27 February 2021 Saturday Poetry Prompt: frustrated history

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Photo by Steve Johnson on Unsplash

In order to get started, I push past the glass and steel door, remember when I could smoke inside here, and I still did on Saturday after closing time, spent the night between each other, sharing cigarettes, gasping about the catechism when I thought you were nothing holy, but of course that was me, and you were doing better

comparing scars on the chin that made shaving fucking tough, moaning on the lack of good hair in Winnipeg, tripping off to the bathroom to make sure it’s still good, us, me dyed black to escape the wool, you with your…

I know I didn’t — Reflections — 26 February 2021

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Photo by Ksenia Makagonova on Unsplash

I’ve mentioned it before, but I joined Medium (after asking my Romanian tech-geek friend what a good blog site would be) intending to flood the internet with essays on disability. I had just graduated from my Master’s program, heady with my newfound knowledge of justice for the disabled. I believe, then as now, that society needs to think differently about their disabled populace. We aren’t children. We have the same hopes for life as the rest of society.

And, yet, the framework of our perceptions of the world are scary different.

But Medium…

I am truly amazed by the wealth…

A Poem

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Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

Don’t stand there
declaring your passion for the world
one I suspect
was recently kept in an old Pepto Bismol bottle
in a drawer
and then ignore me
on the streets, as if I were the man
at the party
your host gestures to with impolite
eyes and demeans, “yes, him…”

Don’t make clever arguments
for the passing of time
then do your best to be static

I don’t look kindly on that party in the old fire hall green and dim light and people in rooms with grins and satire Those stifling moments you keep breathing but you’re unaware…

A Poem

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Photo by Steve Johnson on Unsplash

What is it…
then the pull back to the gallows
of thought

Structures erupt in procession
standing just long enough
for a critical eye to take part
until the scene is the same
on every horizon

Stilled, you make
your uneasy way to the glass
with rye in it

These are variations on tombstones
a writing of memory only
to remember, and taking history
so literally, breathing choice
down every unwary neck

It was already
so dark this morning, so dark
and you wanted the sun

The constitution of passing moments contrite now that everything was recorded wondering how they…

J.D. Harms

Former hairstylist, perpetual philosophy student, swallowed by poetry, writing, ideas

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