childhood

A Hand

Greedy, tiny hands covered in fresh flesh

Fingers without wrinkles

Stretched out to the sky

Attached to hungry hands

That grasp potential


Gentle, caring hands of a child, covered in dirt

Fingers that have learned to hold

Wrapped securely around a mother’s

Attached to innocent hands  

That grasp new life


Angry, tentative hands, covered in bruises

Fingers that curl into a fist

Searching for justification

Attached to trembling hands

That grasp reality


Responsible, organized hands, covered in calluses

Fingers that memorize positions on a keyboard

Searching for confirmation

Attached to the hip of authority

That cannot grasp satisfaction


Hands, that are no longer owned, filled with formaldehyde

Fingers tucked neatly together

Hidden from the sky

Attached to empty hands

That grasp death

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We Remember

On the count of three, we sprinted away

From danger. Our feet tripped over the banks

Of white with snowshoes – homemade by duct-taped

Plywood. A ravenous polar bear nipped

At our heels, and the flurries burned my cheeks.

I twisted my head to look to my side;

A young image of Dad jogging close behind,

Smiling, describing winter’s adventure.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

a little poem dedicated to my favorite childhood memories with my father, enjoy! Comment with feedback or a story of your own to tell!

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" DADDY'S ROOM "

I have still never seen the inside of the room
Where you spent your winter afternoons
On the floor or on your knees
Mama said it was a part of your disease
But i could never understand


When those doors sprang open at times
You stumbled out wet and screaming for limes
No one in the house would look up or even nod
Mama would whisper, "it's just something he forgot."
But i could never understand


The music of Billie Holiday blasting a private concert
I could hear you mumbling and fumbling for every word
When i asked uncle Mickey about the strange smell
Mama would cut in with, "Tequila, it's the juice from hell!"
But i was so young, I could never understand

 

One day a loud popping sound cut straight through the tunes
It was the first time I ever heard the silence of my Daddy's room
It was also the first time i ever saw through your door
Mama said you were sleeping but i saw the blood and the gun
And you on the floor
I was young but somehow i knew
It was time
To grow up...

 

 

 


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Yours

I met my world, my self, my mother. 
So precious and belonged, an extension of my creators.
I am dependent.
I capture a memory that's lost in a dream, your sound is known to me.
I mirror your love.
Your energy fills a room, you are their, I am yours a calming understanding shared.
Innocent and pure, a blank canvass for the new, protected and safe.
I develop from your care. 
Each day brings learning, I have no fear, I am content yet still curios.
Guarded by your love, unconditionally.   
Through experiences I make connections, shaded by love, your energy's alien to me. 
I will change, disappointment welcomes me, Repelling your love.
I won't be bad, you are angry.
So un worthy and lost, an extension of my creators. 
I am dependent. 
Captured memories embedded to haunt.
Your sound is feared by me. 
I mirror your love.
Energy's invade, you are their, you are his, an understanding owned.
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Games of Childhood

In a pensive mood,


Remember I the games of childhood,


All used to marvel,


The way I handled the game of marble.


 

Flying kite was breathtaking,


So was the stamp-collecting,


I used to play cricket, football and badminton,


Oh! The days were alive with magic and sensation.


 

Angling and hide and seek were amusing as well,


These I have the next generations to tell.

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tags:

Time to Rectify

Folder: 
2014




Scorching summer day in July

Child at laundry time with her mother

Blue jeans dancing in a blue sky

 

Spider spins a web, the child asks why

Always eager to play and discover

On a scorching summer day in July

 

Fatigued mother swats at a fly

As it buzzes close enough to bother

Blue jeans dancing in a blue sky

 

The fly is wounded, but it does not die

As the child watches it to fall to join her

On a scorching summer day in July

 

Grown child never thought to say Goodbye

Hurrying to the future by jetliner

Blue jeans still dancing in a blue sky

 

With children of her own, she gives a sigh

Missing childhood days and wanting another

On a scorching summer day in July

 

Blue jeans still dancing in a blue sky




Kilkare

Folder: 
Short Stories


   We lived in a small village, just about eighty homes up in the mountains. My childhood was like a combination of a Norman Rockwell painting and a Maxim Grunin landscape. There were some characters that lived up there with us; some of them seemed like they belonged on a sitcom: a lonely old a lady; a neighborhood menace; and a biker with two large dogs, a moustache, a bandana and a nickname. Others seemed like characters in a movie that opens up in muted colours with the sound of a squeaking screen door in the background. There were two scientologists who had a truck in their back yard, packed to the fullest with survival materials, ready to go in the event of the end of the world; a woman who spoke to dogs; and an old lady who was married to a curmudgeonly old man. The old lady was nice enough; she had hair the colour of sand at night and wore glasses that looked like she worked in IT in the 70’s. The old man was the neighborhood spook to kids. He wore plaid shirts, griped under his breath and threatened to kill my dad when our tree’s roots trespassed an inch or two onto his property. All the kids believed- and I did too at one point-that he beat his wife, especially during Christmas.

    

   I moved away from the village as soon as I turned nineteen but I had lived there my whole life. Me and a group of neighborhood kids used to make cookies with our moms and hand them out in packages at Christmas time. None of us ever wanted to give the old couple any cookies because we were scared to go up to their house. It always took a lot of coaxing from our moms and a group of at least four of us to get the job done; but one Christmas we all agreed we had heard arguing coming from their house so no amount of persuasion from our moms could convince us to walk within ten feet of there. But I felt bad. The old lady was nice enough. She didn’t deserve to not get any cookies just because of her husband. I decided to go (alone of course; none of the other kids would go with me).

  

   My light pink boots complimented the snow, I thought as I walked towards their house, trying to distract myself from the perilous mission I had decided to commence. I flinched as a snowflake parachuted onto my eyelash. I walked up the steps and knocked on the door. I stood in front of the house for a few minutes. I had planned to wait just a few seconds, pretend I had waited for an eternity and say they didn’t answer but my good nature won out-or I was paralyzed out of fear- and I stayed. I finally heard something.

   

       “Come in,” I heard the old man say. It sounded like he had something stuck in his throat.  I opened the door before I knew what I was doing. I pushed it open all the way while looking at my boots. I saw a shadow, floating on the scuffed hardwood floor.  I felt the cold of outside rush into my stomach, a flurry of snowflakes in a frenzy like a snow globe in my head and gut. A strand of fairy lights hung from the beams of his ceiling and the end of it was looped around his neck. His face was red like the changing lights around his throat. My knees twitched like his feet as my stomach felt like it turned to liquid and shot to my head. He was staring at me, grimacing; but I swore that underneath his the contorted face he was grinning.

  

   My head felt like it was scorching, my temples swelling with stress. I heard a door close from the back of the house. The old man turned his eyes backwards towards the sound for just a second. They were bright red and I was scared they would squeeze their way out of his head and shoot out at me like missiles. The door slammed shut after bouncing against the frame a few times and it looked like even though the old man was dying, he relaxed.

    

   His body went flaccid and so did my knees. The Christmas lights twinkled in rhythm, his spasming body no longer matching their pattern. I looked behind me to see if the other kids were waiting, I didn’t want to look back into the house, half expecting him to be just a nose width away from me, bearing his teeth in mirth. I looked back anyway. He was still swaying up above me. I couldn’t stand so I just scooted out the door and down the steps. I sat in their front yard, staring at the still open door. I could see the Christmas lights throwing festive colours onto the wall, throbbing like his heart had done, just minutes before.

 

 

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Blessed

Hinting at greatness,

The young boy hurls

That ball, with blue flame

And fire chasing it.

In his exacting delivery,

He is surgically precise.

Like a cornered viper

In momentous moments,

Under preposterous pressure,

He is at his deadliest.

Anyone with knowledge

Of the game can see

His gift and potential.

The boy himself will

Soon realize his talent and,

Already his heart holds

The game in a vise like grip.

That combination, is his

And his family’s ticket

Out of their meager home.

He is a desolate spark of hope

In the pitch blackness.

Like a struck match he will

Illuminate the night.

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LEGS ON MY BELLY BUTTON!!!!

 

 

   Daddy incest, spider legs on my belly button!

 

Give me the seed of life, the one who create me!

 

Mother lips on my innocence flesh,

 

Well done, you create the beast,

 

The one who shall kill you!

 

 

 

I painted my lips with blood,

 

Smiling on the shatter mirror,

 

This glass of memories, remember!

 

Cunt playing with you my memories!

 

 

 

So tell me if you see her?

 

Tell me if you see him?

 

Love me or vomit me!

 

My body is a doll,

 

Let play!

 

 

 

Ask my number,

 

Ask my address,

 

Just don’t ask my name,

 

I am the ether,

 

The purity of whore!

 

 

 

One more barbiturate!

 

Is a dangerous game?

 

so why keeping at it?

scream banshes at me!

mother'sface!!!!


cela fait 28 ans que je ne peux pas dormir sans mes Dolls!!!

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

cela fait 28 ans que je ne peux pas dormir sans mes Dolls!!!


what more can i say?

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