20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers


There is a place

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There is a place in my heart, somewhere, I am sure-
where I can still feel, still love, still care.

My world is so empty, unfulfilling, sorrowful,
I cannot remember joy, peace, wanting to wake up.

I search for my little children, the son I lost,
Those who grew up and moved on without me.

I search for a love I tried so hard to believe in,
and never spent a night without a doubt or fear.

Surely, there is a place where my mother, my son,
my life still exists, waits for me as I wait alone.

I look, I try, but the lies, the lack of caring shouts.
Around me, it is like life laughing in my face.

I am your wife, I am your mother, I am your daughter,
You cannot change that any more than I can change you.

There is a place where I will get what I have toiled for
my entire life. That I have suffered and begged for.

When I get there, some of you may be there, and then,
some of you will not. Then, finally, I will have peace.

My world is so empty, unfulfilling, sorrowful,
I cannot remember joy, peace, wanting to wake up.

I search for my little children, the son I lost,
Those who grew up and moved on without me.

I search for a love I tried so hard to believe in,
and never spent a night without a doubt or fear.

Surely, there is a place where my mother, my son,
my life still exists, waits for me as I wait alone.

I look, I try, but the lies, the lack of caring shouts.
Around me, it is like life laughing in my face.

I am your wife, I am your mother, I am your daughter,
You cannot change that any more than I can change you.

There is a place where I will get what I have toiled for
my entire life. That I have suffered and begged for.

When I get there, some of you may be there, and then,
some of you will not. Then, finally, I will have peace.


3 Comments

Glass

Three years ago, I lost my mom.

She had been fading for years, but we still talked,

we laughed and loved.

 

It seems like since then loss and loneliness

have been so much of my life.

I feel like I am drowning.

 

After loosing my child, hope, faith,

and that special closeness with my family,

I feel I will never capture the joy in life again.

 

I can only beg you, young people,

to take that joy, when you find it,

and treat it as thought it was glass, because it is.


2 Comments

Love Me, Don’t Leave Me Alone

As the chill of winter surrounds me

I feel the frost in my bones.

The ache comes from deep inside me

I feel so profoundly alone.

Then I touch the soft head of my baby,

His warm breath makes life come again.

I think of my past and then maybe,

Once more, you seem more than a friend.

Today, it is cold, it is winter,

a daunting, yet mystical song.

For this time, for this place, for this winter,

Love me, don’t leave me alone!


Life without…

in solitude her footsteps slow; in robe of pink
through empty rooms,  she wanders
no laughter or voice that echo in her days and nights

life strange and silent,  meals for one
with simply why,  as she reaches for the
cupboard door as she did the day before

views once shared by two hands held
her arms now crossed she sees the morning rise
the quiet moon,  with only her eyes

no one to share

do her children know the loneliness
she faces in the minutes,  hours,  the days ahead
with wrinkled trembling hand she reaches

for the phone upon the wall
and stops ~ with a piercing felt within
they have their lives to live

clutching his jumper to her breast
breathes the smell of him;  slowly with care
folding delicately,  it’s placed upon the shelf

with memories

a life now lived without him by her side
what is life to be now ~ what does she do
a broken heart that family cannot heal

words and hugs are not enough

thoughts of where she was born flood back
piercing her heart ~ there is
no home to return to,  there or here

so many years where he knew what needed to be done
paved the way with his decisions, she is lost
she knows not how to cope

he will return he will be once more by her side
she sleeps with fingertips that
trace his pillow where he lay his head

and dreams of his protection

and as her silent teardrops fall,  she sits next
to the empty chair and talks as if he were still
beside her ~ her hand reaching in the air,  in hope

that he will return

©JTacken Sep 2013


2 Comments

digital misivs

 photo 20130423_122711.jpg

jacked on Marlboro’s and mocha java
she lives safely in her word cloud,
laying belly down with candy wrappers
littering the unkempt futon bed.

smartphone, notebook glowing
in that messy shades drawn room
and sometimes pink hair spilling
out a Neff cap covered eyes.

Skye, exists as ‘anonymous’
tattood and thin, small framed
her cool demeanor her paler skin
nothing touched her since he left.

and crossing paths in the gangway
with the new boy down the hall,
his immediate smile spoke volumes
he brushed against her as they talked.

but that spark its cruel reminder
of hurt she really can’t forget
her promise to call forgotten,
the spark was just suppressed.

Skye spent that night as every night
a private etherland of love
texting poems of lust her loneliness,
drift…digital misivs through the dark.


2 Comments

her last page

many thanks to Sky Vani, for sharing this song and beautiful video.
feel free to play it low as a soundtrack, as i did while writing this poem.

.
as early as her day begins, it ends
a sad memoir echoes an empty room,
and she breezes through her motions
without a care in this world.
as if her love never really ended
wrote the diary, it’s last page.

wide cupped latte’
a quick croissant
and her habitual daily stroll
to every place they ever met.
she’s hoping without a prayer
he’ll be sitting there as always
in his favorite, corner chair.

she chooses spools of woven thread
from the French village mercerie,
that suggestive red dress
he always loved
and it’s noticeable tear.
as if life never did really end
wrote the diary, her last page.

written April 2013


3 Comments

The Window

Her world
behind the window
cracked and rotted wood
falling flakes of paint

curtain not of any colour
greyish hue
old, no longer pretty
need replacing

her world
behind the window
peering out to the garden
sliding her hand along the grimy glass

that she was once able to see through
clearly, but now cannot

how is her mind
behind the window
casting her eyes on weeds
below that need
removing for they old

no longer cared for

and she asks herself …. why don’t they come to visit anymore


1 Comment

Many Faces of Loneliness

 

“Loneliness is an unpleasant feeling in which a person feels a strong sense of emptiness and solitude resulting from inadequate social relationships.”

Sisters hardened by an ugly man,

who escaped his wrath

by running into the night.

They left home, scars lacing their bodies.

They left home, with nary a bag.

They left home with nary an idea of who they were.

Life became their man,

their things, their perception of  self.

Their men died. They unwound.

They never did know which face was theirs.

They hid amongst their stuff.

Loneliness took hold, they’d had enough. 

Such vile evil is a hand raised to a child.

 


1 Comment

Tristesse dans l’amour

like the moon,
you speak to me
in your silence…
you touch me with just your
look…and caress my soul
with your music….

like the meadowlark
you sing to me
in my dreams…
i am lulled into a peaceful
slumber and kept in
a gentle sway with
the melody of your song…

i am captivated with
the lightness of your ideas…
and charmed by your intellect…
i think you’ve cast a spell on me
without knowing…and
though you will never
be mine…i am forever yours…

 

http://www.flickr.com/photos/venus_oak/3238326743/


routine happiness

smiling through a frowning face

never sure about  this chase

thought’s are becoming  settled

thinking is being channeled

chasing for the normal life

loss of anxiety’s stabbing knife

routinely waking to happiness

curing this awful loneliness

futures plan is not yet set

now my life I wont regret

 

 

 

 


1 Comment

Edgar and Vincent

The melancholy of sweet depression

like Poe and Vincent Van Gogh

those who were fraught with despair

have created haute cuisines

of flesh, of reds, of spleen

they’ve picked up their brushes, their pen and ink

their palettes exploded, fit to repair

splayed open wide

their vision, their loneliness and

the haunting beauty that possessed their minds

their art, wild and wanton

masterpieces of expression

born out of tongues that spoke with hysteria

and sights of historical blessings

that spoke about The Starry Night

of Annabel and The Raven’s delight

that spoke of shimmer, shiver and fright

of howling, wailing wicked light!

Vincent Van Gogh and

Edgar Allan Poe.

(I wrote this poetry as a tribute to both of these amazing artist’s. The above painting I did is of Michael Wolgemut, Vincent Van Gogh’s mentor and teacher; I painted him because I love Vincent Van Gogh and his work and was instantly attracted to his eyes, “the eyes are the window to the soul” as they say)

© [Jeanette Shihadeh] and [thepainterspalate.wordpress.com], [2012]. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material, artwork, or photo’s without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to [Jeanette Shihadeh] and [thepainterspalate.wordpress.com] with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.


3 Comments

Stilted House

Originally posted on CorneaCopia:

I usually refer to this picture as the house on stilts even though I’m not absolutely certain that it is, or ever was, anyone’s residence.  I just think it’s an awfully interesting structure and I like to imagine that someone enjoys living in it.  One day soon I’ll go back to take more pictures of my “stilted house” and when I go I’ll try to learn more about it.

It's a picture of a house

View original


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A Perch Upon a Wall

I am perched upon a wall, this low brick wall of the college of my youth and i am watching passersby.  A woman, a mother, perhaps, not a student, stops to take pictures  of a cherry tree in bloom.  Not unusual except that it is night.  It is night.  I watch her in fascination, entertained, as she, a tourist, moves around the small tree, capturing this angle, then that.

For a moment it’s all I need, this wall, this woman, this tree, her focus, the rest of us forgotten in her task.  I have all I need, this wall, this perch, to be audience to her passion, a false connection, a bit of her joy that I can steal and make my own.

Author’s note:  Pingback to fourwindowspress added March 24, 2012 because Sonja’s Night Blossoms reminded me of this moment again.  Thank you to Thomas Davis and the amazingly talented family over there.  


3 Comments

Loneliness minimized

Across the continents people live in homes

Very much like mine but not in the least bit similar

Sunlight beaming through their wide open kitchens

Sipping coffee in the morning, sitting by the bright windows

Some searching for the last lost chance in the tattered purse

To bring home something to eat, a meal that has no time, nor name

Eventually someone comes along after a long time

Time that I spent working, running around, being lazy and talking to friends

All the time, feeling alone,

Never mind if there’s are twenty people with me or one

How have you been my friend?

It’s been a really long time since we last spoke

You’ve been doing things I see,

All by yourself you say?

I hope you wouldn’t feel too lonely

It all comes back in a rush,

Sunlight, walks beside the rivers in places that I never visited

A mere fragment of a bygone conversation

A piece of someone’s imagination

Breathes its warm promise into the cold corners of the mind

Friends who stay close, those who are far away

all of them talk and try to keep the warmth flowing

distances, and things are mere formalities

closeness is a matter of heart and thought

When exactly was I lonely?

It’s probably the most difficult thing to achieve

Because the whole wide world never left the room

In bits and pieces once, and then in unfathomable entirety.

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