BLINDFOLD
I hear childrens voices
filled with laughter and noise,
hopscotched in endless streets,
mingling in sometime dreams.
I hear childrens laughter,
pitching above the hum drum,
of spectacled, so called carers all !
For your own good merchants.
I hear childrens tears falling,
In a rain storm of scary thunder,
beating a retreat in bricks and mortar.
Those merchants of care, no where.
I see the gaggle of childrens tongues,
burning in that mist of cordite,
spectators; comment do nothing.
Carers eyes burn in guilt and greed.
I see children, i see children,
I see nothing, commiting to human!
In hells morning, in flames of religion,
I see dead children, i see nothing.
Tom and his sis hopscotched at the playground
Like two kangaroos going round and round
Their hops filled with wiggles
Here and there, more giggles
Two sock rockets orbit and soon touch down
11/22/22
Children's Limericks Poetry Contest
Sponsor-Eve Roper
10/10/6/6/10
3rd
Old Man Winter slaps at the soul.
But my spade is smiling and sharpened.
I was born in Buffalo.
So, my bones are made from ice picks.
The heart pumps out rock salt by the bowl.
I've been through blizzards, chewed on black ice.
Hopscotched over downed power lines.
Drank from busted pipes.
Got 55 years of calloused fists.
To pound black ice into diamonds of spring.
So, bring it on, old man.
Bring it straight to me!
The morning sun had not yet cut the forest
into shadow and light, and the gray mist of the coming
day fell from the autumn sky.
The creeping fog added its damp prospective
to the Trees. Their visually poetic patterns
were etched in red and yellowed leaves
on muted branches of greys and browns.
Ever Greens dotted the hillside as if
Punctuating the view with quotation marks,
periods, and commas, allowing nature to
write her commentaries in a breath taking language of color.
My mind captured by the fallen leaves, cascaded down the mosaic
of a hillside to the forest floor. It was released by
a small flock of birds that landed in the trees near the lake.
Their fluttering black wings slapped and echoed.
Chaotic chirping bounced with them in a morning mêlée
of song and dance. The occasional red tipped wing
flickered through the hopscotched patterns
of sight and sounds.
Welcomed by the stark morning, and in spite
of the contrast the frolicking cacophony
brought to the once quiet serene surroundings,
My sleeping bag half unzipped I stopped…
the since of oneness made me sigh in completeness.
Every Sunday, I'd hopscotch
to the top of the hill
behind your house.
Not because it was fun-
but because I knew you
would watch me-
and you watching
made my head dizzy
with laughter
so terrific and shattering
my ears would pop.
You used to tell me to
go pretend wherever I
wanted to pretend;
the world was mine-
never be afraid.
The day after you died,
I hopscotched my way
down your hill
where you used to
watch me,
I stole the hope
you had for me,
and embraced it as if
I would never see it again.
I haven't.
The world isn't mine
and I'm still afraid.
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