A Friendly Goodbye
Poem 1: A Boy And His Painted Piano
he used lively greens
touches of plain mauve
and rainbow trout splatters
to paint music
on the gas fumes
that inhabited the clean air
that once use to live there.
he made the ugly decaying
neighborhood i lived in
bearable on even the worse of days.
he was the soft harmless rays of a comforting sun
and responsible for the smiles that broke through
the usual dismay on the faces of seven to ten year olds
already sold on the idea their life expectancies were
somewhere in the low twenties.
life isn't always about the new iPhone being released
he represented hope.
hope that someone could make it out of the sewers and return
to free the whole chain gang presently locked firmly to a large solid steel post.
even in the dingiest basements of the worst streets
somehow, a whiff of hope threads through the tar laden atmosphere
and children rise above the manhole covers
that would otherwise maim their existence and keep them
buried below the impossible dream.
luckily there is always a don quixote who sees beyond
the all too real windmill set to blow others away?
Poem 2: A Street Puddle
what story hides
in this street puddle
what do the reflections want to recite.
one broken flower lies on the wet tar.
the wall cracks from the very bottom to the top
sitting there are black boots quivering
stalked by white boots with their bully badges yelling "comply"
blind to the co-operation to their commands. deaf to pleas of mercy
as black rubbers fall
as the wall echoes their cries
three boots stand and you wonder where lies that fourth boot.
do the mass boots of all kind even care
black feet walk as their words float
to fill the air drawing on the sky "no justice no peace"!
time passes, deceptive winds clear the atmosphere and...
weeds grow through the concrete to climb the walls
you can see the shadows large against this impromptu screen
and nothing changes. white boots rule.
Poem 3: In The Beginning
I have always been here.
I was here when you turned the Earth's Stomach.
When it regurgitated your acid tongue
stripped the land of its roots and nothing grew.
When you thought you could just skate through
but instead fell through the lake and froze the Planet
from one pole to the next.
When you cheated the Sun of its permanent spot.
Had it not been for romance who placed
an infinite sparkler in the night sky
who orbited earth barely clad in her white night silk dress
you might of owned time.
I was here
when you flooded the land
but you hadn't counted on
everything changed and you retreated
to your original pit of fire.
maybe you could deal in souls
you knew what was coming
when the heavens opened
and released the winged guardians
so here we sit
the best i can hope for is
good and evil
I'll take my chances with those odds.
Poem 4: A Boy And His Wooden Dragon
a detailed wood carving of a dragons bust leads an ancient
ship through an unforgiving storm.
if this replica could only breathe fire like the ones in children's tales
his face is lifelike, ferocious!
one could swear trails of smoke escape from his nostrils,
i am convinced his eyes are real emeralds.
the waves against the metal ship,
the salt that dissolves the rust,
flows over the dragons neck,
giving one the impression the creature is bleeding.
old wood has no life flow...
no pump to circulate sap
...i'm convinced this inanimate portrayal is leaking vital fluid.
the craftsman's hand has...,
a long shot to say the least...,
given his formation...
can the craftsman's artistic soul be so intense as to breathe
a half life into his meticulously chiseled creation?
how much power does the real artist?...
on a more practical line of thought,
will we survive?
"who cares" i think "that decision rests not in my hands."
i foolishly climb the dragons neck.
i remove my shirt to use as a tourniquet.
i apply it to his gushing neck in an attempt to heal him.
the whole time stroking him in a calming manner
suddenly he releases a breath
he opens his jaw wide
and exhales fire equal to that of a volcanic eruption.
and just like that
the storm stops.
the sky flashes his baby blues.
would we make it back to land?
is this just an ironic pause in the inevitable egregious battle yet to come?
time would tell.
time always tells.
never trust time with a secret.
time would tell
that is all we have
Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2015