The Bunker

The thirty survivors found the bunker at daylight.

Life became a hellish routine of nearly surviving,
yet Trina says she never wants to leave.

She speaks of jumping rope and barking dogs.

She speaks of torrid flames.

Trina sees patterns in everything; God is
here, she says, as a mist or ripples in a pond,

He is in this sunset, as pink as living coral.

(c) Rob Goldstein 2017 All Rights Reserved

Steven “Jesse” Bernstein: Tribute

from Crazywriterof6

Crazywriterof6

WARNING: This poetry can be very depressing and cause anxiety in some. Please read or listen to with caution for your own emotional state. Jesse is also a genius in his expressions and descriptive poetry.

Mr. Bernstein was an amazing “Spoken Word” poet that went through way too much. His birthday was on December 4th. Rather then tribute his suicide (A loss for all), I prefer to celebrate his birthday. I thought I would introduce some of you to his poetry. Remember it can get rough.

I hope to publish some spoken word poems of my work on here someday.

Enjoy and please take pay attention to the warning above. I relate to this poem. Never having self-esteem ever for my looks… FACE And of course MORE NOISE

I hope you find a new poet you love listening to him…

Steven Jesse Bernstein — Face

And

More Noise by Steven…

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Afterimage

A snapshot of you

perched on a Pony

Mommy holds you up:

your curly blond hair

almost transparent

that bright November

day. The image

disintegrates;

nothing left

but the memory

of your sunlit

face

but it seems

I’ve

lost that too.

There is always

more to lose.

(c) Rob Goldstein 2017 All Rights reserved

Life at the Bottom of the Sea

Mr. Toad, come to life, whisper
something dear; there’s a devil
on
the headboard, he

sways and strokes

his beard.

Digital abstract made by layering digital photographs made in virtual reality
There’s a Hole in the Bottom of the Sea

On a lump of the branch through the
bog of a brain in hole at the bottom

of the sea

Mr.Toad is lost

to

lost treasure.

The devil sez, “Do you recognize the World,
Mr. Toad?”

“No,” says Mr. Toad.

The devil sez, “Then you ain’t going nowhere.”

We sing the blues and get a bowl of oatmeal.

Life at the bottom of the sea means three hots
and a laxative.

Every so often a guard swims down to tease
us with air.

“Hey fag,” says the guard. “How’d you
like this bubbling up yer butt?”

We smile and speak of rock stars
and world politics.

Our lips shimmer with fear.

Rob Goldstein © 2017