Memories

Immortality

Folder: 
Light and Dark

Sometimes I hear the ghosts of my past

Often they whisper in my ear

Just out of consciousness

Barely audible, but present

 

Memories of those gone by

Now immortal in my mind

Forever they'll exist in me

Or at least as long as I live

 

For we are scars on the membrane of time

Carving our existence deep into it's flesh

Dying to gain immortality

Our existence tantamount to the memories of others

 

 

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A smell in mind

 
   

A smell in mind

 

Coffee was an important part of my teacher’s day. No matter where you went, you could always see a big coffee mug with her name on it, quite literally. Be it a warm day, rainy day, a cold day or any day at all, you could always count on going to class and getting hit with the scent of coffee wafting through the room. She’d be late to classes sometimes, getting her coffee first. There needn’t be any sugar or creamer, all it took was a mug and coffee time was on. When life was tough, coffee was the one thing that kept her holding on to dear life. Through the various trips, the school visits, our concert trips to Austin and Mexico City, the coffee was there. A single coffee and breakfast was the reason why we missed our flight the first time. Even when we were at the airport, we had to had coffee. It was like a religion, drinking coffee every day. Starbucks, Dunkin’ Donuts, Krispy Kreme, Cinnabon, the brand wasn’t important, even if it was too big of a pay. A thing that made her happy was when people brought her coffee. It would instantly brighten up her day, even if they got the complete order wrong. “Coffee is coffee and my day isn’t complete without coffee,” she would say every day. Be warned, though, that the day she hadn’t had coffee, she could either love you or kill you. How can I forget about that mug in the front of the classroom, standing on a desk where she had been sitting, steaming the whole class, filling up the room with a small that will be unmistakable to me until the day I’m gone? On particularly cold days, she’d even bring a refill or send one of us to get it. The more I think about it, the less I can imagine her without a coffee mug or without drinking coffee for a full day. She used to joke about it being the center of her life, the defining factor in the day. Forget clothes, when her birthday was around, all of her students would be looking for crazy colorful mugs!  How can I enter a coffee shop and not think about the strong coffee smell that had so long ago permeated my mind? Alas, I cannot drink a cup of coffee without thinking about how much she’d love to have the same type of coffee too!

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This short prose poem talks about my teacher and the memories I have of her and her coffee.

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That Old Beige Yankees Cap

That Old Beige Yankees Cap, not very sure when it was supposed to be on top of my grandpa’s head, sometimes at the park, sometimes at the backyard, sometimes just going for groceries, but it never disappointed when we went to my grandpa’s ranch. This cap isn’t new or from a nice brand, it doesn’t have a crazy design; matter of fact I don’t even know where it came from, but one thing was certain about it: it always put my grandpa in a good mood, as if it was his lucky charm. We used to go to my grandpa’s ranch several times a year, there I had my first outdoor adventure, my first starry night, the first time I rode a horse, the first time I tasted beer, when I was scared of the wary “invisible” monsters of the night, or when I felt the strongest kid alive by lifting some (not so big) logs for the fireplace; jumping from joy or shaking in fear, one thing was certain for me in that ranch: that old beige Yankees cap man would be by my side. Despite of the obvious baseball passion my grandpa had, I never quite understood the reason of his New York Yankees fanaticism, however he always swore on them; I think that is the reason why he used that old beige Yankees cap as if it was the only cap he had, which I know it wasn’t the case because I myself gave my grandpa more than 10 caps so that he could give his outfit a little update. He never wore any of those caps, or any cap for that matter, other than his beloved one. I never had the chance to ask my grandpa: where did you got that cap? How old is it? Why is it so special to you? Why do you always wear it? It doesn’t matter; what matters is that my grandpa loved it. Every time I picture my grandpa that cap is on his head (with that funny slight tilt he always wore it with) as if it had glued onto him forever. After grandpa passed away, and his possessions were divided among family members, I could’ve chosen his fishing rod, his knife collection or even his fine watch; I don’t know why, if I hate baseball, if I was fed up with it, but of course: I chose that old beige Yankees cap.

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The Bouttonniere and Corsage

Folder: 
Poems

I'm walking by a place,

A place that has lost its reason to walk by.

Now I look at it with a somber face and a heavy heart.

I do recall the times i was here,

the joy and cause I had to visit here.

But its not those reasons that make me low.

Not the nostolgiac talks or even the cause of the past that weighs on my soul.

It is the joy of then, and lack of it now that brings me low.

The smiles that were, the smiles that aren't and smiles that could have been

The smiles that could have been.

 

Now instead I walk falsely,

to make light of what weighs heavy.

To make light of what weighs heavy.

I hold my head a little higher, stand a little straighter,

work a little harder; work a little too hard.

Joke a little more, laugh a little louder and smile,

Smile a little too much.

To make light of what weighs heavy at the place I'm walking by.

As I Am

Folder: 
2017

We cut through like the sunshine before I wake,

we slice my fears light till they can float

Can you see me in the next moment

before it happens?

 

Please forgive me for all the things I never say

and for

how I form the clouds of breath that leave my mouth

the horizon follows me wherever I go

but I’ll never reach it.

 

We cut through like the sunshine before I wake,

we slice my fears light till they can float

are you as here as I am?

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 8/22/17

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night swimming

Folder: 
2017

there is something

so revealing about the dark.

 

the water twists around my ankles,

your name twists around my heart.

 

there is something

so freeing about a sleeping sun.

 

I shiver on these awake summer nights,

dripping and frozen and I would still do it again.

 

there is something

so dangerous about the letters night pulls from my lips.

 

 

I don’t know if I would say this tomorrow.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 6/24/17

Brainwashing

Brainwashing

By JFarrell

 

Amongst the first words a child can recognise

Between 18 months to 3 years

Are a certain brand of cola

And a very delicious hamburger bar

This is the power of advertising.

 

I am 49 years old

Beanz, means, ……….

The m..lk..b…..rs are on me

I’m a secret lemonade drinker

Because the lady loves mi..k tr…y

And I could go on

 

Most of them slogans are from my first 10 years

And I still remember them

How many can you remember

And, yes, I am scared to name brands, these people can sue

The power of advertising

 

Do you feel brainwashed, yet?

Are your thoughts your thoughts

Or the thoughts of a commercial?

And

Will they let you have your own thoughts

Tell me

How does it feel

The brainwashing

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

also on youtube

search judgedoobie13

thnx :)

Forgetful

Folder: 
2017

I am the worst kind of forgetful.

I want to remember how to know you,

I want to remember all your syllables

and string them together like fairy lights at sunset,

I want to remember what you need me to forget.

 

I have the worst kind of smile.

You can draw it out too easily.

I try not to smile in front of people who know me too well,

they might keep it like a memory.

I don’t want to build any memories,

most things I build don’t last.

 

I am the worst kind of armrest.

When I try to hold you I feel your balance breaking,

hands shake but I don’t want a handshake,

I want clovers and whispers and sand in our shoes,

midnights that don’t need to end.

 

I want to run but I have the worst kind of balance.

I try to have stronger muscles,

ones that won’t struggle when I hit the rocks,

I trip and fall too easily.

 

I have the worst kind of current.

When the air is silent

I don’t have the voice to fill it with sparks.

When the air is electric

I fall for your stars like lightning.

 

I am lucky to have this street to walk.

But I don’t like being this kind of forgetful.

I remember everything.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 5/25/17

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Living Like This

Folder: 
2017

One glance at the wind outside and I’m there,

chills spread through me straight from my chest

at a summit I thought I would never reach

 

I drench your outline in fireflies

so I can paint it even in the dark,

giving up is only tempting until nothing else is enough

 

Never thought I would be living like this,

wanting to wake up to you more than anything else,

I try to talk to my blessings but they all sound like you

 

You cover the floor so I can’t sit down

Holding myself up till I’m breathing like a hurricane

Something always caught in the tears in my eyes

 

I try to count but I get stuck on your mind

turning all the pieces over when I try to sleep alone

It’s my fault I’m falling and living like this

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 5/16/17