Stunted Poems

Florence

Florence has warm blood
and cowrie teeth that seldom clatter,
even in the chilled, fluttering dance of July rain.

She’s an element of Shiloh
in weeping quest of a promising Samuel,
and for this,
walks through long and clammy paths in July rain.

July, a month of sacred yams,
with breast tubers and milk tendrils,
befriends Florence,
an eloquent lamenter,
the quintessence of languor,
this day of streaming showers.

I have often had her tears
on my palms —
tears that sob gently, lest the temple yonder
hears her and pronounces them FAITHLESS.

Florence, battered in the rain,
frazzled by extreme caution,
with ambiance of July
and naivete of the grey ewe,
has prayed for her breasts, for her milk
and for the growth of her stunted soul.

I, too, have prayed —
for the rebirth of the seventh moon,
for Florence and her bedraggled sorrows,
and for strength on behalf of our weakened village.

Unshackle Me

The shackles that hold me
Visible to my eye alone.

The collar around my neck
Only cause I allow it.

The chains around my feet
Have bound me to this prison,

A prison I call home
But feels a dungeon.

The boulder on my chest
Shouldn't keep me so stunted,

But what a great locksmith 
I've turned out to be

An oppressor I have made me
To hold myself in place

And even when I try to
I cannot let me go.

A slave I have turned me
To serve until I'm dead.

But maybe someday
Unshackled I'll become.

Stir Of The Starts

In the quiet nook of a loving home,
Is my small world-
fenced by iron bars,
and a limited sky.
Protected from storms
and predator’s eye.
Fresh clean water,
steady sunflower seed supply.
Almost a picture-perfect life.
Yet, I often sigh.

I yearn for lush trees,
and open endless skies.
Where the sun shines bright
And the moon climbs high.
I long to join the chorus of dawn,
spread my wings and fly.
I want to build a nest
with mud, leaves and twigs dry
Teach my younglings
to soar by and by.

One day the door unlatched, 
my stunted feathers gave a try.
I flapped and fluttered,
then bid my cell goodbye.
My tiny little throat
Gave out a joyous cry.

Now I had mountains, valleys,
And jungles to ply.
In this new beginning,
food was scarce,
The streams were dry.
No waterproof nest,
where I could lie.
Stars blinked down
with a silent sigh.
And I had to forgo,
my melodious lullaby.
For the constant fear
of the hunter’s pry.

New starts are challenges,
I won’t deny.
They test your spirit.
But also fortify.
They cast doubts,
Nevertheless, clarify.
So, crush the whispers of fear,
and learn to identify.
For new horizons bloom,
where limits die.

To Bridge The Gap

I’ve never been kissed on the dance floor.  
With him, I feel light-hearted,  
but apart, I’m utterly devastated.  
I’m a dreamer, he’s laid-back,  
and without a genuine connection, our love feels  
like scenes from a disconnected game—  
where hate destroys, yet love seeks to heal.  
But with each passing day, my love for him dwindles.  

We are apart because this kind of love cannot thrive.  
We never dance; we never kiss on the dance floor.  
Our rhythms never sync; he lacks that spark,  
and so, a kiss on the dance floor has eluded me.  

Feelings shift when loneliness takes their place.  
Love wavers,  
when a marriage crumbles,  
as I wish and hope our love was strong enough  
to bridge the gap.  
Unlike wildflowers plucked without care,  
my love was stunted,  
never given the chance to blossom.  

Still, I hold a profound respect for him.  
A part of me must make a choice,  
and so I choose happiness; I choose solitude  
over the confusion of pity masquerading as love.

The Unmet Twin

Unknown to me these parallels ran smooth 
Fraternal twins, unlike in face but both 
Against her sister, but dormant in youth.
My Esau stunting Jacob in his growth

Suppressed was Joseph with his coloured coat
A beauty stunted, tulip shot by frost
Unknown again not parallel, but throat
Cuts throat and Jill comes tumbling down, forgot. 

A buried track uncovered, secret twin 
Emerging from the rubble fully fledged
Unparalleled but rounded, softer skin 
Than rigid bars which is a sword two-edged.

By time those bars were rusted, overgrown
With winding blossoms, rusted bars their throne.

Consequences of Hate

Your words have power
They’re not just sounds they’re spells
You can cast them with malice
Or cast them wishing well

The consequences of hate 
evident in one’s words
Is to mentally mutilate
To belittle to disturb

The ill will starts in the mind
Or perhaps a heart dark and blind
It affects perception, well being or health
When you are hateful to someone else 

The tongue has no muscles 
but can break hearts
It’s like a shuffle 
between a fire starters spark

Black ideas or words of
Cruelty begin within
The aftermath can disturb
Cause fighting and other sins

Sometimes hate leads the way
To murder and mayhem days
A hostile environment where growth is stunted
Hate speech from some souls like water running 

The consequences of hate 
is fear and lawlessness 
A sense of deep despair 
in the hated from hatefulness 

The cruelty of hate is toxic
Words and views are clues
Don’t act upon it let’s stop it
No one should be cruel

Spring’s New Mood

My skin’s made of flowers,
Waiting to blossom in the shade,
Fighting the urge to turn grey,
As they look desperately for—
The summer breeze of tomorrow.
Where their petals ruffle in the wind,
Feeling cold beneath my skin,
I shiver at thought of being alive.
Ladybugs,
On the tips of my fingers—
Grasshoppers,
At the base by my roots—
My body is an ecosystem of renewal.
Glistening morning dew,
Droplets of golden sun,
It feels as if my life has just begun.
My petals may fade with my mood,
My colour may change with the seasons—
But my seeds stay planted.
In the strong soil where I stand,
For I may be stunted for a while,
But my growth will never come to an end.

The Chasm of Creation

This is supposed to be my outlet.
Emotions I claim are tainted pour out of me,
And I call it art.
This is what recovering looks like.
Pages upon pages of words I’ve kept hidden from the world—
This is what healing looks like.
Feeling more and more,
Just so the inspiration continues,
Because,
Creating feels better than existing ever did.
So why is it,
That my emptiness grows ever deeper?
What was once a narrow hole,
Has grown into an empty chasm,
Leaving my body hollowed out and dry,
Letting scorpions crawl up my spine,
Searching for dews of joy,
That don’t exist.
In anger,
They prick my skin.
Hoping for a reaction,
Only to realize joy isn’t the only thing that’s absent.
Numbness replaces the mind and soul—
My growth has been stunted.
My thoughts have been reeled in.
Everything halted for a single drop of creation—
Was this really just an outlet?

Northern Light

Of burning sight, we grow the flora,
From dancing light of my aurora.
A stunted garden, met with showers,
Brought to bloom, bouquet of flowers.

In casting passion, bright the sky,
Of green and blue we share an eye.
The way of stars and trees alike,
Through boreal we join and hike.

on our fair earth

It would seem impossible for a house plant to have joy
loosely rooted in a glazed bowl of nutrient depleted soil
every third day fed plastic cups of fluorinated water
enduring yellow, rainless nicotine puffs
forever stunted like a secondhand son.

A withering witness, to squabbles and suffering
violent deeds and sudden ugliness
praying for sunshine=force fed shadows
wishing for a fairy on a breeze
but whiffing only shiny linoleum 
bargain coffee and bacon grease.

Besides a bulb lit zoo puma, eternally pacing-pacing...
a house plant is the saddest thing I've ever seen.

Slices of Life

A new tomato burst 
beneath a blade, its juice 
streaking my wrist,  
mimicry of something I swore off  
years ago.  
Seeds scatter like liquid mercury 
across the cutting board,  
smallest of reminders that life spreads  
even if it’s cut short, stunted.  
I keep slicing,  
pretending the stains  
will wash off this time.

Roses Gone Missing

   suddenly bare branches
     sway and shiver
   shiver and sway, outstretched
     in vain 
       to December's flares 

   stunted grass shoots 
     deign not wave
   to howling winds
     their lawns daily prowl  

   icy slants of rain
      piercing bare heads
   autumn’s roses gone missing
      color them dead

field of forgiveness

your field lies bare and vacant
a patch of wasteland never toiled
pardon not granted merciless and cold
a harvest of apology’s acceptance lost
in resentment anger fear and insecurity

seeds of opportunity thrown away
serving your own narrow narrative
change shrivels up for scraps
growth stunted and discarded
a memory extending past the moment

acrimonious feeling feeds fertile soil
in lack of kindness and compassion
love’s detritus bordering on hatred
serves victimhood and animosity
lacks courtesy respect forgiveness

it takes courage and emotional maturity
to receive amends in decency and grace
to grant remorse regrets concessions

I love you dearly my wayward child
yet when you refuse to consider
my wife and lover’s redress and plea
to normalize what had been tainted
you need to know I stand with her

while you cannot I do forgive you
may not accept your stubborn disregard
feel sadness disbelief and disappointment
for the prodigal acorn from my oak tree
therefore I pray for us and wish you well

Flightlessly

There are birds that leave the nest too soon
You are like that
All fumbling feathers and heartbreak with sternum kissing ground
You grew up early, Paige
I don't think you ever learned to fly correctly
No one was your teacher
You stumbled to near content
Walked right up to it's door
And you lost the nerve to knock
To ask for help
Now you are stuck staring at the doormat wondering when you'll be let in
When you will finally get your portion of warm soup
I think you are similar to a bird that learned to fly through a broken wing
Gritted beak and glassy eyes
Like a stone thrown, rather than skipped
Stunted, but trying
Still beautiful, but grounded without support
I think you're a woman that grew up only ever expecting broken glass under your knees.

Filling Station

sits well and nearly out of reach unless.
A spell is when it's open dirty, but is closed.
Oil soaked around the bend the elbow is.

The smell around the bushes how they do.
A little stunted here and there you know because.
Oil-soaked, where gas is sold, soaked coal oil rags.
Patches on the asfhalt black translucency.

Pumping, pumping, pump the moving evening dress.
One cut above the knee becomes her considerably.

The motel in the lobby by the pump the awning shows.
A woman pumping gass beneath the moon is full.
The window shows her face, it really can not be it is.

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