Forget Me Too- Eric (EDC Writing), Guest Barista

I don’t remember everything

Dates and place escape me

Moments spent with you

Fade and forsake me too

Strange faces begin to haunt

With their smiles and tears

I still know I love you

Ask of you one thing

When I don’t know you

All our years forgotten

I beg forget me too

Let me forget to breathe

…..

To read more of Eric’s writing, visit Believing Sight Unseen – EDC Writing

Saying Goodbye-Michael Erickson, Guest Barista

20160106_133211

No. These words are not my own.

I refuse. How much have we shared, how long have we known?

Deny the inevitable. To speak of endings when it feels as if our companionship has just begun.

Acceptance must be avoided. Please, do not go, do not leave.

To change, is to forget, I do not forget.

But as only can come the end to all things, you must go, and I must not follow.

As time crawls, we wait in good company.

As death rushes, so are we parted.

-M.E. Inkowl


Read more of Michael’s writing at The Ink Owl

I Dreamed I Saw Old Socrates/John W. Leys, Guest Barista

socrates_louvre

I dreamed I saw old Socrates
Walking Athens after dark.
No people to harass, no questions to ask,
No great debates on which to embark.

His face it looked so serene,
As he contemplated truth.
Is this the man they put to death
For corruption of the youth?

The men in charge, to keep their jobs,
Don’t want us thinking for ourselves.
Its sheep they need, easier to lead,
Not the depth to which wisdom delves.

Question every single authority,
Be certain only of what you do not know.
These men of Athens knew right then
This gadfly had to go.

I dreamed I saw old Socrates
Teaching with his last breath.
I stood among his crowd of friends
As he bravely met his death.

I awoke in tears of anger
At the injustice that had been done.
But I could not define what “justice” was,
And I knew that old Socrates had won.


John W. Leys blogs at Darkness of His Dreams

Image from Wikipedia

Look There, My White Bones Shall Guide You Through the Dark- A. Marie Kaluza, Guest Barista

I will carry you to the shoulder of the mountain, and then can go no further. I can go no

further, but you will go on without me.

 

How could I say I loved you, if I never let you see the sea?

What height you might achieve; leave me now, and tarry no more.

 

The wing you made from the maple leaf and summer wax, are yours.

Do not bother to come find me should you ache for return, I will be gone.

 

Things split and part. That is the way of it. Coalescence is the start, but you and I shall

end on different shores.

 

Do you love the sea? I met her when I was young. I carved my name into her sandy

breast. She kissed it, and out it went like a light.

 

I had never seen death before until that wave. Understand, that all this will change. But

know, that I love you, ad infinitum.

 

Go now. You are upon the shoulder. You have said all with your eyes, I have said mine.

Go now. While you still have the grace of the wind.

 

Go now. You can not wait. Worry not how I descend the mountain. I have descended

before. Go now.

 

Tis your time to burn and die in the sun.

If it be too painful, look to the right. There will be my breast bone.

 

May it comfort you through your devouring and reemergence through the dark.


A. Marie Kaluza blogs at The Larkspur Horne

Who Done It?-Eugenia, Guest Barista

202607-Autumn-On-The-Lake.jpg

While mulling by the lake

spotted an empty canoe

and a soloing shoe

was it foul play

or fowl play?

Commiserating birds

with very few words

Not takers of chances

Concealing their glances

Ah! But the hen saw it all

with no one to call

Fleeing back to the farm

free from danger in the barn

Singing a different song

you can sing along

Farmer in the Dell

-Eugenia


Eugenia blogs at ThusNSuch and BrewNSpew She invites you to have a cuppa at the Tuesday Chatter Cafe.

 

http://www.lovethispic.com/image/202607/autumn-on-the-lake

For Bob Dylan-John W. Leys, Guest Barista

Written on the occasion of Dylan being awarded the 2016 Nobel Prize for Literature.
Could be sung to the tune of ‘Song for Woody‘ by Bob Dylan.

bob-dylan-nobel-fullsize-980x980

You’re out there traveling another mile down the road,
Listening for messages when the cold winds have blow’d,
Writin’ ’em down and sendin’ ’em out,
Trying to figure what this crazy world’s all about.

Hey there, Bob Dylan, I wrote this for you,
’bout the songs that you write, the words ring so true,
Painting a picture of the world we both share,
Using vivid bright colors, write your poems in the air.

I see you sittin’ out there on the Academy lawn,
Singin’ Homer and Sappho from dusk til dawn,
With a voice as American as Whitman or Twain,
Wave to Jack and Allen, passing by on the hobo train.

Asking the questions no one else thought to ask,
Wearing grease paint on your Bob Dylan mask,
Singin’ the words shot straight through the soul
Travel in a caravan, listen to the thunder roll.

I wonder did they ask, or give you a choice
Before declaring you their generations voice?
They pushed you on a pedestal so far in the sky,
You didn’t sing while you slave, they didn’t care if you’d died.

A has-been they called you, washed-up and worse,
Other’s expectations were your great curse,
Always changing, evolving; never the same,
They said that you’d lost, but you changed the whole game.

They say you came back, but you never left,
Singing songs made of history, love & theft,
The tour never ends, the show must go on,
Tempests may roar, the Titanic sails at dawn.


John W. Leys blogs at Darkness of His Dreams

A Swallowtail In Evening-A. Marie Kaluza, Guest Barista

Out my window I see a pair of wings, thumping against the glass.

Black and yellow, thin and fast, I move as delicate as I can but she dashes away, leaving me standing and alone.

I am harkened back to 1786: The Cult of the Priapus sends me “the image of the heavenly soul breaking the bonds of the material world in order to melt again” like a flume erupting from an uncorked bottle.

I reach my fingers out, and brush the air; it is only a little wonder, but I drink my fill. Time presses his hands upon my shoulders, having me take root. For a moment I exist without a beginning, without an end. A gift, I suppose, for taking the opportunity to look.

I grow impatient, turn to grab my book.

There in the light a shadow dancing, pulling darkness up and down. The window again; ah, as these things go, I have missed it. I know in my heart she will not come any more.

It is a terrible truth, yet I smile. There is scant room for regret. Hu die visited me for awhile. A portrait in my memory, shelved.

I shall not mull upon the knowing that its accuracy will probably not last the night.


A. Marie Kaluza blogs at The Larkspur Horne

Along the Way-Eugenia, Guest Barista

121779-Orange-Autumn-Haze

Life’s an ongoing masquerade of emotion

Shuttered ideas foster inner commotion

The same old song shouts out confusion

Spell check the soul for a resolution

“Your living is determined not so much by what life brings to you as by the attitude you bring to life; not so much by what happens to you as by the way your mind looks at what happens.”― Khalil Gibran
 Eugenia blogs at ThusNSuch and BrewNSpew She invites you to have a cuppa at the Tuesday Chatter Cafe.