The boat is already gone
by the time the water
finishes talking about it,
two long seams
folding back toward each other
like a wound
that has decided,
on its own schedule,
to close.
Nobody teaches the lake
to do this.
It just remembers
displacement
the way a body
remembers a person's weight
on the other side of a mattress,
a dip that holds its shape
long after the sleeper
has become
someone else's weather.
I used to think the wake
was proof of the boat
evidence, a signature.
Now I think it's proof
of the water's patience,
its willingness
to hold a disturbance
just long enough
to be honest about it
before smoothing over,
because permanence
was never
the lake's job.
Somewhere behind every leaving
there's a version of this,
two lines drawn by displacement,
closing slowly,
not because the leaving
didn't matter,
but because the water
has other boats to carry
and only so much memory
it's willing to spend
on the shape
of things
that aren't
coming back.
Double Con Don says he hates it,
But we know he lies more than a bit.
It’s not the hate he’s feeling—
It’s displaced anger he’s concealing.
Is it for the many times she missed campaign rallies,
Or as First Lady, having poor performance tallies?
Maybe it’s for the absence from the White House
Or from the bedroom as a spouse.
So, he redirects his anger at the East Wing
And destroys it with the fiat of a king.
Did he give her any warning or destroy it in a blur,
Removing the First Lady’s office to spite her?
I’d like to reach into my pocket
And use all those wasted times of past displacements
Stored there for just this momentous occasion
A fatalistic fantasy for immortality. . .
For I know that one day
My time will run out
But for now, I intend to keep on pocketing
And using as I please
I’ll let you know how it’s working
When I’m two hundred and three
Complex and profound,
The many forms of migration,
Each resonates and weighs differently....
The migration before famine,
After the harvest,
They are not the same...
The migration from oppression,
And that clandestine flight,
Across guarded frontiers...
The migration of cultures,
And of traditions and tongues?
And identities unsettled so fragile...
The migration from familiarity,
After a community,
Has been dismantled...,
That poignant migration,
Your story is interwoven with mine,
In our collective diaspora...
Whatever the impetus,
Migration leaves its mark,
And the echoes of its journey,
May often reverberate,
In generations that follow...
Migration is also sometimes,
An unspoken odyssey,
That we yearn to hear.
I grew in the soil of a forest fire
From the minute my seed fell
I was the disgraced one,
Cursed to grow within the ashes
Of something meant to last a lifetime.
Now standing among my peers
I am lost.
My branches not quite right
and my trunk the worst you’ll ever see,
Im forever misplaced,
no forest dark enough to hold
the weight of my roots
Or handle the rage within the sap
Seeping through the cracks.
I will forever just be the hollow tree
misplaced in a forest of dreams,
The one that had to grow looking to
A light that burned away long ago.
zephry wisps rising
eyelids flicker in soft breeze
gardenia aswirl
Howmanysyllables 5/7/5
group #2
A back water wash Displacement of large water. Caused by the earth quakes.
Tsunami roaring. Tsunami means harbor wave. It makes roaring sound
A series of waves Tsunami, a tidal wave They are giant waves
[]
i call it anger displacement
see how many s i can get in one sentence
etty it
effort is another reason
i seldo
start were i finished
There is very little humanity i tolerate
if i had a
to much effort to give it
little i hate
littler i love
not mad for seeing what's coming
we have doomed ourselves
cant hear for the jet engine high above
as it rips through the sky
I am sorry for the skies
that bountiful blue with cloud creatures astrewn- i know but sounds right
every bladed grass
every orchard paved
all the beaches have no water
just rinse the glass once more
Hope the cats and dogs take over
and reign
In the dark corridors of want we trudge
With dreams and reality walking astride
Surfing on the turbulent hope's tides
We ploughed, watered and waited for greening seeds
So there again the same old story goes
We left school and the comfort our homes
Knocking on locked gates hoping for open doors
In mind with blooming dreams and smart goals
We are here between the sun set and the sun rise
And In hope we dance and sizzle until we rise
As my fellow mates searching for a decent plunder
like savages lost and hungry we do and did wonder
For a couple of months we tried in vending
And a score of weeks spun luck in tyre mending
We did things we never thought we would do
and told people we do things we never knew
So the hinterland cast us, its own to the dogs
And the paths we followed are blurry with mists and fogs
So the hinterland thrown us to the streets and the worlds
And the greener pastures we sort turned to be molds
Now let's wait I heard an oracle last night
That the meek giant will rise up and fight
That the hatchlings that are strewn to the dust
Will retrace their foot path and rebuilt the burnt nest
SON OF SEOUL
Child presses sweet head to her,
While mother holds fast to him
Man busses forehead, soft lips tight
‘Gainst acorn-colored skin.
From ashes G.I. soldiers rose
To souls of Seoul set free.
Much taller than the rest, one stood
‘Bove war-torched Calvary.
And drifting now to streets of home
And bird-song tones of voice,
Her heart aches for freedom sounds.
Her sentence, Life, was choice.
Hiding loneliness in a treasure chest
Her soldier man won't find,
She forever bleeds for Seoul's sweet spice
to free her captured mind.
This child on her lap had been
Her altar-offering hope
That life could rupture forth again
Through scourge of blood and smoke.
But images of her home dissolve
As Soldier-shell draws in
And presses tight dead lips against
Her acorn-colored skin.
What is life?
At this exact moment
Sitting in a hot crowded bus,
Headed somewhere absolutely meaningless to be in,
Yet feeling no sense of displacement for it.
What is life,
Wandering through unknown roads
Working with unknown people
Helping them in their strange endeavours
Yet feeling no sense of foreignness for it
Is life so meaningless
That doing things obviously meaningless
Doesn't give a feeling of
meaninglessness.
Have you found a place in the world yet?
Perhaps just that one where you can belong?
A one place and time you have swept
A place you know you have lived to begone
Creating moments beyond grasp to flee
Have you that living moment for yourself only?
I would like to remember the moments that made me
Have I that touch unfelt to consider barely?
We all assume to have lived like someone
When even we ourselves barely grace the surface
What is it that we know... what have we become?
To be advising someone else for our dreams to chase
Can we just not think we know everything?
Why do we always think we know and pretend to know more?
Why and how does it mean from nothing?
Are we all living from someone else's advice before?
Can I say... perhaps far too many times I am swept
And my foundation isn't dated to belong
Simply... the world isn't to belong to anyone yet
Simply because... humanities are made to be gone
Exhausted to the very end, I don't know how much more I can take. Mentally it just
never ends for me, I fear my life is a stake.
I feel like I am spinnning around in circles, I am dizzy from it all. No matter what I
do to make it stop, I am quarented to take a fall.
Flat on my face again, now lying in the dirt. Open up and deal with the pain, I know
it's going to hurt.
I am my own worst enemy, defeat is starring me in the face. I can't find the
strength to pick myself up, off the long road of disgrace.
I surrender to the demons within, they have taken over my mind. Infected with
insanity, what is left for me to find.
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