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~ Poetry by Charles Joseph

Sircharlesthepoet

Tag Archives: poetry

Memories Left in the Night

18 Wednesday Jan 2023

Posted by sircharlesthepoet in poetry

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creativewriting, literature, love, loveandart, memoriesleftinthenight, Pain, poetry, writing

I wanna do some things tomorrow,
so I need to leave early. I have to go, dear friend.
but don’t turn it off; leave the entertainment in the night

pleasure can rejuvenate, but life will go
time will find its match, while you’ll be here
inundated by pleasure, staggered by intimacy.

let the dark preserve what could’ve been
guard the memories, so each time regret gets too near,
we’ll recline into the night—give life to these moments again

————————

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if i die in my sleep

09 Monday Jan 2023

Posted by sircharlesthepoet in poetry

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activism, Americandreamdeferred, creativeliterature, ifidieinmysleep, poem, poetry, purposefulart, withpurpose

my mother struggles for the care of her community
drop outs on broadcast with a curriculum in their mouth,
the avenues always studying.
so why the education that you offer?

which level of this cycle begs the most for attention?
my brother strives to open our eyes
presenting to a collection of disguise
he’s the example, avenue. a Promise
but our stomachs ask for attention, too

if death comes for me, tonight
where in my sleep will it place the blame?
am I a bad student? or do certain teachings drowse me
amiss to the dreams deferred before i knew of sleep
the dreams yawning, yearning, to be awake in the present

my uncle’s teeth are rotting
but Which lesson in life did he not learn?
Which course initiated the faults in him?
Which choices were his to make?

—————————-

This poem was the result of an assignment I was given by an organization. The instruction was to write a poem that touches upon the idea of “The American Dream Deferred.” I wrote the poem and sent it to them, but I never heard back. It’s a great piece though. I surprised myself too.

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How To Wake Up Early

02 Monday Jan 2023

Posted by sircharlesthepoet in poetry, writing

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Tags

firstof2023, firstpoemoftheyear, literature, morningperson, newyear2023, poetry, Secretstosuccess, writing

you first wake up by setting
six alarms that you cannot tell yourself
you will ignore or, much better,
turn off as that will stop the lousy disturbance

the smartest person in the world will
tell you to go to sleep early and make it
a habit, but they surely have forgotten
about the dark sleepless road before success

now their words have some significance to you
though most of you think it is much easier
to give merit to a darkness with struggle
when all of your garments, actions and words
reek with success already

———————-

I wrote this after watching a Billy Collins Masterclass. It’s something quite fun. I hope you wake up early this year 🙂 Happy 2023!

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Comatose

21 Wednesday Dec 2022

Posted by sircharlesthepoet in Art, poetry

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comatose, iloveyou, literature, love, pattern, poetry, repetition, writing

I never knew how it started.
I’d just always be sitting at that seat when she walked into the car. Then

That became our thing.
That became our time.
That became our train.
That became our car.
That became our seat.
That became our corner.
That became our station.
That became our greeting.
That became our expectation.
That became our reason to smile.

That became our every day.
Until someone was missing

From our thing.
From our time.
From our train.
From our car.
From our seat.
From our corner.
From our station.
From our greeting.
From our expectation.
From our reason to smile.

Every day, 11 days.
She knew that was it.

When I woke up, 11 days later,
I knew that was it.

——————-

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i hesitate.

05 Monday Dec 2022

Posted by sircharlesthepoet in poem, poetry

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ihesitate, indecisive, literature, makingdecisions, poem, poetry, relatablecontent, Selfconfidence

and the nervousness is in every crack in my confidence
it slides on all the bends in my personality then leaks out
my fearless structure like an egg almost saved

i shrug
i make excuses
i mask the disappointment with reasons why it was not meant to be,
concealed with a blame away from me.

i dictate the supposed sequencing of the events of the past
perhaps God had made a mistake on how things developed
surely the powers that be mishandled this encounter

i contempt; the opportunity was not of merit, regardless
even though i’ll spend the rest of time thinking about my deeds,
reimagining the event in a world where I get second chances, and thirds,
or a world where i flawlessly predict the obvious next occurrence

even though i’ll shame myself in future recounts
about a great missed opportunity.

—————————

Rest In Peace to all the opportunities we missed because of lack of confidence and nervousness 🙏🏾✨

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where does a train run

28 Monday Nov 2022

Posted by sircharlesthepoet in Art, poetry

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childhood, poem, poetry, poetrycommunity, toys, toytrain, train, welovekids

A train runs in the backyard but the
wooden fences are still leaning from
the previous generation so the train
kept going on its own tracks

five executive reps stuck their ears to the
ground to locate the incoming sound but
the train sometimes runs above so excuse
New York City if it seems to have lost its way

maybe a train runs through walls so
since the great discovery, the bells have
been a mystery and the rolling rocks have
discovered the purpose within their spirit

but the people collecting tickets are well
accustomed so they will never check the
carpet in their living room even though
in a rush they’ve broken the plastic tracks

built on the dead heat of playtime because
that’s where all of reality makes total sense
the conductor on bruised knees. Who’s also
the engineer, the passenger, the fuel, and the
only one who knows the way.

————————-

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Lamp’s Glass

21 Monday Nov 2022

Posted by sircharlesthepoet in poetry, writing

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lampsglass, literature, Naturallove, poem, poetry, thehardshipsoflife, writing

To: Tati Vèlanp 💕

the sharp edges hurt like a flower’s petal
the texture receives grief like a cloud’s golden smile

if I fall in grace forever, eventually I’ll reach hell
so I remain
in confort. Soundless movements of my body
obedience to my wishes, without complaint

so I ask how?
but acceptance is not a choice
it’s a decision made after a day of heavy burdens
even when surrendering all the weight is done relentlessly
unaware of the permanent pain, poison, pressure caused
even when it has to bend unusually for your confort

love is only an idea for the amateur, and the cowards who overthink
the purest form is “what else is there to do?” but embrace—
let me lay my heavy head of a day’s frustrations
somehow, turn density into dispersion, dissipation.

the nights are frustrating.
they leave you in the morning, with creases to flatten
for you to accept a bird’s song that is already rejected
so you might as well choose to live in hell.
so long as the fire shine for my confort
what else is there to do?

————————————

She’s the light of my life! ❤

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Looking at You

14 Monday Nov 2022

Posted by sircharlesthepoet in poetry, writing

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

creativewriting, Infatuation, literature, lookingatyou, Lookintomyeyes, poem, poetry, writing

your eyes in mine
we’re pondering each other’s thoughts
we’ve shaken each other’s understanding of life
and we know the dust will never settle

there’s a game made to bring us closer
but i’ve already fallen into the river in your iris
so i hope to always be a part of you, regardless.

let Earth remember us as artists
overwhelmed by passion, so we consume each other
in the tight chamber with royal elephants on the wall;
a forest of sunshine or absolute darkness;
a temple with mirrors on the wall

webs of betrayal bundled inside, connecting our eyes;
galaxy, flavored chocolate.
cobwebs attach—closing the distance between

———————————————

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City Sports

09 Wednesday Nov 2022

Posted by sircharlesthepoet in poetry, Sports

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citysports, cultureandlife, Handball, newyorkcity, nostalgia, NYC, nycculture, poetry

To Joshua, for all our memories,

I don’t know about your stories with other-balls
but in my city, our sport is handball:

where the outsiders and class-drivers reconciled
their pride, forces and hides
each Friday night, after school: concrete playground
blue round rubber band ball bouncing boldly.
Man, that was our party!

Our palms would bump ’till peel
but this pain, we never feel.
Slaps and echo’s drumming our ear drums
before it resonates into what seems to be an abyss;
a neighborhood made of blocks, corner stores, out-of-schedule buses,
squirrels; pigeons
and apartments ever too tight to fit our dreams,
so the city never sleeps.
Some say it’s because we are convinced that
we will fix these dreams right
each time we’re breaking night.

But days are for society’s demands
and kids walking in bands;
teenagers mimicking gangs.

Maybe we only mimicked cause we knew.
Deep down, there were bigger purposes
than parading around corners, down blocks
where piggies oink with bother:
questions that could never answer
why we’re always shooed off our own territory
with dictation about school, our potentials
which, for now, is in the form of trouble seen in the skin color
of our brother.

We always knew.
This education: stories of doctorates, laws and a backpedal
to instruction,
was only the limits we were told to be bounded to.
There had to be a way to let wind
slide under our capes. Although
we, at times, refused to believe it.

But if a brother could actually use these real life wings
that he won’t shut his trap about,
then, brother, I’ll be the first to slide
up and down rainbows.

Sometimes, even we tell ourselves to not believe in our dreams.
Though this stubbornness in us always sang else:
there’s more beyond being trapped in this trap
with a tight cap.

II
My city life is: handball sessions at the local park’s handball court.
Where you know these Asian kids won’t be beaten.
Rounds on the basketball courts
where you know the black kids are kings of the court.
Skate spots that I doubt are legalized
where the white kids are discovering culture.

Culturally divided, we always were
culturally integrated, we always are
for every now and then,
we mingle our differences in the center of the court—
qualities of: Professional Athlete, Einstein and CEO
losing their differences.

Step behind that white line; cracked line
and serve.

——————————

I posted an older version of this poem a few years ago. This one is edited and much better, so I am sharing it again. I also got the opportunity to meet up with an old friend of mine from freshmen year of high school the other day. We haven’t seen each other in 10 years. It was so enriching to talk to him and catch up with our lives. I shared this poem with him. That was very special for me because he is THE ONLY person in the entire world who could fully understand this poem. And he did. After reading the poem and reminiscing over the good ol’ times, we went out to a deli to buy a handball. We then found ourselves a handball court. There we had our first handball match in 10 years! It was incredible, and he beat my ass like he used to do back in freshmen year of high school! It was a fantastic time. Freshmen year of high school, I would go through the day looking forward to go play handball after school. After the bell rung, we would put our stuff in our lockers, run outside to the nearby park, get on the handball court—we each carried a handball in our book bag—and form teams. Then one of us would walk to the middle of the handball court with the ball, step behind that white line; cracked line—suspense fills the air—and the rest is history. Serve.

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Writing on the Train 📝✍🏾

24 Monday Oct 2022

Posted by sircharlesthepoet in poetry

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Tags

commute, literature, poem, poetry, train, whattodoonthetrain, writing, writingonthetrain

it’s the sense of having nothing to do—
though surrounded by inspiration
conversations bombarding the ear
start an analyzation.

My thoughts becoming lamps hanging
in the obscure tunnel that i travel
with a hissing passion bringing me
to astonishment.

before my destination, I arrive at an idea sometimes
it waits for me—standing on the platform alone,
in the open air, where cold wind brings the echoes
the bench sitting in suspense, waiting for its purpose

—————-

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Welcome back!

  • So much to do but NOT ENOUGH TIME! February 1, 2023
  • Dark, Dark, Dark Moon January 30, 2023
  • My hobbies! January 26, 2023
  • like We January 23, 2023
  • Memories Left in the Night January 18, 2023

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