%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 Poetry inspired by The Beatles for The Beatles Musical Extravaganza. |
Celebrating the magic of The Beatles. These entries are poems for "The Beatles Musical Extravaganza"  .
|
| I barely recognize myself in pictures these days. The playful past; boyish charm meets schoolgirl sparkle. To say we had our fun would be untrue, for we're still in the present tense of time. Ups and downs, we've known and overcome them. Our stories are legendary. But every now and then, when I lose my hope or way, you don't go away. You're my kintsugi, filling between my broken pieces a golden shine not even time can tarnish. Keeping me together in your own unique technique. I know with anything we go through, it's all because of you. This, I know is true. I love you. |
| She's better than me and she knows it, with her two solid wings and a puffed-out chest. Sitting in a nest of the finest Norwegian wood, she's cast a spell on me I can't quite decipher or reconcile. I flutter clumsily, wings withered by time and circumstances unkind though she rarely takes pity on my less-cultured frame. I know what I know and can't help myself but be awed; yes, I'm flawed. She is my fault. The nest I'm in bears no eggs and my once-powerful chicken legs barely balance me as I gather myself to watch her ascend. Soaring as if to never land again. It lights me afire and I burn myself to comprehend a way to make myself seen as to be so admired like she is by me but that's when I smolder. Over and out, no way I can show her what my love's about from this exquisite distance in her Norwegian wood. "Isn't it good?" Answer her, I wish I could. |
| You share like a toddler; as in, you don't. It's impossible to be a whole when one half refuses to play nice and do their part. If that's your way of saying you're frightened of me leaving, you're weaving a fictitious fable in your arrogantly troubled mind. All day, it's what I hear when you feign affection. Everyone sees through it. Your kisses stain more bitter than the wine you spilled on me when I last tried to say goodbye. I'm no longer willing to call your bluff. I'm taking what's mine and rebuilding my ego without the aid of your far-sighted petulance. I should've done so years ago. |
| You want to be Instagram famous, try-hard? No one's confusing you with movie stars. Maybe you could start by acting natural. Down to Earth first, before you make a genuine climb. Otherwise, you're just a genuine clown in a circus of overpriced shine. Your followers don't impress me; they're all the same cookie-cutter lookalikes searching for the same scene but they haven't read the script. Do you even know who you are beyond the ten percent of your life we see on your socials? It's as if you've never learned how to cry, or empathize, or overcome adversity. Act natural, if you even know what that means. |
| I've probably lived three or four varied lifetimes in almost fifty years. Opportunities and letdowns; wins, losses, and ties. Having had the chance to see many different cities, I find the place I prefer to visit the most is inside me. It's where I mark my growth, like drawing a line on a door frame to record a child's height on their birthday. I see my friends and lovers, foes and co-workers, and the memories greet me unsolicited but mostly welcome. An extraordinary life packed into me, an unassuming and otherwise regular guy. My gratefulness cannot be quantified, but I most certainly wouldn't want to chart them in measurables. I just know when these feelings overtake my worries and insecurities, they're your way of telling me "I love you more" and in that moment so do I. |
| A typical day. A typical girl. A typical family. A typical home. She gathers what she can in her duffel bag, but the sorrow doesn't fit. Off to the station to catch the Greyhound; a friendlier state to shed her shame. Eighteen and barely out of school, not ready for a lifetime of poor choices saddling her future. Her parents and her Croupier beau mustn't know. Her life flashes by as she looks out the window. "How could I be so cruel and unkind?" Facing a consequence makes a different woman out of her in ways it'll take her years to see. Reaching the destination, she arrives as two destined to leave as herself, scarred but sure she's doing what's best. Maybe she'll start a new life here, should she not return but that's not for now to decide. "Just get this over with" is all that goes through her mind but the guilt gone is the one thing her money can't buy. |
| I've got a feeling, old as time. Perhaps older. Not one that sits like a stone in the bottom of your stomach, or one that wafts through your mind as a distressing smoke signal. This is more omniscient, though I don't know it yet. A tingling reality. A trope of darkness. A hard year of sunshine. A good time for moisture. Yet it remains cold to me; for all I know I'll be happy to be wrong. The feeling, a flinch that causes me to flinch. It runs deep, covered by a high sock on the foot put down. I'll know it when I see it, when I see you in all that I was looking for. |
| It's never "goodbye", it's "'til we meet again". I don't know how this works but I'm sure it wasn't supposed to be like it now is. Your troubled times are long past and maybe mine are starting up again, but Nick Cave once sang "Death Is Not The End" and that's how I keep your memory. Everyone's got their words of wisdom, for solace, for grace, but none speak as loudly as you lived. If we let things be it isn't to forget, but to accept that one day death will call whether we're ready or otherwise. If we let them be, are we inviting ourselves to be hunted, tormented? Or is the ghost benevolent? All these questions unfulfilled until after the fact. Be that as it may, I still look toward tomorrow's light shining on me, leading me on until we find out where and when we'll meet again. |
| the rain moved like smoke on the strawberry fields forever's drought soaked |
| It's not you; never was. It's me. I'm always in love with a love that stays in my head. I can't seem to make the words do their simple things and introduce myself. My eyes avert on their own. I turn into an internal, inescapable tension. And I don't want to just know you. I want to share secrets and dreams and escapes. Your very last set of firsts. But it's me; always was. Even if the only thing stopping us from being a capital U-S us is me, I still wouldn't be able to get out of my own way. Imagine me, saying everything in this entire poem, but in the five or ten seconds it takes when we pass each other. Why am I always the one to let myself down? It's the only love I've known to last forever, and it's the longest-lasting love in my past. |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
. Thanks for takin' a peek!