Long poem by
Terry Trainor | Details |
Sometimes I have the courage to think of the things that made me what I am today,
My memory takes me back to terrible things far away far off into my bitter past,
My mind like a maze of dirty black alleys that smell of waste, loss and disgust,
The losses, the drink ripped away, not happy until it was all gone respect as well.
Invisible thinks of a garden where roses clustered with lilies scent on the breeze,
Bees found stores of honey in the petals of a thousand and one different flowers,
Lovers walked hand in hand along its winding path a beautiful dream of the man,
Bright with the embroidery of nature where children played in new myrtle flowers,
As Invisible thinks of this garden it is neglected but flowers can grow with weeds,
It could put a smile upon his face, a face that had never known any joy recently,
He hopes a gardener can covert this garden get rid of ruined waste, back into Eden,
Tending all the beautiful flowers that spring up with the weeds and smell gladness.
If he helped the gardener in his quest a hand might hold his and guide him through,
Maybe a hand would go around his waist to support him as well as guide his hand,
Dare he wish that the guiding hand and the support would be his angel from heaven,
A dear person to help him clear his garden and walk down the winding path as lovers.
An angel that would smile at him maybe hold his hand and squeeze it so very gently,
Would the angel talk to him and tell him that one day they would be together again,
Her beautiful grace shining warmly as she looks up to him, to her he is her hero,
Not a drunken mess that cannot cope, not a dirty vagrant, but her knight her love.
The tenderness of this beautiful scene in his poisoned mind became real he smiled,
He grinned as she sat down next to him as close a she could get then wriggled closer,
Warmth from her body not only warmed him but gave hope this what he has waited for,
She whispered sweetly she loved him and would be waiting for him and they kissed.
Invisible woke with a start and was she not by his side, was she ever with him,
A dream another heart wrenching let down and how could he have dreamed the dream,
It was so real he still felt the warmth, the impression of her hand holding his,
But it must have been a dream his own mind conspired to deliver the hardest blow.
Lost in a grief so deep, his loneliness complete he talks to Sam his imaginary friend.
These days get worse Sam they really do please help me,
I need to change but I need my drink more what can I do,
But I need to change so desperately Sam can you help?
My world has cracked and I've fallen into the crack,
But what I don't understand Sam that I was once good,
If I had any courage Sam I would be laying in my coffin,
Why does life drag you along with it I don't want to go,
Just a bit of icing on my cake Sam it is freezing cold,
Did you know this is where I was brought up my friend,
Did you know that most of the people that walk past I knew,
Sam! I know many of there people but they don't know me,
Why do they all walk past I wish somebody would help,
Maybe when I have drunk more cider I might feel better Sam,
I can remember being happy but not what being happy is like,
As Invisible sits drinking shoppers give him a wide berth and they look at him with hate.
These people Sam they look at me as if I have hurt them,
The people they are not our sort of people they hate me,
Has the world changed like I have but in opposite ways,
My life is full of sorrow drunkenness and dreams Sam,
Old sorrows wont go away new sorrows should take over,
So we have to face both the old and the new that's bad,
At night I try to close my drunken eyes it all returns,
Sam is that the same as you can you close your eyes,
Can you remember the valleys Sam the ones we used to play,
When we ran about all day Sam in the sun rolling in grass,
The old stream that twisted and turned, it had lost its way,
Floating lolly sticks watching them bounce away on ripples,
Buying bangers in November and throwing them into the water,
What I wouldn't do to go back for just a couple of hours Sam,
Just to feel the innocence and try to bring it back to now,
To enjoy what there is to enjoy and maybe get better Sam,
But that will never happen Sam we are lost on an island,
A well populated island but an island all the same Sam,
People are not like ships they don't bother to rescue people,
They just walk around or just walk away all the nice ones gone,
I remember my school Sam it's now been knocked down and left,
It has all gone, all gone no primroses in spring or bluebells,
Do you remember Sam the bluebells used to nod in the wind,
But they have all been built on, whats the use in talking,
Nothing changes from bad to good Sam remember that, eh Sam,
Still drinking his cider tears well into his eyes his nose runs and begins to quietly
to sob. He sits on the shopping parade seat, shaking as he sobs. His throat has a lump
in it so he stops talking to Sam. Invisible sinks his wet face into his overcoat
hides his misery from the people that walk past he just sat there lost and confused. His
greatest sadness an angel paid a visit to the maze of dirty black alleys that smell of waste,
loss and disgust,
Long poem by
arthur vaso | Details |
The Library of Trust and Hope
The Bank of Trust and Hope
(Cant decide on title, so feel free to pick or suggest one)
She was all but four years of age
Birthdays were such magical moments
The cake was filled with candles
The balloons still in their package twelve on the table
Daddy daddy, I can not fill these balloons!!
They are not magic like you said!!!!!
Do not fret Maria, its daddy who is magical
I shall help you little one, let me see those balloons
Sure enough daddy blew up twelve white and pink balloons
Maria was in awe at daddy’s magical powers
She knew her daddy would fight dragons to bring her but a smile
Maria knew she was safe in daddy's arms, oh what a birthday this will be
Maria was now ten years older
Fourteen years old and already filled with so many happy memories
On this fall day, home from school
There was grandpa in the back yard as usual
He was tending his garden of roses
When she was younger, he told her they were magical roses
Grandma would speak to him in his magical garden
From the heavens above
Now at eighteen, daydreaming in a coffee shop
A stranger picks up a rose from an empty table
A smile oozing in charm, stares into her eyes
This is for you, beauty for beauty
She was swept off her feet, in a whirlwind romance
They danced and dined, it seemed all on her dime
Until the morning she awoke, completely alone
Both lover and credit cards did abscond
Now twenty one, and wise to the world
Absorbed in her studies, somewhat colder than one should be for that age
A chilly fall day in an empty library
A stranger comes, giving her a drawing of a red rose
Hello he says! I drew this for you!
Oh no she thinks to herself, not another one!
Politely she smiles and replies thank-you, but I am taken
This stranger smiles right back and says, the drawing is for you no matter
The next week, and the weeks after, the same routine
He comes to her with a drawing of another beautiful rose
She politely declines his advances
Maria knows that a rose, has a stem, and that comes with pricks
The twelfth week and here he is again
What is the poor girl to do?
She is curious, and she can not quite help herself
She asks, from what do you draw such beautiful flowers?
He smiles kindly and replies
How about next week, I show you?
We can have a coffee, and discuss art
Hesitating she just can not say no to this simple gesture of kindness
They are walking along, and surprisingly she finds herself
Quite intrigued with the ease of their conversation
He takes hold of her hand, and says I live over there, the house in red
She has no time to object as he pulls her forward to the backyard
She stares in absolute shock and awe at what appears before her
Why its the most beautiful, wonderful, enchanting English garden she ever saw
You? she stammers, you made this?
He smiles shyly and says; well now you know what inspires my drawings
Now Maria is eighty and filled with both happiness and sadness
Her husband of all these years has passed on
To be with all his precious roses in the heavens waiting
She sits in their garden, remembering a life time of memories
She picks a single rose, and inhales its fragrance
Contemplating the wisdom's of life
I miss you so much my love
You taught me trust is earned and not given
Your love was my blanket of happiness, wait for me my love,
I am yours eternally
I was lucky in life to have had a good upbringing. My daddy, showered me with love, but most of all he taught me that gifts were not objects, balloons were not magical, nor was he. I learned that what was magical is the time and effort he took to love me, and protect me and those memories I so cherish, but they also he showed me the values I hold dear in myself and those around me.
Then there was dear old grandpa. His garden was his passion, and I suspect that if I could have had more time to spend with him, it was really grandma’s passion, and after her passing, this was the activity that kept him close to her soul. In that respect, I guess it was truly a magical garden. Whenever he saw me, his eyes would light up, he would pour lemonades and he told me such wonderful stories. Unlike many though, he listened to all my troubles and told me, that in life I had to learn some things the hard way, but that he himself knew for a certainty that I would find the love and happiness, that as a young women, I felt would be lost to me forever.
I re-tell my story for all the people out there that have lost trust in others, or have lost hope in humanity. You may have your heart stolen for awhile, someone can bring you sadness, but never let them steal your soul. Learn that trust is earned, not given, and never punish the rest of the world, for your bad experience, for ultimately it is you who suffers most. Be giving, kind and generous, with a strong will and mind. If someone does not respect you, then they shall never earn your trust, and that’s how it should be. Be wise, be prudent, be safe, but most of all be open to love and kindness
Long poem by
Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |
The way of Heaven,
Is it not like the bending of a bow?
The top comes down and the bottom-end goes up.
The extra is shorted, the insufficient is expanded.
(Laotse, "Bending the Bow," pp. 305-6, 1942, Modern Library, Lin Yutang, ed.)
The way of economic paradise,
is it not like the bending of a bow?
The top comes down as the poverty-end goes up.
The fattest are shortened,
as the insufficient expand.
It is the way of Beloved Community
to take away from those upstream, with too much,
by mutually giving those without enough downstream.
Not so with human nature's way:
We take away freedom and power from those without mainstream value
And give them as tribute to those with too much.
Who can have enough and to spare to coredeem the entire world?
Therefore the Sage acts and transacts,
but does not possess or dispossess,
Accomplishes but lays claim to no credit or deficit,
Because he has no wish to seem economically or ecologically superior in value.
(Adapted from ibid)
Bending this permacultural bow of bilateral boundaries,
between host and client,
rich and poor,
stimulus and response,
self and other,
Yang and Yin,
Left and Right,
full summer's incubating heat
with deep winter's decompositional compost,
until all four Seasons equivalently fulfill,
diastolically complete their mutually integrative functions.
When seen together,
through Left's "both-and" ecological
as Right's "not-not" logical dipolar landscapes,
through life's seasons of well-fired water and airy subterranean soil,
through C through F closed-fractal
as A through G regeneratively open pregnant octaves,
through annual win-win economic balancing strategies
reflecting perennial win-lose ecological cycles
of (0)-sum slow revolutionary harmonic balance,
we can each and all shoot comprehensive conscious arrows
into fertile post-millennial enculturation.
bow-hunting each moment as my last
and our more polyculturally inclusive bilateral last step
toward ego death's eco-ionic rebirth.
This more fully organic mind-culture we are hunting
a rich composting Holding SpaceTime
of (0)-centric positive polynomial values
transporting negative not-not non-named,
ignored, neglected, dispossessed and undervalued Disvalues,
lurking behind our Fractal Commons of recycling cognitive dissonance,
slowly pulling into enlightening days and Transitioning Generation
to explore harmonies of scale and pitch,
and developmental learning stages,
proportional polyculturing designs and cooperative guilds
to optimize Positive Systemic Teleology
by diminishing eisegetical "unconscious" dissonance
from our global cooperative orthopraxis--
jump-starting universal co-empathy.
Dynamic subterannual understory,
regeneratively reseeding germination of Holding SpaceTime's
Zero-Sum eco-logical Four Seasons of growth and decay cycles;
too often confused with stagnant ego-serving Orthodoxy
degenerating Earth's gasping Business-As-Usual breath.
Time optimizes sustainable Ego-Yang's diastolic inhalation
through our Self-Subsidizing Eco-Yin-with-Yin cooperative exhalation.
Investing in Ego-reducing praxis for CQI,
Bucky's least dissonant way to improve failing systems
is to upgrade their environmental ecosystems,
their ecological balance and holistic harmonious potential flow streams,
especially their root-systemic perennial enculturation environments
to grow more effective year-round economic nutrients, collaterally,
Positive Teleological Value,
and less cognitive dissonant Ways and Means toward profligate hope,
Truth and Consequences for generating inclusive faith,
in The Good Life and Death of regenerative, coredeemer, love,
a graceful messianic incarnation
of post-millennial Tao ReGenesis.
including comprehensive consciousness dialogue,
grows from primally rooted regenerative fractal systemic practice.
Positive practice intent is not even possible to grow
without a Positive Teleological Assumption,
too often attenuated as merely enthymematic wish fullness.
People harboring insanity, depression, opposition,
high stressed over-populated anxiety,
are less well-oriented to Positive Teleological Orthopraxis
due to a lack of sufficient practice
unveiling contenting implications within contentious dissonance,
therapeutic relationships of mutual basic attendance
and cooperative mentorship.
The way of Beloved Climax Community
is it not like the bending of a Full Four Season
permacultural bow facing bilateral namaste
for life as death reborn?
Long poem by
Cyndi MacMillan | Details |
It’s early morning, Sunday, midsummer. I have the kitchen to myself, and I decide to make an omelet from the brown eggs and farmer's cheese that I bought at the market, yesterday. The house is still, save for the sound of the fans and the occasional squeak of a floor board. I consider turning on the radio, but change my mind. How often do I allow myself silence?
Tea is steeping, a blend called Nile Pearls, and the aroma of pineapple fails to overshadow the black currant. I’m still in my nightshirt. Day can wait. The view from my window makes me smile for my herb garden has gone quite riotous. I decide to make my simple dish more flavorful.
Pushing open the screen door, I pause, stretch and lift my face to the sun. The thermometer is sure to climb over 30 today but, right now, it is comfortable. Stepping off the deck, my toes are grateful for the coolness of the grass, the absence of tight shoes, those self-imposed feminine trappings.
my clean feet
wet with dew –
There is a feeling of sanctity, here. My garden is raised, built into a small hill that provides privacy, yet swallows yard space. I pause to sniff the lavender, let the week dissolve into soft, purple splendor. Pointless, really, to even try to ignore the rhubarb. It is a tyrant, defying borders, refusing to compromise its position. Enormous leaves rustle and I grin as a chipmunk streaks for the cedar hedge. I close in on the herbs, consider my options and snap off several long, verdant spikes.
Close to fields, we have had our share of visitors, small frogs, grass snakes, rabbits, red tailed hawks, the occasional raccoon. Nature is taking back the encroachment of suburbia. I rip off a mint leaf, finger its fur and a movement catches my eye.
a snail inches towards
There is no artifice in dawdling. Often, I think that my small plot of land is enough for me. No adventure to the far East, no sabbitical on a windswept isle off the coast of Wales. Pleasure, riches, surround me. Perhaps, I will never see the Louvre, but then, in small ways, the Louvre visits my plain home.
a spider's web
and my clothesline
The neighbours tolerate my brown thumb, our patchy lawn and my horrid bird calls. They have witnessed the earth under my fingernails, encrusted knees , those afternoons I spent coddling seedlings. One keeps gifting me surgical gloves, a nurse who fights weeds with an antiseptic resolve. The gloves pile in a drawer, unused. I gaze at my roses, notice the gnawed growth, wonder who thinks them delicious. Smart wee beastie. The street is stirring, and my sojourn will end, soon.
the widow next door
refills her new bird bath -
I search for a cloud, find one so far away that it appears otherworldly. Peat and black soil perfume the air. Inhaling, I accept a gentle invasion, a piercing that brings a deep sense of purpose and peace.
For just one moment, I feel that I am not walking the earth at all, but that somehow, as impossible as it seems, the Earth just began to move within me.
*written May 2013.
I miss my herb garden!
Long poem by
Robert Ronnow | Details |
It was a woodcut in our high school history text, Unit 4 Beginnings of the
Modern World, that so disturbed,
from the Nuremburg Chronicles depicting "the burning of the Jews," flat
faces of the victims among flames, in no particular agony, not especially
during the Black Death 1/3 of Europe died 1347-1351 alone. Although
you die together you die alone.
Earlier that week
I had attended our 6th grade's performance of Fiddler on the Roof,
at first thinking
Coltrane should have recorded Matchmaker as a bookend to My
but as the play darkened
with the town's absorption into the diaspora, democracy
yet unthought of and rule of law a fig leaf for authority
Jasper, who played Zero Mostel, delivered his line well to the effect
you're just doing your jobs while wrecking our lives.
Anyway, nothing like that is happening here, is it?
The gardener planting tomatoes, the gravedigger finding skulls,
there is so much life a little death won't matter.
I'm reading Bloom in the Times, how
anyone who doesn't believe Israel should exist is by definition
Come to find out, I may fall into that category - not that Israel shouldn't
but as a so-called Jewish state
any more than a Muslim or Christian land. To some,
Jewishness is not a religion, it's an ethnicity. You have no problem
with the Swedish state, do you?
Should the Swedes be expected to open their borders to the Finns?
was a beautiful ham,
big as Zero.
A friend posed
this question: must all states be melting pots like the United States?
I said yes
not because they should but since
it's inevitable. Let labor flow like capital!
I hate when people disagree with me.
I get angry.
When a plate breaks, it asserts another possibility.
America was the last word of the play and brought a tear of pride to my
Immigration, exasperating argument re the Other.
How many's more than enough? 9 billion, a rational,
real number that exceeds or
is within the carrying capacity of the planet.
Climate change is the new Black Death.
I like the Amerindian body type and face mixed in with the European,
The irrepressible economy rolls out reams of logs, ores of elements, bags
of ice, fields of rice.
Embargo. The moon stares, bare, full of interstellar space.
Better a cold shoulder than a visit from our military.
The crazy Nazis must have felt themselves extraordinarily compassionate
toward the mother, earth, the goddess, history, or some such
abstraction and, thus, acted on a fraction of all they did not know.
Selfless soldiers just doing their jobs expanding the border or,
on the other hand, collecting fagots for "the burning of the Jews."
Long poem by
Robert Ronnow | Details |
How far from nature and life it is
the gray clouds, airplanes in them
the night cooing and pigeons roosting
Sirma's garden gone to roses and seed
That airplane overhead!
pointing the way
pointing to war
War being an aggravated condition of what
we already know
Flowering beneath the noise
of yet another jet passing overhead.
* * *
Why this much sadness in a world so beautiful?
We are sad for the weariness of everything, including earth
(that will go on tropically flowering long after we are gone)
who are nothing
in powerful time's
history, passionate history, coffee between
* * *
Enter into alliance
With the sweet darkness, night!
Night and day, day and night
Everybody knows when the moon is bright.
We dance by the light of the moon
* * *
We dance by the light of the moon.
We dance by the light of the moon and setting sun.
we crow and call
and make the world alive
Two gray-skinned sharks, jets,
embrace in the sky, a blue green oil truck takes
the hill, cobblestoned, in low
* * *
to remain so
by the stillness
the movement of the car uphill
part of your system of beliefs
unmoved by it, parked
necking in the front seat
hawks diving for pigeons' eggs
and so you are compelled to move
by the force that created you. but
you impose your own small order
departing from traditions
human history understands
such as those currently developing
the human mind beyond its past capacities.
* * *
Two straw sandals
blue jay call
two sea gulls
* * *
The jets return
and breathing low
of pure noise.
Long poem by
Ravindra K Kapoor | Details |
A Song If this is My Country..
This Song is dedicated to the brutal Rape victim of Delhi and it’s a message for My Countrymen. The Original song is in Hindi on You Tube with Song Lines Text in English. The Song contains many situations universal and of concern of many counties of the world. The Photos used in the Song too conveys some message and I hope my friends on Poetry Soup would let me have their opinion. The original Song can be viewed on my You Tube channel or through following URL
A Song If this is My Country.. Part 1
If this is my country
It is yours also
Then why you are making
Such a condition of this land. 01
The dreams which we had seen
To make this country
A land, dearest to everyone
Those dreams are weeping
Whenever they see
You or me. 03
Is this the way
To make a new world for us
By nipping and crushing
The dreams and expectations
Of each and everyone. 04
By making the poor innocent children
As street baggers
What an India of my dreams
You have made O’ makers. 05
If this is my country
It is yours also
Then why the woman’s respect
Is looted everyday on its soil. 06
Is the man of today is so helpless
That those who rob the respect of women
Are set free every day,
So that, they may rob again
What an India of my dreams
You have made O’ makers.
Then why you are making
Such a condition of this land. 07
You and Me both have born on this soil
And on its soil only
We would part our last breath. 08
After centuries of long struggles
We had received back
And After great difficulties
We had started seeing
Some blooming. 09
We could have made it again
A garden full of flowers
A garden on which
All the seasons
Would spread their splendors. 10
But what you have made
Of our montherland
A story on which
The world would only laugh.
Kanpur India 07th Jan. 2013
This Song is dedicated to that Bold Girl
Rape Victim of Delhi
Who has sacrificed her life
So that Other Rape Victims
May be saved.
My Channel on You Tube "RavindraKK1"
When Rapes are increasing like a viral disease it is time we should find out the reasons, which are creating an atmosphere of such crimes against women all over the world. It may be a serious problem right now for countries like India but the day is not far off when, when those who are creating such viral through internet would be the worst suffers. My Poem and Video on You Tube on this problem is a very small effort in that direction….Ravindra K Kapoor
Protected under the Copy Rights provisions of Poetry Soup.
Ravindra K Kapoor
Long poem by
Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |
Dark cultures of irritating dissonant pearls,
decomposing zero-souled wisdom,
nondual dark beauty
wherein peace reigns beyond fear
of transparently destined lives
with deathly thresholds reflecting new moon delight,
dancing and singing bright bachanal
through fading dramatic
of future adventurous advents,
co-operative eco-normic id-entities.
Co-gravity teaches and listens
within our mutual messianic school of teleologic,
of polypathic polymorphing
beloved community design and development.
Time's revolutionary atmosphere evolves
just-right warm within this womb
of deep learning.
Spinning Win-Win Game and Group smooth bi-folding theories
of co-condensing Commons
in-formating as SuperSentient eco-logos
absorbing ecstatic abundance,
death's transcendent throes of baptism
submerged in mythic golden strung elixer
flowing inclusive vigorous peace
and harmonically equi-resonant just interdependent ids.
These darker, shorter, days
brewing slow-growth heated silence.
No talking moods and seasons
exploring reasons to grasp,
absorb my siloed suffering,
our species' lack of permacultural awareness
of cooperative economic co-generation.
What could be more obvious?
springs reconnecting life
sustaining primal root system theorems about every thing
yet universal diversity.
Transitional climaxing community designs
exhaling SuperEco's decomposing unitarian
pay-it-forward cognitive gift investment
in Earth Tribe's diverse spectral rainbow
of fractal frequencies and functions
reiteratively mirrord karmic arc forms,
Zero-sum ribonucleic ellipses,
diurnal bilateral DNA memory
of cosmic redemption's fusing fissioned history
transgene-rationally echo evolving
resolving ecologic analogies
in keys of temporal paradox,
deep learning global optimizing economy
of universal transactive relationship
and metasystemic polyculturing therapy.
Nondual transparently aboriginal permacultures,
innocently curious becoming,
salving irritating dissonant pearls and persons,
decomposing regeneration's zero-souled
of Time's Tao-true
nondually manifest destiny,
Dark Octave Harmony,
to breathe back out again
to inhale reconnecting Advent,
ReVolutions of In-Formating Time.
predicting confluent contentment.
Long poem by
Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |
Why is it:
we plant gardens
but we garden plants?
we call natural medicines drugs
and we call unnaturally produced drugs medicines?
we label our disease-hypnotized industrial-insurance complex
as our "health care system"?
we prefer fetal alcohol syndrome, pickled livers, and dead drunk outcomes
to THC induced probable failure to ever develop yet another over-yanged Type A personality,
with an antisocial proclivity for sprouting pickled livers and other deadly outcomes?
we tend to respond to uninvited Type B personality invitations
with Type A fully-alert personalities,
yet we respond to uninvited Type A demands
with Type B laissez-faire, neglect, and cognitively buzzed dissonance?
the older our nation grows
the younger our culture appears to prefer?
we pay more and more to elect politicians
who produce positive policy priorities and outcomes less and less?
the louder and longer I persist in persuading you of my wisdom
the shorter and softer grows your attention span
and capacity to hear me?
we produce prodigious amounts of dispossession destined for the trash
yet we seldom intend to ever possess and take ownership of our future trash?
economists respond to something called ecologic
as if their home eco turf were some alien craziness?
domineering competitive Business As Usuals
fail to see they are a sustainable cooperative economy's
most significant mentor for disinvestment,
and design and development priorities?
every climaxing polyculture produces a master prmaculturalist,
but not every master permaculturalist
has ever produced a long-term, sustainable-optimization-of-life-systems
we seldom have enough time to notice and appreciate new places and faces
but we drag through ponderous time invested in the same ol', same ol' faces
every meme has its own elitist establishment paradigm
but super-paradigm is not a meme?
if some communication event between two people
is called a transaction
then we think "economics,"
but if some communication event between two non-human systems
is called a relationship
then we think "ecosystem"?
that analogy is to logic
as ecology is to logic
but ecological arguments
are culturally dismissed as "merely analogical"?
that digital information is always binary
but polynomial information is not assumed to also flow binomially balanced,
like +1 = (-,-)0,
as Yang-Space = Yin/Yin Time,
as Left-brain econormics = Right-brain double-binding ecosystems?
we invest in gardening well-rooted plants
as we spaciously plant co-evolving value-rooted gardens?
Long poem by
Samir Georges | Details |
A child passes by
So full of joy
A friend by his side
Broad smiles smothered all over their faces, a veil over childhood ignorance
Together they play, tumbling in the grass of the gardens of youth
But before long, before every scent in this blooming garden is taken in, experienced
A thunder storm invades the scene
Shocking reality into their lives
Ravaging their ignorance, their innocence
Shattering their smiles
And with great earthquakes, the ground beneath their feet shatters
And the duo is separated into a quickly spreading mist
It enshrouds them, whisking away their screams, hiding away their tears
And with that sundering, friends of old are replaced by the mist, ever changing
Sharp blades of green dull under the weight of the dew as the mist rides on the back of time
Slowly, like the growth of wisdom, the mist withdraws
With every inch of that once promising garden that is returned to the sun
Another inch of realization is exposed to the world
And where once gleamed blades of green and welcoming rainbows of soft scented dandelions
Now sprouted weeds, thorns battling amongst one another for more room
They sacrifice the shrubs and bushes of sweet tasting raspberries that once covered the
broad smiling faces of two toddlers
And from within the unrolling mist
Strides a man in a suit
With every stride he takes, away yield the weeds, and dwindle away
Disintegrating, crumbling under his very air
And from the foot tracks of his military boots
Sprouts a structure breeding advances, great wonders to awe the world
And what few roses remained in this scarred haven
Are sacrificed, to make way for more boot marks, more wonders to awe the weeds
Now comes another being, out of the retreating fog
On his face is a contorted image
He drudged along a weed ridden path
Tripping and tumbling over boot marks
Each sprouting small, developing structures, non-nurtured offspring of unthinking parents
His tattered clothes, assaulted by time and thorny undergrowth
Hung on him like the shedding skin of a snake
But unlike that of the slithering reptile, this old coat shall not leave its master
Both wandered on, both blind to what was around them, what had changed
Till one day, they walked towards one another
And by some random act of choice, or the strict lines of fate, both blind men came full circle
And without a glance, they strode past each other as they had glided or tumbled past their
ever changing pathways
As if the faces of their past where forgot
© Samir Georges