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Mother's Day
2022-05-08
8matthew8
On Mother's Day it isn't smart To give your mom a sad heart. So here are things you shouldn't say To your dear mom on Mother's Day: Don't tell her that you'll never eat A carrot, pea, bean, or beet. Don't tell her you think drinking is cool. Don't tell her you've bunked school. Don't tell her that you've lost the cat. Don't tell her that she looks too fat. Don't tell her when you're grown that your clothes will never need to be sown .
I want an open coffin I am a South African poet and open for business Great Owls peck the windows of the 21st century as if looking for the board members who who who who who Listen my beloved nothings your seriousness will kill you!
The mailman handing me a letter, he paid a little. My daughter’s third grade teacher, the electrician putting a light over my back door: they paid as well. The woman at the bank who cashes my check. She paid a part of it.
Castaways, we hit the forest — our camping stove turned down very low, I gripped my tent close for its trial in virgin attitudes of stiffness while lamps fluttered on the dark. My roof sank fluttering accordion-like, the only sin we knew; and soon a sound appeared. I’d burned one back and by the third she laid her hand on mine, like a napkin. Later, I caught those tiny gasps from their tent where he slipped into her like (this I thought) a frog ; those dark rippling walls where she kept center, held her breath, so I had to puzzle how one could leave and neither be alone.
I let her garden go. let it go, let it go. How can I watch the hummingbird However to quickly sip With its long beak's tip The weeds rise thick let it go, let it go Where annuals grew and burdock grows, Where standing she At once could see The peony, the lily, and the rose Rise over brick She'd laid in patterns with moss let it go, let it go Turns the bricks green, softening them By the gray rocks Where hollyhocks That lofted while she lived, stem by large stem, Blossom with loss.
Arriving in the nearby town of George at dinner, I eat on the sidewalk what my stomach allows from a Ziploc of salted sardines. The moon is ringed, the moon overtaken by low clouds: snow?. I wait in the fusty rental car—licorice, maybe, and old luggage leather—until I assume my father is sleeping, and then I make my way up his narrow road. My father’s cottage is unlit and larger than I’d thought, and I climb the gate, boosting myself from the lip of an empty fountain whose lion’s head, the mouth obstructed, spills nothing. Inside the gate, no cars. No one home, nothing shifting in the manicured juniper hedges wrapping the drive. Snow all around me in my father’s garden—Tomorrow, I promise myself, I’ll find his workplace and call, pretending to be someone I am not, to see when he’ll arrive home.
Far into fever, attached by cords to the clicking machines, he sleeps in a bed , a room not his own. People enter and pass like ghost-blown fogs. He is a slow walker with limbs that recently gave way. He is part of the cold snowfall. He is very small, sitting on a curb with thin legs next to an nurturing aunt. He hasn't yet been born. He travels to meet the relatives in Drakensburg and feels the lifting darkness sunk in his chair at night, thinking. He is intensely wrong, obstinate and generous, the one who never seems to grieve, sweaters and wine locked in air. You say: he too cannot be found again, he too asks only for more aliveness and time. The room is like every room in that house clean and never silent, but sometimes birds drop into the air above his sleep and coast for hours on loose currents. There is no fire but weathered blood and skin, a threaded endurance, the peace of placing your body in the hands of those who might know, the voices saying Have you eaten, What could you have done. The frost in your eyes is fading or stays stitched. The fragile instruments of bodies step into the room and out, the machine counts two three four, and part of who you are travels into the glass hallways that are filling with warm light. He walks only for so long. He approaches each sorrow and lets it fall. He is unaccountably at ease for just a single instant, he is not an important name, he is the crucial man inside the fever, the one who taught you to care, he follows the deep tasks even as he slowly surrenders, one by one, his body dignities. He is the concert of bright strings, the sudden gentleness of moss, the tyrant opinion, a confusion of medications. His mind is a room casting infinite love from four walls. My beautiful father, you carried me out into the day of my life and let me stand on earth with affection and force. Why should we fear our disappearance.
for you who heard useless through honey trees in time of wasp and stalk for you who raised surface we all mixed from hunger generated off-color milk borne from chemical cousins for train of mouths you who haven’t sat down breathing a first bowl I watch you weave them bare grassy cane would not wash out no matter tired body in shift and glitter how we found red into whatever wore me stolen a sheen of milk memory saw alone on the bed to sleep and take up a branch of that country to allow maps of fire our own fields of rain
The best clouds in the business are right above me right now. We’re riding in this yellow convertible those clouds just dozing in about 100 different shapes white as clean paper, their edges like feathers against the blue sky, blue as Dad’s eyes. Dad drives, my sister’s in front I lay my head on Mom’s lap in the back. I lay my head on her lap as he drives this yellow convertible that we rented special just for these four days in Cape. In it, we are open to the whole world to the whole sky and I know right now I can see that these are the greatest clouds in the business.
Hearing a low growl in your throat, you'll know that it's started. It has nothing to ask you. It has only something to say-and it will speak in your own tongue. Closing its arm around you, it will hold you for long as you've ever wanted. Only now it will be long enough. It will not let you go. Burying your face in its shadowy shoulder, you'll smell mud and hair and water. You'll taste your mother's sour nipple, and swallow a word you thought you'd spit out once and be done with. Through half-closed eyes you'll see that its shadow is yours, a great fit. You could weep with gratefulness. It will take you as you like it best, hard and fast as a slap across your face, or so sweet and slow you'll scream until it does. Nothing will ever reach this deep. Nothing will ever clench this hard.(spirit) At last someone has pulled the drawstring of your gym bag closed enough and tight. At last someone has knotted the lace of your shoe so it won't ever come undone. Even as you turn into it, even as you begin to feel yourself stop, you'll whistle with amazement between your residual teeth oh sweetheart, oh holy mother, nothing nothing ever felt this good.
The angels took him now, And watch his curly head, And lead him in their games, The baby boy we led. He can't come to harm, He knows more than we know, His light is brighter far than day-time here below. His path leads on, Through pleasant grass and orchids, His blue eyes open wide At grass more green than ours. With play-mates like himself, The shining boy will sing, Exploring wondrous woods, Sweet with eternal spring. But he is lost to us, Far is his path of gold, Far does the city seem, Lonely our hearts and cold.
The LORD is my shepherd,I shall not want.In grass meadows he makes me lie down,by quiet waters he guides me. My life he brings back. He leads me on pathways of justice for his name's sake. Though I walk in the path of death's shadow, I fear no harm for you are with me.Your shield and your staff, it is they that console me.You set out a table before me in the face of my foes. You wet my head with oil,my cup overflows.Let but goodness and kindness pursue me all the days of my life.And I shall dwell in the house of the LORD for many joyful days.
To the young and able man who lets his death come in with veils in his face that say you can come in and claim a place among us. To the young man who closes his eyes to the parting of clouds and lets what is beyond come in. To the young man whose body is still warm, that weightless being with halos, whose footsteps we will never fill. To the endless clock machine in the God body of the young man who closes his eyes as the light sweeps him to eternity. To the blessed beating of his heart when we listen to our closed palms. To the smiles in his photographs every two seconds you pick him up and back. God body love. Good-bye. To the young man whose laughter is now a memorial among us, as we sit under tents, listen to our mothers and sisters cry, shed our own not so private God tears love, shelter under the night that claimed him. To him and beyond and the endless love through which God privately loves him.
I want to be your motivation, inspiration, and everything you do
I want to be the reason for your smile and
during the day when you have had enough
And your world upside down and with a soft touch I look up at you and telling you everything be alright through all
life’s ups and down and hold you till you smile agean
just thout of being the one you desire in your heart
I want you to need me every morning noon night
I need and want all these things from you because you’re the only one who gets me through each day this is why I love you more and more each day it yes it’s true
you have blessed me with a beautiful life
We are bilding together by both of us
You are my reason for smile every day for together we fly I love you and thanks. For all you gave me 2 hearts beat is one never to be separated never to be apart But I feel what you feel I’ll cry when you cry And I can fly when you fly together forever sir faithfully I will be yours
To doc from maleficent
The Passage of life
8matthew8
The Passage of life
8matthew8
for you who heard useless through honey trees in time of wasp and stalk for you who raised surface we all mixed from hunger generated off-color milk borne from chemical cousins for train of mouths you who haven’t sat down breathing a first bowl I watch you weave them bare grassy cane would not wash out no matter tired body in shift and glitter how we found red into whatever wore me stolen a sheen of milk memory saw alone on the bed to sleep and take up a branch of that country to allow maps of fire our own fields of rain
The best clouds in the business are right above me right now. We’re riding in this yellow convertible those clouds just dozing in about 100 different shapes white as clean paper, their edges like feathers against the blue sky, blue as Dad’s eyes. Dad drives, my sister’s in front I lay my head on Mom’s lap in the back. I lay my head on her lap as he drives this yellow convertible that we rented special just for these four days in Cape. In it, we are open to the whole world to the whole sky and I know right now I can see that these are the greatest clouds in the business.
Hearing a low growl in your throat, you’ll know that it’s started. It has nothing to ask you. It has only something to say-and it will speak in your own tongue. Closing its arm around you, it will hold you for long as you’ve ever wanted. Only now it will be long enough. It will not let you go. Burying your face in its shadowy shoulder, you’ll smell mud and hair and water. You’ll taste your mother’s sour nipple, and swallow a word you thought you’d spit out once and be done with. Through half-closed eyes you’ll see that its shadow is yours, a great fit. You could weep with gratefulness. It will take you as you like it best, hard and fast as a slap across your face, or so sweet and slow you’ll scream until it does. Nothing will ever reach this deep. Nothing will ever clench this hard.(spirit) At last someone has pulled the drawstring of your gym bag closed enough and tight. At last someone has knotted the lace of your shoe so it won’t ever come undone. Even as you turn into it, even as you begin to feel yourself stop, you’ll whistle with amazement between your residual teeth oh sweetheart, oh holy mother, nothing nothing ever felt this good.
The angels took him now, And watch his curly head, And lead him in their games, The baby boy we led. He can’t come to harm, He knows more than we know, His light is brighter far than day-time here below. His path leads on, Through pleasant grass and orchids, His blue eyes open wide At grass more green than ours. With play-mates like himself, The shining boy will sing, Exploring wondrous woods, Sweet with eternal spring. But he is lost to us, Far is his path of gold, Far does the city seem, Lonely our hearts and cold.
The LORD is my shepherd,I shall not want.In grass meadows he makes me lie down,by quiet waters he guides me. My life he brings back. He leads me on pathways of justice for his name’s sake. Though I walk in the path of death’s shadow, I fear no harm for you are with me.Your shield and your staff, it is they that console me.You set out a table before me in the face of my foes. You wet my head with oil,my cup overflows.Let but goodness and kindness pursue me all the days of my life.And I shall dwell in the house of the LORD for many joyful days.
To the young and able man who lets his death come in with veils in his face that say you can come in and claim a place among us. To the young man who closes his eyes to the parting of clouds and lets what is beyond come in. To the young man whose body is still warm, that weightless being with halos, whose footsteps we will never fill. To the endless clock machine in the God body of the young man who closes his eyes as the light sweeps him to eternity. To the blessed beating of his heart when we listen to our closed palms. To the smiles in his photographs every two seconds you pick him up and back. God body love. Good-bye. To the young man whose laughter is now a memorial among us, as we sit under tents, listen to our mothers and sisters cry, shed our own not so private God tears love, shelter under the night that claimed him. To him and beyond and the endless love through which God privately loves him.
🌟ENCHANTED POETRY 🌟🍄PRESENTED BY 🍄LEGACIES 🍄LS written by Edward LsAdvent of ChristmasWind whistling, as it does in winter, and I think nothing of it until it snaps a blind off her bedroom window, spins it over the roof and downto crash on the deck in back, like something out of Oz. We look up, stunned—then glad to be safe and have a story, characters in a fable we only half-believe. Look, in my surprise I somehow split a wall, the last one in the house we’re making of gingerbread. We’ll have to improvise: like an open door and with a tube of icing, cement them to the floor. Five days until Christmas,and the house can’t be closed. When she peers into the cold interior we’ve exposed, she half-expects to find three people in the manger, a mother and her child. She half-expects to read on tablets of gingerbread a few lines of Scripture, as she has every morning inside a dated shutter on her Advent calendar.
🌟ENCHANTED POETRY 🌟🍄PRESENTED BY 🍄LEGACIES 🍄LS written by Edward Ls. Giving up? How much grit do you think you’ve got? Can you quit a thing that you enjoy a lot? You may talk of pluck; it’s an easy word,And where’er you go it is often heard; But can you tell to a jot or guess Just how much courage you now possess?You may stand to trouble and keep your grin,But have you tackled self-discipline?Have you ever issued commands to youTo quit the things that you like to do,And then, when tempted and sorely swayed,Those orders have you obeyed?Don’t boast of your grit till you’ve tried it out, for men’s pride to stout .For it’s easy enough to retain a grinIn the face of a struggle there’s a chance to win,But the sort of grit that is good to ownIs the stuff you need when you’re all alone.How much grit do you think you’ve got?Can you turn from moments that you like a lot?Have you ever tried yourself to knowHow far with yourself your will can go?If you want to know
🌟ENCHANTED POETRY 🌟🍄PRESENTED BY 🍄LEGACIES 🍄LS written by Edward LsHome aloneI look over my own shoulderdown my armsto where they disappear under waterinto hands inside pink rubber gloves among dinner dishes.My hands lift a wine glass,holding it by the neck and under the base.It breaks the surfacelike a chalicerising from a medieval lake.Full of the grey wine , the glass risesto the level of my eyes.Behind it, through the windowabove the sink, the sun, amonga ceremony of sparrows and bare branches,is setting in Africa.I can see thousands of dropletsof steam—each a tiny spectrum—risingfrom my goblet of grey wine.They sway, changing directionsconstantly—like a school of fish,or like the sheer curtainon the window to another world.
DECEMBER 2020
JANUARY 2021
ENCHANTED POETRY
🌟ENCHANTED POETRY 🌟
🍄PRESENTED BY 🍄LEGACIES 🍄LS
written by Edward Ls
Memory of My Mother
My mother–half-deaf,
a small wooden box
pinned to her blouse,
and beneath the gray locks
the hidden earphone,
the wire running across
her heart to its home
in her ear–can barely
hear me anymore. I’m
just a
lost voice years ago, trying now
to make myself clear,
deliberately now,
so she will see how
hard the words do come.
Bent to her breast, I speak
to the heart, almost hopeless,
where hardly anyone
is ever heard.
written by Edward Ls
NOVEMBER 7On the West Coast, days of rainstorm wrestle, their wet fury driven landward.We never quite known what the sky promises,and there is certain assurance in that fate.It is for that we wait. We’ve already weatheredmore than promises. They’ve passed us by.So I’m not sure this morning when I step outside,and suddenly it’s not winter anymore but somewarm mask that molds the contours of my facewith unbidden warmth. It’s almost unnaturalbut I hope not, having already found reliablethe promise of loss. My expectation is unfulfilled. Somewhere within the universe of the prairie hillsis a climate that is yet unnoticed, and from itis welling a warm rupture of another sure season.Believe it is not unusual, I urge myselfwhose myths are always changing in the light.So it’s this we arrive into daily, alwaysanother season, warm , and it’s wewho wage weather within our spirits. Tomorrow’s dawn is a promise that will fulfill.Never mind if the sky does not quite agree.
written by Edward Ls
The World that never stops Despite the storms, beauty approaches like it was always going to. Despite the darkness, the light returns. Despite your loss, your heart will be full again. Despite the breaking, your heart will feel like it belongs in the place of joy once more. This is how it will always be. Keep living
written by TWILIGHT LS
Chills go down my spineAnd at once I know you are hereI grind my teeth togetherAs every muscle tenses upI slowly turn my gaze, looking for youAnd there you are, in flesh and bloodBut not alive, noYou are dead insideStone coldYou have no feelings, nor regard for other’sAnd your expression are coldJust as you are insideI can see it in your eyesI can see how gloomy you areHow evil you areA man from hellAnother being of pure malevolentSo sinful and demonicBut slowly the cold fades from your faceAnd your heat seeps through my handsThe blood leaving youI withdraw my bladeAnd at once you drop to the floorHow decorated the floor becomes of redI smile as i watch you, and I kneel downI whisper in your ear“You may be a monster. But so am I
In a line of memories “
8matthew8
2022-04-24
The mailman handing me a letter, he paid a little. My daughter’s third grade teacher, the electrician putting a light over my back door: they paid as well. The woman at the bank who cashes my check. She paid a part of it.
Castaways, we hit the forest — our camping stove turned down very low, I gripped my tent close for its trial in virgin attitudes of stiffness while lamps fluttered on the dark. My roof sank fluttering accordion-like, the only sin we knew; and soon a sound appeared. I’d burned one back and by the third she laid her hand on mine, like a napkin. Later, I caught those tiny gasps from their tent where he slipped into her like (this I thought) a frog ; those dark rippling walls where she kept center, held her breath, so I had to puzzle how one could leave and neither be alone.
I let her garden go. let it go, let it go. How can I watch the hummingbird However to quickly sip With its long beak’s tip The weeds rise thick let it go, let it go Where annuals grew and burdock grows, Where standing she At once could see The peony, the lily, and the rose Rise over brick She’d laid in patterns with moss let it go, let it go Turns the bricks green, softening them By the gray rocks Where hollyhocks That lofted while she lived, stem by large stem, Blossom with loss.
Arriving in the nearby town of George at dinner, I eat on the sidewalk what my stomach allows from a Ziploc of salted sardines. The moon is ringed, the moon overtaken by low clouds: snow?. I wait in the fusty rental car—licorice, maybe, and old luggage leather—until I assume my father is sleeping, and then I make my way up his narrow road. My father’s cottage is unlit and larger than I’d thought, and I climb the gate, boosting myself from the lip of an empty fountain whose lion’s head, the mouth obstructed, spills nothing. Inside the gate, no cars. No one home, nothing shifting in the manicured juniper hedges wrapping the drive. Snow all around me in my father’s garden—Tomorrow, I promise myself, I’ll find his workplace and call, pretending to be someone I am not, to see when he’ll arrive home.
Far into fever, attached by cords to the clicking machines, he sleeps in a bed , a room not his own. People enter and pass like ghost-blown fogs. He is a slow walker with limbs that recently gave way. He is part of the cold snowfall. He is very small, sitting on a curb with thin legs next to an nurturing aunt. He hasn’t yet been born. He travels to meet the relatives in Drakensburg and feels the lifting darkness sunk in his chair at night, thinking. He is intensely wrong, obstinate and generous, the one who never seems to grieve, sweaters and wine locked in air. You say: he too cannot be found again, he too asks only for more aliveness and time. The room is like every room in that house clean and never silent, but sometimes birds drop into the air above his sleep and coast for hours on loose currents. There is no fire but weathered blood and skin, a threaded endurance, the peace of placing your body in the hands of those who might know, the voices saying Have you eaten, What could you have done. The frost in your eyes is fading or stays stitched. The fragile instruments of bodies step into the room and out, the machine counts two three four, and part of who you are travels into the glass hallways that are filling with warm light. He walks only for so long. He approaches each sorrow and lets it fall. He is unaccountably at ease for just a single instant, he is not an important name, he is the crucial man inside the fever, the one who taught you to care, he follows the deep tasks even as he slowly surrenders, one by one, his body dignities. He is the concert of bright strings, the sudden gentleness of moss, the tyrant opinion, a confusion of medications. His mind is a room casting infinite love from four walls. My beautiful father, you carried me out into the day of my life and let me stand on earth with affection and force. Why should we fear our disappearance.
for you who heard useless through honey trees in time of wasp and stalk for you who raised surface we all mixed from hunger generated off-color milk borne from chemical cousins for train of mouths you who haven’t sat down breathing a first bowl I watch you weave them bare grassy cane would not wash out no matter tired body in shift and glitter how we found red into whatever wore me stolen a sheen of milk memory saw alone on the bed to sleep and take up a branch of that country to allow maps of fire our own fields of rain
The best clouds in the business are right above me right now. We’re riding in this yellow convertible those clouds just dozing in about 100 different shapes white as clean paper, their edges like feathers against the blue sky, blue as Dad’s eyes. Dad drives, my sister’s in front I lay my head on Mom’s lap in the back. I lay my head on her lap as he drives this yellow convertible that we rented special just for these four days in Cape. In it, we are open to the whole world to the whole sky and I know right now I can see that these are the greatest clouds in the business.
Hearing a low growl in your throat, you’ll know that it’s started. It has nothing to ask you. It has only something to say-and it will speak in your own tongue. Closing its arm around you, it will hold you for long as you’ve ever wanted. Only now it will be long enough. It will not let you go. Burying your face in its shadowy shoulder, you’ll smell mud and hair and water. You’ll taste your mother’s sour nipple, and swallow a word you thought you’d spit out once and be done with. Through half-closed eyes you’ll see that its shadow is yours, a great fit. You could weep with gratefulness. It will take you as you like it best, hard and fast as a slap across your face, or so sweet and slow you’ll scream until it does. Nothing will ever reach this deep. Nothing will ever clench this hard.(spirit) At last someone has pulled the drawstring of your gym bag closed enough and tight. At last someone has knotted the lace of your shoe so it won’t ever come undone. Even as you turn into it, even as you begin to feel yourself stop, you’ll whistle with amazement between your residual teeth oh sweetheart, oh holy mother, nothing nothing ever felt this good.
The angels took him now, And watch his curly head, And lead him in their games, The baby boy we led. He can’t come to harm, He knows more than we know, His light is brighter far than day-time here below. His path leads on, Through pleasant grass and orchids, His blue eyes open wide At grass more green than ours. With play-mates like himself, The shining boy will sing, Exploring wondrous woods, Sweet with eternal spring. But he is lost to us, Far is his path of gold, Far does the city seem, Lonely our hearts and cold.
The LORD is my shepherd,I shall not want.In grass meadows he makes me lie down,by quiet waters he guides me. My life he brings back. He leads me on pathways of justice for his name’s sake. Though I walk in the path of death’s shadow, I fear no harm for you are with me.Your shield and your staff, it is they that console me.You set out a table before me in the face of my foes. You wet my head with oil,my cup overflows.Let but goodness and kindness pursue me all the days of my life.And I shall dwell in the house of the LORD for many joyful days.
To the young and able man who lets his death come in with veils in his face that say you can come in and claim a place among us. To the young man who closes his eyes to the parting of clouds and lets what is beyond come in. To the young man whose body is still warm, that weightless being with halos, whose footsteps we will never fill. To the endless clock machine in the God body of the young man who closes his eyes as the light sweeps him to eternity. To the blessed beating of his heart when we listen to our closed palms. To the smiles in his photographs every two seconds you pick him up and back. God body love. Good-bye. To the young man whose laughter is now a memorial among us, as we sit under tents, listen to our mothers and sisters cry, shed our own not so private God tears love, shelter under the night that claimed him. To him and beyond and the endless love through which God privately loves him.
written by TWILIGHT LS
I believed youYou looked into my eyesAnd you said I’m beautiful.And I believed you.When you said you love meI believed you.When you held me close to youI thought it was real.I thought it ment something to youI was wrong…I was wrong to believe youI was wrong to think you cared.Because when you left meAnd on my knees I begged youI begged you to stayI said to you we have something realAnd you just laughed.You said that I was patheticTo think that you would love me.And the kick you gave in my faceAlmost hurted as much as the reality.When I came to my sensesYou were gone.And one thing I knew for certain was that That was the first real thing you said.I just sat there with my knees to my chestCrying, not from the pain of the kickBut from the pain of my broken heart.You said you loved meAnd I, oh I believed you…
written by TWILIGHT LS
Love-How mysterious you areI’m afraid to let you inI’m afraid that you will corrupt my heartA weakness you may beYou seem so frighteningMaybe you will break down my wallsMaking me vulnerableOr maybe you will be good for meMaybe you will help me build relationshipsMaybe you will fill me with joyBut frightening you still areAnd I dont know if I want you
The LORD for many joyful days.
To the young and able man who lets his death come in with veils in his face that say you can come in and claim a place among us. To the young man who closes his eyes to the parting of clouds and lets what is beyond come in. To the young man whose body is still warm, that weightless being with halos, whose footsteps we will never fill. To the endless clock machine in the God body of the young man who closes his eyes as the light sweeps him to eternity. To the blessed beating of his heart when we listen to our closed palms. To the smiles in his photographs every two seconds you pick him up and back. God body love. Good-bye. To the young man whose laughter is now a memorial among us, as we sit under tents, listen to our mothers and sisters cry, shed our own not so private God tears love, shelter under the night that claimed him. To him and beyond and the endless love through which God privately loves him.
LEGACIES FAMILY/CLAN 
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