Astoria ~ Samantha Rose

Something lurks in the obsidian atmosphere

above the quaint town

as fog creeps in tandem with the night tides.

 

Whistling winds

sway the chimes and the bobs at the wavering docs,

draining still silence from empty streets.

 

The theater smells of a handsome fellow

cloaked in a white tux and smoldering jaw,

who dances in mirrors

 

and paints with shadows in the corner of your eye.

The doorknobs turn themselves,

the empty hallways shriek the loudest.

 

The lighthouse, a columbarium

leaks ectoplasm from its barnacle covered bricks.

Protecting its honorary lighthouse keepers

 

as ships miss its lights

and perform vanishing acts upon the deep waters,

leaving phantoms in the night

 

to be dashed against the rocks

and to creep upon the skeleton of the wreckage.

The moon drags Cthulhu’s silhouette across the ocean floor

 

as cosmic chaos implodes

in the sleepy town

that never sleeps.

 

© Copyright Samantha Rose 2018


[Astoria is a coastal town in the state of Oregon, rumored along with many of its surrounding areas to be haunted by various creatures and spirits. To read more about the haunting history and ghost stories of Astoria, click HERE.]

You can catch more of Samantha existing at her blog, Existential Poetry.

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Notes On A Suicide by Hemingway – A.G. Diedericks

The cosmos misplaced me
left me to meteor into this zeitgeist
of insipid distractions
Where i roam as an anachronism
under the city of lights
in pursuit of remnants from Lutetia
with nothing but a pen & piece
of paper to live on

Problem is I’m not a poet
Let me tell you how i know it:
I kill a reader
every time i get published
I drag ’em out
to the Battle of Normandy
and en garde my quill
up against their arsenal;
I tread belligerently
over land mines, unarmored
until there’s nothing left
of me to spill

Because who am i
without these lacerations
cut on truth
cut to the left
cut with avant garde

I look on as they flee for shelter
in colloquial boats
Washed up on the shores
of contrived obeisance

I write myself out
and into pastiche
Here..
Where i can marvel at all the
artifacts
that has since been decimated
by phosphorescent eyes

In this solitary hamlet
away from the hullabaloo
of small voices;
I swim naked in a cesspool
of regret & excuses;
The past is a rope that pulls me up
from the quagmire of my present;
The ghost of Hemingway smirks
at my attempted suicide
as he steals all the bullets from
my plagiarized shotgun

Leaving me tied to the
dénouement
of his sagacious notes,

“Your abstract is redundant. The expatriates weren’t lost in an archaic era. We Roared the 20’s with the clamour of our own literature. How is the reader supposed to find any emotive resonance in this? Your soul is still buried underneath the words, and it will only come to life once you’ve unearthed your own voice. I suggest you go and pick a fight with a bull in the streets of Pamplona; You’ll find everything you need there.”

JOURNAL OF A MOM – SHORT FUSE — BOJANA’S COFFEE & CONFESSIONS TO GO

My son B. may be the spitting image of his dad but he definitely takes after me with his short-temperateness, determination, perseverance (or stubbornness?) and reluctance to make concessions. 2.5 seconds he needs to go from ‘What a beautiful world’ to ‘I want to smash everything, especially your head’ has been a sign that couldn’t be denied by anyone, his mom in particular. However, whereas we tend to get upsfunet pretty quickly, it may take us ages to cool down. Everybody knows that and over the time they have learned the tricks to cool off, unlike us.

If we’re tired or stressed, we tend to get irritable pretty fast, whining about and to the world so better get used to it.

When somebody pisses us off…what do you want us to say?! Run and hide.

We are drama queens. (OK, I am. Mom can’t beat me.) So what?!

Being impatient is second nature to us and it’s incurable, mom says. Long (or short) lines at the supermarket, closed ice-cream shops, and hunger lasting more than 5 seconds are not our thing. The ‘if my fruit smoothie doesn’t wait for me as soon as I open my eyes, I’ll scream’ type of reaction is quite common. Trust us, everything’s negotiable (sort of), except an empty tummy. When we’re hungry, we bite and you’re the guilty one. So don’t come near us. That is, you may approach the bench provided you have that smoothie or milk shake. Make it quick and warm.

We’re cranky long after we wake up. Just shut your mouth and stop breathing. It’ll pass…in a couple of hours. (Who’s impatient now?!)

We like to tease just for fun (not to make you angry) so don’t freak out every time and don’t you dare raise your voice. We’re highly sensitive to high-pitched sounds.

Try not to make us laugh or, even worse, make fun of us when we’re annoyed and busy throwing a tantrum. You’ll make it worse and then you’ll be sorry. Very sorry. I’m better at ruining the world around me, meaning pens, pencils, phones, books, mom and dad’s stuff, toys, nothing is safe when something doesn’t go my way. Mom, on the other hand, is not prone to smashing objects around the house (though she could definitely use an anger room), but is much better at holding a grudge than me.

The bad thing about us is that we never actually know when exactly our trigger might go off, nor can we remember at all times what/who hurt us in the first place. Be that as it may, hardly anybody can beat us at being mad for hours. Mom says we’re just uncompromising.

Though we are generally sociable and talkative, we appreciate our alone time and silence. If we don’t feel like talking, don’t ask us questions. If we need your company, entertain us. Our refusal to be cooperative or cheerful is temporary. It could however turn into a long-lasting (not to say permanent) thing unless you (learn to) read the instructions clearly written on our faces.

We are terribly stubborn and might see things differently sometimes, which means we’ll eventually do whatever makes us happy (though often others miserable).

We rarely feel guilty for losing our temper ‘for no reason,’ as you call it. You see, we strongly believe that every ‘why’ has its ‘because.’

Many have given us anger management tips, suggesting yoga, meditation and counting to 10 but we think that kick boxing is more in line with our character.

When we’re in distress, you better steer clear of us. It’ll pass (maybe soon, maybe never). Go on pampering us, playing us Peppa Pig and feeding us. What are you waiting for? A thank you card?

We love our mom and have strong separation anxiety, crying every time she leaves. Show some understanding when we can’t come down.

If you don’t do anything when we’re not behaving sensibly, things may (will) go from bad to worse. Talk to us. Be there.

Though we are no strangers to sudden bouts of sullenness, we are generally enthusiastically fond of smiling and being happy.

Finally, we’re cuddly. When you see something’s not right, make sure you give us a comfort hug. The bottom line is all we need is love.

mother and child.PNG

Broken Dreamers

Existential Poetry

Step right up to the political armchair,

flip a coin for a Folk Devil!

Scapegoats can’t escape

your fear-based ICE-laced Koolaid!

Welcome to Alex Jones-town,

pour the poison down the people’s throats

until the words claw back out of their mouths

and frame a cage around the children!

From the cradle to the courthouse,

from the courthouse to the brothel –

breaking the broken backs we stand on

until our economy collapses!

Born a few steps to the left of luck,

paper alone can turn you human.

Build a wall with their bodies;

can you reach God from that tower?

Give a man a red herring and you’ll feed him for a day,

give a man a Fox and he’ll do the lying for you.

Terrified you’ll ransack our moral panic,

Big Brother’s facts are fake:

dreaming is criminal,

immigration is rape,

drugs are riding the backs of their hopes,

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Ruffled Edges – Chris Nelson

We came here so

Many years ago,

Chasing the ruffled edges

Of a crumpled photograph

Its monochrome hues whispering

Hushed voices still echoing

From white-edged border to faded frame,

Days stilled by wishful perception

Of contentment borne on wings

Which hung like the slow-mouthed moon

Captured by the eye but slipping ever

Between the fingers that reached out

Lost like the hopeful,

And frozen images caught our eye

Like souls entrapped –

And did we know that ours would follow?

Or was it all a dream

The promise that we shared

With a belief in something better?

And we’ll meet again one day

When all the pictures have faded

And all our dreams have died,

We’ll visit them at night

And walk along the rows

Of all we never knew

And ponder why we came

And shred ourselves on all we ever lost.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018

 

If you enjoyed this, thank you! To read more please visit chrisnelson61

Marble Towers

chrisnelson61

These marble towers –

Monolithic mausoleums to hope and promise

And future –

They do not speak for us.

Reaching further

Upwards ever higher beyond this plane

To goals and ambitions

Within no-ones reach

They cannot speak to us.

The untended weeds

That hold us, comfort and caress

And whisper to us all

We need to hear.

Close our eyes

And open-sensed our footfalls tred

And trust the voiceless sounds

That speak inside our heads.

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A Review Of This Way To The End – A Book By Mario Savioni

this way to the end

I loved reading this book. I just find it fascinating, feel wrapped up in it, think, feel and taste every poem and short story which I see as being mainly about the individual’s eternal search for truth and beauty. I think this would be the central topic of the book as we start to read each and every poem and short story. We see how this search is very difficult in a world full of greed, wars and where love relationships do not last. As readers we are made aware that this happens because such relationships are usually based on the needs our capitalist system has created as opposed to animals’ nature, for instance, the way a family of chirping birds acts, the bird mother protecting the little birds and doing this simply out of sacrifice. The images of the chirping birds appear on several occasions as an ideal to…

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Bipolar’s Mistress – A.G. Diedericks

Our scars were vibing together
long before we ever learnt
how to dance
She unearths the secrets
I didn’t know i had

Torn up maps & cracked compasses
subjugated by the unknown
She comes with a lot of baggage
but she packs light

We feel on the outside
blowing smoke on their mirrors
Our reflection isn’t fit for Kodak;
it is too real, and out of place
We’re the perfect faux pas

In this reality of Russian Roulette;
she’s the one lying in my chamber,
pacing with a bottle of Vodka

Tear off this pallid skin,
she decreed..
Make me forget;
shade me with your flaws
be my best regret

She was my catharsis;
when poetry couldn’t palliate
my darkness
It was her..
My Bipolar’s Mistress