Lamented Streets
David J Walker
I bring the village and
The villagers follow
Each a part of the past of
a distorted dream
the energies of the city
magnetize everything
in its path
what I miss is the quiet
of a former reality
the colors clearly defined
the air unsoured and aroused
the waters translucent and pure
a wind with real meaning
a moon clearly seen from a Mesa
the sweet smell of a mesquite fire
by the lake
I bring the villagers who are inarticulate
In the urban foreign vernaculars of
The vulgar streets of daily disasters
Where every song sung is a lament
For sad listeners longing for an
Escape to simple settings
Maybe it's with all signs Astro that their true ology elements precede us in our poor socio-crafted endless envies, that benignly beholds and molds us, encrusting our deep attention to non-nominal directed people preferentials--- for me, a March fish out of water, that traverses a lonley land of mindmeld ill consequated potentials, is more than doubt/dutiful in a weary design of guilded Awareness anarchies of emotide reversals of social fortune enslaved for an all quiet intent.
In all I am to not drown drawn in its cool wet incapassivtiy and away from its destitute, destructive denial and watery dismiss my essence
of all those things living aimless, seemingly without a concrete pattern, denying who they are in the Dairy Queen of things embolden.
Question?
It's lengthy, flawess, fluid intent to a cold calm countenance
and protective H2o prowess keeps it an
easy, forboding ill intact invasive; then shapes itself to all aimable vernaculars,
copious anomalies, traits, tolerences and tailored toils.
Jingle... jingle jingle,
jingle
The man is black,
jingle jingle
Black as coal,
jingle jingle,
The woman is white ,
jingle jingle,
The colour of our floor,
jingle jingle,
Holding their hands,
jingle jingle,
In symptoms of love,
jingle jingle,
Of defiance,
jingle jingle,
Jingle… jingle jingle,
jingle,
We are children,
jingle jingle,
Of lost races,
jingle jingle,
Of lost continents,
jingle jingle,
Amorphous cultures,
jingle jingle,
Hybrid vernaculars,
jingle jingle,
Our mothers defied,
jingle jingle,
The ways of grandma,
jingle jingle,
Grandma cries,
jingle jingle,
Eeeeeh! Eh! Eh!
jingle jingle,
My children are lost,
In the 21st Century,
Aaaaaaaaaah!
©Muthoka Jacob, June 2012.
This poem is a cry over lost identities in the crave for modernity. Sorry in case it stings.
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