I remember her, how can I ever forget her?
Times have lapsed, days and years have sidled by
Over a decade of sand has slipped off
but she still often falls
Like the dust of the galaxy
There in my memories, in me somewhere
I can’t see but I feel under my closed eyes
Her strong, lingering presence touching highs
There she is, still alive in her ethereal form,
My Mother, a smiling lady I still remember vividly.
How I gather the face of an unfolding smile,
the figure of statuesque equanimity and poise!
A mother, who saved me…
My Tears Under His Blue Shirt
I had left some air, my essence
under the thinnest of your nightshirt
queer blue, plain and your beloved
not more loved than me, though
the year we went from pals to paramours
remember the night we bridged the distance
between us, deep in the light of the moon.
Through the blue of your shirt
the smell of me slipped
as if by the osmosis, into an oasis of your life
before I ever kissed the sire I was fond of,
as I rest my head and
poise the weight of…
Let me tell a tale of those people
a bunch I revere as a managerie,
that occult tyranny of sedentary scholars
their shifty intents, their deviant ways
Enjoying the undeserved showers
black suit and tie glossy shoes,
so high in their pride, they oddly amuse
Wasted as they are, their say orotund
their work is just a yawn, spirit so moribund
on moustache there stays a dingy smile
and how they play a vile game of guile!
Deprived of any flair I can sense
do they stand by the corporate windows
they down the blinds, so quick like squirrels…
The world is floating upon the marbles of his eyes
As a train passes by, carrying bones
And muscles of masses in its intestines
All headed for a destination, their home
The world is reflected in the marbles
Of the poor man,
Who is living at the station of rails?
His name is The Poor
The last name? The Amputated;
He sits on a trolley;
Black wheels moving ahead
from one end to another
As he stomps one foot forward
For a push ahead and on,
Taking him to the places he
Doesn’t see as his destination.
From the numb bums of the morning
Soars the pleasant cacophony of elated birds...
But unaware of the songs of nature and delight,
A majestic man is lost to his fervor and libido.
The tide of promises infuses his veins as the day breezes in,
the flurry of ripples within, suppressing the languor of the night.
His shoulders, lonely and droopy, suffers the weight of onus;
And the heart is ready to miss an ounce of joy.
Slicing the air, he forges on ahead
Struts through the streets as he swims across the world.
About him, his wisdom dies. …
A wonderfully written, daring, heartfelt piece Mr Ritoch...hats off! You have disturbingly made every reader feel the pain of the protagonist here. Growing up in an abusive family with domestic violence and oppression is a horrible experience. Such nightmares not only make your life hell, it also shakes your faith in God. You have effectively portrayed God as a voyeuristic cold character - at least it seemed to me that way. I myself confess, my own familial frictions had brought unexpected turns in my life.
My dear Autoimmune! Your
Hungry, ravenous blow left me
At the doors of disasters, your time
In me feels like a cruel date,
A Nightmare worse than
A ghost’s fate
The companies I once craved
Have receded to be the dots
I can’t connect, I heaved
In the absence of normal nights
And the joy of days
taken away from me
my energy all sapped, decimated
My dire snake, Autoimmune!
You came on to me like an assassin
Run every move every way
You’re like a bee, I feel thou stingin’
Every day you barge in, no knockin’
Truly haunting in its sadness, loved the honesty with which it's written, Michael. Indecently realistic and unforgettably emotional, so deep it did send some shivers through me. I had to take a long sigh after reading this 3 times straight as I began to feel the grief and agony of the writer - since it is my grief, too, in a way!
Oh dear…oh, so wild unstoppable West!
Why your lust for making toys never ends
And your thirst makes you create
Artificial humans, burnt intelligence
This awful intimacy with your inventions
what are those big gibberish notions
so godforsaken, you call it innovations!
I am awestruck, losing it already
When will this end, or will this
Even ever end in your egg-size skull?
For your own sake
I ask you to look beyond
The gaunt shrinking horizon
of yours that you pride
To see what you can’t see…
See, even God in the Heaven above
All the decades of misguided anger and accrued guilt over forgotten keys, lost wallets, misplaced papers, missed appointments, failed connection, projects started and left hanging, the ill reading of social cues… all this started to lift. I got to forgive myself at last; said sorry for myself for having been my fiercest, most unfair critic.
Pedro B. Gorman
This is extremely painful...I never understood - although I had clue - what it feels to be inside the body with ADHD and dyslexia. The flat oblivion and clumsiness it brings to life is relentless and unbearable. Now that I also suffer from a rare Autoimmune disorder myself for over a decade, I can empathize with you.
But still, it is amazing that, despite the attention struggle, you are way better at writing than all of us. Brave! You got that brilliant, sparkling edge about you. It makes you respectable and noble as a person :)))
Writer, Poet, Thinker, Philosopher at heart, Love reading great fiction &heady satires, Imaginative kind, Weaving a thread of my first novel — maiden adventure