We don’t do a great job in this
matter of state
At best when we are listening
it’s sandwiched in with other thoughts
The best we can hope for is to sound intelligent
and hope to hell we don’t get busted for daydreaming
It’s gets worse as get older, thoughts lean towards
drinking or consuming food
It’s a work in progress for we cavemen
But this poem is proof, I’m thinking about it
Some street cred please…
I’m a certain
red-headed species
of human
who wishes she
looked good
in hats
whose hair
is not a natural
color
whose smile
is not a
natural smile.
Time works its ways. The island in
The river in your hometown erodes.
Jim Crow is no more and Germany
Is one. Liver spots and wrinkles
Colonize your skin. Japanese vets
Apologize for Pearl Harbor. Today
Clock hands release white doves at
Hiroshima flying on ticking wings.
You were sweet once…
like a warm breeze
that brushed my cheek
under plum trees.
And had I the power
I’d have stood the world
on its head
to prolong your kisses–
those little miracles
ignorant of time
and vaporous years.
Oh, you were so sweet once
but like all mirages
you disappeared behind clouds
and faded. And I,
in the end,
was nothing more
than a quick shadow
that crossed your cheek
when your infatuation with me
expired–
And you discarded me
like the pit
of a devoured plum.
It took one glimpse and I was hooked.
My dried out tears embraced your beauty as I looked.
I fell inlove with the song of your soul.
It resonated so deep that it made me whole.
I was healed with a touch of your heartbeat.
My dance was abstract and so were my feet.
I fell for you.
Words can be soft
like a rose petal
Or can stick in your throat
like thorns, piercing and
grasping your tongue.
A single word can
heal a broken heart,
Or rip it into pieces
like a sharp blade.
Some words get stuck
deep inside our soul
without making a sound.
Those are the ones that
hurt the most.
They say,
20s are about finding your soul.
They’re about,
Festivities, fornication, friendships,
Frolicking, finding freedoms,
Finding yourself,
Helping, hoping, holding onto things,
Letting go,
Hungering for happiness,
Juxtaposing juvenile values
With mature morals,
And now, at 22,
I can say,
“I am a citizen of a world
Where the glory for gold seems
Out of step
With the visions of God.”
There’s a place in my memory,
An awful waste of space,
Analogous to a perpetual prison,
Where
Regrets are kept alive,
And over time, morph into dementors.
Eclectic group of Soul snatching villains
That bankrupt me of emotions
And other fragile treasures:
Innocence, naiveness, sincerity,
gullibility, and optimism.
If the mind was a farm,
They’ve neither cropped bitterness,
Not razed faith.
They have sown principles
I reap daily and thrive off of.
For they are my teachers.
More at http://www.about.me/C.Hemsley.