What’s Lost

grimreaperworld

WHAT’S LOST

When I ponder
my petty thoughts
about
my
joys,
conceits,
earthly pleasures,
wild feelings
of being inside my skin
breathing in the ocean air
or the scent of a beautiful woman,
I begin to grasp what will be lost when I lose my life.

Just the simple freedom to breathe in life
in all its unpredictable forms.

The chance to muse about
my humanity,
my frailties,
my faults,
my frustrations,
and all my faulty notions about living.

Or to able to revel
in the fascination
of listening to my heart beat,
my body creak and breathe,
and my futile attempts
to capture my cascading thoughts in words.

That’s what makes
the Holocaust
and all the holocausts before and since
so difficult to fathom.

All those spirits and souls,
whose mortal coils
were so cruelly tossed aside,
robbed of the beauty,
of experiencing more life.

The real cost is too much to truly comprehend.
Numbers fail us.
A magnitude of destroyed dreams.

My spirit is numbed
by the barrage of atrocities daily.

What is ultimately lost is my sense of loss.

George Pappas

Copyright 2016

 


Backyard Poetry

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BACKYARD POETRY

I despise the
poetry
of exclusion.

It’s a stuffy affair
with hearts
bare,
stale,
and
devoid of any real compassion
and passion.

Because many of America’s greatest poets
have never composed a single word of poetry.

They
create stirring stanzas
with their
lips and tender kisses,
fingers and caresses,
wild crazy loves
and
adventurous lusts.

They compose poetry
in a tender way they
raise their children,
love their families
and reach out
to the wayward,
broken,
and
forsaken
among us.

They are the living embodiment
of poetry
with acts of loyalty
friendship,
hope,
love
and betrayal.

Broken
wild
verses of
poetry
burst forth
at
backyard barbecues,
family gatherings,
drunken bashes,
holiday celebrations,
in bars,
restaurants,
cafes,
and
coffee shops.

Poetry is heard everywhere
and anywhere where people talk honestly
about their lives.

Their life verses
go many times unheard,
unrecognized
even to themselves.

Poetry burns brightly
in their eyes
revealing
unspoken dreams
not yet realized.

George Pappas
Copyright 2016

 


 


Collateral Damage?

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Collateral Damage?

When innocent civilian lives
get in the way
in a war zone,
they call it an accident,
an unfortunate circumstance of war,
a necessary risk,
collateral damage.

What is unintentional
about…

Torn limbs?
Bodies mangled and twisted
beyond recognition?
Shell-shocked eyes staring silently?
Hollow faces?
Lifeless fingers clinging
to life’s remnants?
Bombed out homes?
Shattered hopes?
Fractured lives?
Dreams blown apart?

It’s then you realize
ideals,
ideas,
words,
apologies
are not enough
to mend
the hearts and minds
of those caught in the crossfire,
their futures detonated
and strewn across the cold ground
like bomb fragments,
giving new meaning to the word
accidental.

George Pappas
Copyright 2016
 


WOULD THE CRUCIFIXION HAVE BEEN TELEVISED?

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WOULD THE CRUCIFIXION HAVE BEEN TELEVISED?

I wonder if the crucifixion
took place today
would it be televised
non-stop?

Would the plethora of TV cable channels
cover every aspect
of the death
of Christ
on the cross?

Imagine
a press briefing
with Roman officials
explaining their actions.

Think of
profiles on Mary,
the apostles,
in-depth interviews
with Jesus’ followers
and an exclusive interview
with Judas entitled:
“Why he betrayed Christ: Judas defends himself.”

Ponder the exclusive reports
with those who claim to have witnessed God’s miracles,
including an exclusive profile on the blind man
who claims Christ restored his sight.

Or another profile on a follower who says to have heard Jesus’ last words
or yet another who saw Jesus walk on water
or still, another who witnessed Christ’s resurrection.

This tabloid TV culture
would no doubt turn the
the crucifixion
INTO BIG RATINGS.

All meaning ultimately
lost in the torrent of coverage
nailed relentlessly into our empty souls and lurid imaginations.

George Pappas
Copyright 2016


My Father’s Photos

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MY FATHER’S PHOTOS

My father
was an
accountant
for the
government.

Every day of his working life
he dealt with
cold
hard
figures
and
unbending
numbers.

I believe deep in his
heart
he wanted
to be a photographer.

His love took seed
during his stint in the U.S. Navy.
He served as a photographer on an aircraft carrier
documenting
plane landings,
life at sea
and the exotic places they visited:
Japan,
Philippines,
Taiwan and
Hawaii.

Later he showed
the same care in documenting
our family life with thousand upon thousands
of photos.

Every step we took from the cradle,
every birthday,
every occasion,
my father was there with his camera,
capturing it for posterity.

The documents of our past,
the photos
now sit in boxes in
the closet of my father’s den room
like forgotten artifacts
collecting dust.

The other day
I pulled out one of the boxes
and looked at the photos.
Faces of my youth
stared back at me
shot with such care and love.

I wondered why my dad shelved
our photos.
I asked him but he wouldn’t say.

He’s retired now
but still, the photos sit untouched in the boxes.
I even bought him a photo album
but he just put it in one of the boxes.

I believe the photos
remind him he put aside his true love
to crunch numbers.
They represent a picture of sadness and regrets.

His dream is languishing,
piled in cardboard boxes,
frozen in pictures of our family’s past.

George Pappas

Copyright 2016


Trigger-Happy

 

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TRIGGER-HAPPY

We’re all trigger-happy to
our rotten souls.

We’re all trigger-happy
more than we ever cared to know

Shooting holes through each other’s dreams
more trigger-happy than we seem.

We killed JFK in Dallas and
Martin Luther King in Memphis
and made excuses for what we had become.

We left John Lennon for dead in the
New York streets
and sang songs that sounded out of tune
on our bitter tongues.

We’re trigger-happy and
trying our best to deny it.

Blaming movies, TV, and music for the darkness
that resides in our souls and hearts.

We shot down compassion
one too many times.

The root cause of another massacre covered over by convenient lies.

George Pappas
Copyright 2016


Twitter: An Intriguing Haven for Poets

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Twitter is an intriguing haven for poets.  The platform’s brevity of communication — being limited essentially to 140 characters — has helped foster the rise and popularity of micro-poetry.

Now, I have written poetry since I was in college and I have developed longer poems that you can read on this site and will eventually publish in collections.

I have recast some of my longer poems into Twitter poems, but I have also written poetry specifically for Twitter. I believe we are inventing a new form of poetry on Twitter that is bolstered by the social platform’s immediacy and shorter communication bursts that we call tweets. Some have tried to turn their Twitter poems into digital and print books — something that I may consider in the future — however, I think Twitter poetry is best experienced online rather than trying to repurpose it into past formats and styles. Additionally, the response that you receive to your work is timely and it is encouraging for a poet to have admirers (or even those that are not fans) share and comment on your work.

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You can find the work of Twitter poets of all backgrounds and styles from around the world by accessing numerous hashtags such as #poetry #poets #poet #micopoetry, etc.

The life of a poet and writer can be lonely and isolating where you many times doubt the value of your work. The overall enthusiastic support I have received to my poetry on Twitter over the years has been beyond inspiring.

You can find me on Twitter at @gpwriter where I share my tweet poems, thoughts about life and my novels as well.

Poetry, which is ignored by many as one of the least understood of our art forms, is finding a new and vibrant life on Twitter. You should check it out.

GP