Postcard From The PastTo a future love,It's been 21 years now and I feel that it's time I wrote to tell you it's okay to come home. I know I did things and felt things that may have kept you away, and I apologise for that, but I'm ready to meet you now.They say that there is someone out there for everyone, and that one day we all meet our soul mate. I'm finding it hard to accept this prophecy and I guess most people would until that day arrives. That day when they meet the one that they'll share their time with. I need you to prove them right, otherwise I'll always be just another non-believer.I know who you are and what you'll be like. I don't know the physical attributes, but they are neither here nor there to me. I know that you'll enjoy random trips and new places, the smell of bonfire and thunderstorms.Your ideal evening would be spent under the stars, no modern appliances to interfere with the nights ambience.You wont shirk at bolts of lightning across an inky sky and you'll hap
This is where I leave youI just love dramatic titles. I'm not leaving you though, but yes today is the day that things change after such a long time.I started my Volunteer career on DeviantArt in July 2010. So that means I've been floating around your inboxes, DDing, writing articles and doing lots of photography related shenanigans for over half a decade. Of course, I started out long before that but offically and all that, it's been over five years.Half a decade. A Demi-Decade. Five years. I have to say that it has flown by. From the day that I first pestered Moonbeam13 into letting me oversee a gallery that technically wasn't vacant (Abstract and Surreal Photography), to today when I'm stepping down from my role co-overseeing General Photography - time has flown. I have worked with some incredible people, not least Moonbeam13 who has taken on lots of my crazy ideas, contest themes, reccomendations for fellow volunteers and so much mor
I thought I knew my death.I thought I knew my death. He grabbed my heart one day and squeezed tightly, banded fear wrapping its way around my body and terrorizing the air from my lungs. "Not..Like..This.." I would gasp, thinking that there must be some better way out. I would start to beg but it would soon be over. He'd release me and my body would give up. There would be nothing left to say.I thought I knew my death. She would slip into the shadows some months before I thought my time was up. She would slowly take my memories for my own, replacing them with child's talk and nonsensical things. "Oh please, won't somebody help me." It would be a rhetoric, although I wouldn't know that then.I thought I knew my death. He would seep into my skin and beneath my bones. Disease would spread through my veins, shutting me down. My very soul would ache, because cancerous ways could do cancerous things. He would wrap himself around my very voice, my heart, my tissue and my being. "Take me home." I w
Counting BonesTo An Unknown Lady,They found your remains a few days ago. They speculate that you were buried more than half a decade ago. Yet people have only been looking for seven days. Properly looking I mean. Somebody somewhere must have searched out of love for you the minute you disappeared.We don't know much about you yet, but the newspapers will begin to piece together fragments of your tragic life and how you came to be lying in the earth without recognition. No gravestone, no testimony to your living and breathing existence, not even an empty vase with the congealed dead particles of flowers to signify grief.There are flowers there now. Does that make you feel any better? That hundreds and hundreds of people now know of your existence in death? Recognition such as this would never have been craved in life, but if it was all you could claw back once you had died would you have shouted from the hilltops that you lay beneath cold grass?You're not the only one. You are
The Grey LadyWhen I first saw her, sitting in the middle of a vast armchair, staring out of the window - I was reminded of the Grey Lady. She was Grey. But she couldn't have been more than eight or nine years old. Her hair was long and perfectly straight but it looked dusty. As if she had been sitting there for years, forgotten. Her eyes were sunken, sallow. Her skin was a pallour of grey that I've never seen on a human being before. Dark, damp, but it looked as though if you touched her a cloud would form in front of you. Dusty.I was one of the unfortunate parents roped into going on a residential school trip to the Lake District. It was my job to tick off the names as people left the reception of the school and clambered into the bus. I ticked my own son off as he stood beside me, nervously reaching to catch my free hand and continued through the list of his classmates one by one. The grey girl didn't move and I hesitated as I ran my finger down the register. I had ticked every name and it was a
Three days of the LastShe spent a lifetime of living in order to prepare for her death but the final steps and the lasting moments were spread out poignantly across just three days.On the first day of the last, she taught all that she knew to the one who would be left behind. She imparted the final gifts of her wisdom with every ounce of strength that she had left.On the second day of the last, she said her goodbyes. She visited each of her family in turn and helped them to understand, in her own unique way, that it was finally time to let go.On the third day of the last, she removed herself from all that she knew and all that knew her and climbed the highest mountain with the bestest view from her dreams.On that final day, the last of the last, she fell into the deepest of sleeps.Peaceful, endless and comforting.
Four Thousand PiecesWe met outside the morgue. You were there with your hair too bright and clothes that we had fought over that very morning. You were crouched, your body looking impossibly small and broken. You can't wear that out. You look like a prostitute.I'm eighteen years old Mum, I can wear what I like. All at once you were the brand new baby that I had held in my arms, sobbing over the tiny miracle that your Father and I had never thought possible. Then, you were five years old, and it was time to begin school. You had looked up at me with big green eyes and a serious smile as you proved over and over that you could fasten the Velcro on your brand new shoes.You smiled at me now, outside this place that we didn't belong in, and I saw the stabilisers that Gary had taken from your bike. He had watched you cycle down the road, ten years old, the proudest Father at that moment in time. I could tell you that he hid tears from you that day. But I don't.Instead I ask you how your day wa
I am not myself anymoreDeath lay in the middle of the lawn this morning. There was no frost or early morning dew, instead a cool grey palour explored the sky with fingertips of gruel. There was nothing to suggest that anything else had changed, only the smell of grief and the echo of regret crossed into the morning air.As Death lay, the sun rose and lit up the curling tips of springtime petals. The leaves on trees crackled and stretched almost imperceptibly. They shook away the yawns of Winter without a backward glance. Hungrily, with two steps to the left and a raunchy shake of boughs they jived into Spring.Life continued as Death lay. The groans of people as they woke to face another day and shrugged off the idea of somebody else's problem tiptoed out of half open windows and unhinged doorways.Death didn't change her position in the middle of the lawn. She lay beneath an Oak Tree that they say takes three hundred years to grow, three hundred years to live and three hundred years to die. She tho
The Anti GuidebookI don't expect you to understand. Nor do I expect you to believe. I always believed in telling the truth unless I got myself confused in which case I would lie as convincingly as I can for as long as humanely possible. My propensity to begin this guide comes from years of staring at glossy picture perfect photographs of far away places. You know those kind of books, the backpackers guide to wherever.... The kind of books that you take for granted the author has seen and experienced the taste of Africa and the smell of China first hand. When in reality they could have wiki'd or google'd or found the information needed for a bestseller with some quick tickle of fingers.You see, I stood on a bridge on a balmy summers evening with my back to the moon and my chest braced against the breeze. And then quite simply, I let go. I never expected the August wind to carry me, I had no hopes and no expectations. I had no need for any sort of guidance in that
The Guardian Wraith of Starlit SmokeOur sitting here by lantern-light together In the thick of a teeming snowfall;The final golden glow,Against the ancient sovereignty of night,Like the last petal off a flower. It is turning three hundred yearsHe never let the lantern drop.The illimitable dark and cold and storm,Whose work is to find out God;And when they came it seemed with a will To carry me with them to death. What comes over a man, is it soul or mind-(The Devil enters like a sapphire wasp)Twixt what to love and what to hate To find out how to get away from God? No one has seen him stumble looking back From having diedInaudibly in thought;The sorrow of having been left behind. The land was ours before we were the land'sAnd having it all made over new From force to matter and back to force,The alrea
UnforgettableFive years of uslearning each other,loving each other,before we took our vowsand began anew. Twenty hours of travelwas well worth it.The paradise we foundin that faraway landtook my breath away. Twelve daysof celebration.Just us,and a cabin in the rain forestoverlooking a black sand beach. Our pale skin pinked under the Costa Rican Sun,the burn soothed under a cloudless sky.We watched glimmering stars,brighter in the absence of city lights.Transformedby foreign tongues and familiar arms.An experience with no parallel.Taking our commitmentand testing itmaking it stronger.I hiked on slippery rocksto get to that special place,to stand underneath that waterfallwith you.To laugh with you,to take in the wonder of the worldin your company.To smile just because…I married you.
A Farewell to MoleskineI chose not to water your Oleanders.There was a reason, but it has dried inmy mind like those magenta petals.You stopped buying me first editions,when our friends claimed they mademe seem pretentious. They didn't know about the ketchup stainon Catcher in the Rye, or the highlighterI took to This Side of Paradise.They didn't know anything about being the oldestbook on a shelf- The fact that dust yearns for theattentive breath of life to set it free.Words are not prisoners in a flower pot.They do not die with ease.I remember now,I didn't water your Oleandersbecause they made you seempretentious.
What's The Point?What's the point in livingWhen the world is caving in?What's the point in survivalWhen no one gives a damn?You might think I'm crazyFor living on the edge.But It's better than living on the safe sideOnly going where you've been.
If...If all the world knew our pain we might never have sufferedIf all our friends helped us through we might never have sufferedIf all our parents ever cared
asphyxiashe broods in her bubble bathas shespindles with her slender spider-limb fingersa soap-slickened scythe steadily-she's mastering the solemn art ofself-mutilationand,like the faltering fowl she is,her failure of flight wasinevitablebesides, she had long lost her feathersalong with her sleepand, since then, it has beenseven slow yearshe was phosgene- born from lighthe was phosgene- a merciless mass murdererher long lasting war with himhad always endedages agobut not really,as it never really ended at all,not really, noshe leans back languidly,pressing her backbone untoher beaded, bubble-beaten bedshe looks out to the world through her weary windowshe is momentarily molested by the sun's stareand, it is almost as if the gray,wool-woven clouds came over just toclothe, cover, and calm herceleste skies are ricocheted by lemon yellow lightningand a cobalt hueonly to later be gunned down by a chalky,midnight bluerain drops drag downa new beat to h
There isThere is; Joy in your laughter, music in your voice Dance in your step, confidence in your stride Pride in your heart, tranquility in your mind Sweetness in your smile, fierceness in your eyes Comfort in your presence, tenderness in your embraceNothing quite compares
RememberingPeople have always told us,"dont wory their is nothing to fear",we all believed it when we were young,People always let us know that we are okay,With all these things people tell us to keep us calm, People never tell us there will be our turn to fade away,When our turn comes we will just slip away to death,But before any of us take our steps to death,Every person will take life for granted,Maybe only once or maybe more,And this is what makes us fear,Like the little boy I used to be,Before I started dreaming of destiny,My family was close and my bonds closer,Then my grandma was put into the hospital,She was their for a long time and I never visited,But one day when I awoke from a terrible nightmare,I had a feeling and I knew I had to go and visit her,My mom said no at first but I insisted on it,Then I said something that made her see,I had to visit her so I could say goodbyeSo I skipped school and came with,By the b
Seattle NightsCoffee shops, raindrops,My heart stops.Phone calls, shopping malls,Youve broken down these walls.Romantic dates, a warm embrace,Entwined are our fates.Sinking ships, pressing lips,The way you move your hips.Smooth strides, my heart glides,My nervousness now hides.On my mind, pain in rewind,You are the perfect find.Time to waste, off to space,Always making my heart race.
Talking to Myself: A Manifesto for the EgocentricI’ve been told I talk to myself when I think no one is listening.ME: That’s all writing is.ME: Inner monologues.ME: Discussions with the self.ME: I’ve written several novels worth of words to tell myself how selfish I am, or that I’ve fallen in love with the wrong person again, or that dying was never a viable option in the first place. I write to tell readers the same thing.ME: My words are meant to teach others what I couldn’t teach myself. To save others just like writing has saved me thousands of times.People say that art and beauty only come to life when there’s an audience.ADAM GWON (sung): For beautiful to happen, the beautiful has got to be seen.ME: That’s Adam Gwon. He shows up here, sometimes. He is often wrong.ADAM GWON: Hey! No I’m n—ME: For example, I disagree with this line from a song he wrote, called “Beautiful”. Art exists and fulfills a need before it is even seen or read or hear
VoicesDisjointed doppler from my mind,swirling vid clips behind eyes seekingto connect with fatherless sounds long ago;are any of them mine, or orphaned dreams.The haunting cacophony of voices I hearfrom all directions, like thundercalling my name; endless raintouching my soul as it starts to unfold,seeing no peacefor as long as it needs to be told:Put out your cigarette.Why?Get out of the car!Get down!Please, get off me.I can't breathe... I can't breathe...Hands up!Don't shoot!STOP!!They were so nice to me.I almost changed my mind.We forgive him.
WordsWords are such simple things really,she said.Not crowded or obtuse,but slender sageshoused in pulpitsof wood and eventide -graceful and deftin the hands of children;brave oaths and praisesamong the gentle songsof those the world forgets.They should not growlike vainor boisterous chains.Just let them beand they will walk,tentatively at first -until they own the sky.
PrayerPlace your poemson the lips of angelsso you can teach their wingshow it feels to flyalways upward.Mark the summer eveningssoon to comewith the gracethat carried youamong us,warm and cherished softlyand know we will always placeyour wordsamong the stars.
Master Clock Tick. Tick. Tick. June stared at the alarm clock. She didn’t know where it came from, how it got there. All she knew was that it looked almost exactly like her father’s old one, with a yellowed face and bold, old style numbering. It sat on the shelf in the antique shop, and while a thin layer of dust coated everything else, it looked newly cleaned. It seemed out of place in general, she thought, still staring. It was the only mechanical thing in the shop; there were mostly just carvings and furniture. Tick. Tick. Tick. Maybe it was the owner’s alarm clock, and for some reason they’d forgotten it there, though the yellow sticker with the price—ten dollars and seventy five cents—said otherwise.
Somatoseglass stalagmites swell around my body,an ocean wave waxing but never waningout there, I decay from overuse and neglectOzymandias of the boreal forestlook on my works, ye Mighty – I despairin here, I petrify into a fossil of myselflocked in my crystal coffin purpose-builta mineral mandala in three dimensionsonce this was a panopticon prismlife refracted in ten thousand panesand my future just over the horizonnow I wither at the nexus of my sheltermy breath fogs over quartz walls and Ino longer know what awaits beyondbuild a statue in my imagebecause I refuse to die here.
Much more than toysYou´ve been adopting us now for quite a while,puppets of every shape and size, we make you smile.Prettty in silks and lace with delicate frills,we sit in silence on your window sills.Staring out of porcelain heads with plastic unseeing eyes,we´ve become your children, a substitute for real ones,you´ve sadly been denied.Sometimes you change our clothes and you comb our hairand sometimes we´re held lovinglyand then placed upon your chair.You´re a kind hearted person, you always treat us rightand this we all agree on, when you go to bed at night.Some people just collect usand put us on displaybut for you we are your familyand it´s wonderful when you say.Here are all my babies, my little girls and boysThey have to be handled nicelycos they´re so much more than toys.Poem bySuzanne Karbach 17th september 2015
No Words Left!!I've run out of words!I've used up my rhymes!I've only got flerdsand lonely stale brymes.My flourish is malnourished!I've used three heaping helpingsof meandering and whelping,of buggery and brelping.Now I'm quite near starvelping!What to do??Shall I loosen the screwand release my hidden reserveof outlandishly brandished poetic-brewand a jar of pickled swervy-words?Maybe take a vacationto replenish my stagnation,or get yet another refillof my oh-so cleverly-put-pills!Get back to me later...I need time to digestthis grammatical mess.
there is steel underneath these layers of fleshpeople say hearing is the last of thefive senses to go.if that is the case,breathe by my side when i die.
Six WordsIt was a matter of Justice.