
There was a ragtag bunch of Anglos
faces like trolls’, cheeks like mold
with idiocy enough to see God
and thus observant of race, somehow
convocation at a triad's temple
ritual at the crazy man's burrow
we were received at the sender
towards their nasty furrow
onwards to trolls' lair
with great lack of care.
For each piece something must be given
for there is a bit of tease to each clue
perhaps like a knight holding a lancer
ushering to chase courtesy
or a mistaught necromancer
bringing warmth to a cold body
each clue is a bounty
one piece from below, one from the top,
many through vertical realities
from the long stream of memory
what will it depict -
is it fortune? is it luck?
is it us face down in the ditch?
is it fate measuring how much we suck?
One piece from below, one from the top,
many through vertical realities
from the long stream of memory
as we bring the pieces together
it starts to breath fire (surely it's still sanitary?)
but we are hunters, we do not gather
we go on to fight the dragon
"I mean, I don't know about this
too many a man, too many a monkey,
and to be fair, not enough either for a party"
whatever, mid-20s
is the time to fight the beast
self-pity only sneaks in
after the lack of unpromised feast
And there on the bench we watched,
as the the jungle of towers
swayed with the wind and fought
as the waves were flushing capitalism
the city merely collateral damage
subject to one last awkward stab
system knocking out the hostage
in panic, in chaos, as a final jab,
but there on the bench
the vision blurred, minute by minute,
the harbinger came to ruin the night of cans
so he walked across the Pacific without hesitation
cursing revolt with soaked Kabbala in his hands
idiot cousin of Blake's B-grade incarnation
it confused the vision and my well-oiled mind
one called him a Satanist (perhaps more than twice)
but he was merely a leech
"one more time..."
and he threatened to leave
to conduct occult with money in his eyes
he disappeared into the night (to eat kids)
(seriously though, eat shit)
One more time:
one piece from below, one from the top,
many through vertical realities
from the long stream of memory
no adventures without insecurity
this is the road we trod;
in a journey blinded by fascination
the dragon committed tax fraud
and suddenly it had our attention,
yet one thing is certain: the knighthood chose us
- but to what end are we given such luck?
we, who are here to fu-
...oh, it's a salamander...
...I don't like it.
throw it away
thanks
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"Collected Memory" by Vian Borchert
All the collected poems I had for you vanished away into thin air the day you walked away and shut the door! Away into the horizon you walked until you became a dot and disappeared off the edge of the earth to a place not to be seen. With every drop of tear that came from my eyes for every collected memory that faded away with every passing year... I know you are gone and your return will never come.
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"Céide Fields" by M. Kearly
We must have left our words in the car that day, Realising that we would not need them As we abandoned our thoughts And stepped into someone else’s shadow. Known by man for thousands of years, Hundreds of miles from home, But here in these fields, Something familiar took my hand, I wondered if we were being guided then. The noise of the world led us into this silent space And the peace welcomed us, as if we were long awaited. You and I looked at each other, smiling, Surrounded by rocks and peat - Yet we knew it was more than that, It was ours. Although land turns to bog and we learn to move on, We had accepted in those fields that Time does not forget, Neither footprint, song or bone, We will not be forgotten either.
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"Collected Poems" by S.J. Saighead
Together. Each poem, each line, Each thought, each rhyme, From first pen stroke Till time of death, No words left lone, No room to regret. Together.
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Next exhibition theme: HEART
Deadline: Midnight, February 21th
Submit at: artisticdifferencesproject@gmail.com
More information under ‘Submissions’ tab
Reblogged this on johncoyote and commented:
Amazing poetry shared by a talented writer.
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The poetry was outstanding. Thank you for sharing.
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