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Christopher Coleman Poem
The ocean waves are active,
The breeze is nice and brisk,
The children play in the sand,
Towers and parapets with moat.
I am surprised that no one has noticed
My footprints in the sand.
Leaving the moving acres of tan and foaming water
I stand at a stop with two other folks,
Paying me no mind, they stand quietly.
The autobus approaches and the eager attendees tense.
They enter and I follow,
The conductor demands no toll from me.
To Baker and 72nd we approach,
A man pulls the stop line,
The carrier pulls to a stop and the man erects
I follow him off as it is my stop as well.
I stand ready to cross the street, and as I cross
The behemoth lurches forward and strikes me.
I bounce off of its front, landing painfully on the curb.
Bleeding from several wounds acquired from the crash,
I stand.
The city streets are buzzing,
The air is rank with fumes and smoke,
The denizens are busy scurrying about,
In bowlers, and two-piece suits with coat.
I am surprised that not one of them has noticed
The blood trailing my steps.
I call out, to no response,
To no aid, and no hope.
I continue forward and call again,
A man huddled in the corner of a building,
Freezing, like the heart of a cruel mistress.
He tensed when I cried out for help.
He heard me.
I approach the shivering man,
I inquire to his state, he quivers and remains silent.
I know you can hear me, I need help!
I grab his shoulder and pull him over to face me.
My arms fall limp to my side, in awe
The man staring up at me is a reflection.
I turn to flee, mixed feelings of doubt and terror
How could it possibly be? How can he be me?
As I amble forward the air becomes sharp and cold.
Bleeding and shivering, I fall to the ground amidst the crowd.
Fading, the day becomes night at 1:42pm.
The streets suddenly become deathly quiet.
Just another day in the city.
Copyright © Christopher Coleman | Year Posted 2009
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Christopher Coleman Poem
Always beyond reach
Is the one thing that I seek.
I’ve known it for quite some time,
But through all attempts to put out of mind
It always seems to come crawling back.
It has been stolen by others,
Been moved away far out of my grasp.
I’ve watched it be treated well,
And been nearly destroyed by the reckless.
Each time it gets harder and harder,
To be the bystander.
Time and again I try to move forward
And seize that which I think should be mine.
A reckless hand, mine is not.
‘tis fragile and I know it.
I like it that way.
All that is good in life is fragile.
Look at life, human or otherwise,
Perhaps the most brittle thing in existence.
On thin ice we tread,
And often it seems our shoes are warmed.
I want to carry it to safety,
Beyond the thin sheet of frozen water.
But in order for that to happen,
Somehow it must be placed closer to me.
Perhaps I should grow longer arms.
Copyright © Christopher Coleman | Year Posted 2009
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Christopher Coleman Poem
Sized up, weighed, and purchased.
Handled with care and taken away.
Heavy and delicate, quite the combination,
Very prone to self-destruction.
Gingerly set in place, elevated.
Rotated to find its face in the light,
Then stabbed violently.
The sawing motion, the sound, the smell,
All very unpleasant, but the worst is yet to come.
The blade comes full circle now
And the top has been removed.
Exposing the internals, filling the air
With it’s repugnant odor.
Then the scooping begins.
The squishing, the pulling
It’s ceaseless in its cruelty
The viscera exposed to the world
Only to be used for the pleasure of others.
Hollowed.
Copyright © Christopher Coleman | Year Posted 2009
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Christopher Coleman Poem
Wandering from place to place,
Waiting for the fall.
Longing to know where to find it,
Wondering if they’ll find it at all.
If it comes, what will the result be?
Will it be a crash to black?
Will it be a splash to blue?
Could it be an embrace of warmth?
Could it be a frozen stare?
Who really knows?
It certainly isn’t the meaning of life,
Some will say it’s the meaning for life.
Some will scoff, and claim you mad,
Others’ll smile and take your hand.
But in the end, who is right?
So we all fumble forward, ever pacing,
Racing, racing, to be the first.
But is first place always the winner?
Could it be that the grass isn’t always greener?
I for one am on the fence.
Suppose that the first isn’t the victor,
Suppose that the last isn’t the loser.
In the end there are still those in the cast.
I’ve watched enough to know those who’ve,
Proved me wrong time and again.
Regardless of black, blue, hot, or cold,
Like the noble lemming, I will follow.
Copyright © Christopher Coleman | Year Posted 2009
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