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Joel Tyndall Poem
Dark Circles of the People
Riding an emotional rollercoaster,
A thousand honeymoons follow last night’s beatings.
Children consume milk,
While mother and father consume their spirits.
Possessed by a demon which can only be exorcised by time.
A heritage consisting of a wonderful past and a dismal future.
A time has disappeared when people were proud,
And caring of one another.
Now is the time where the people only care,
What they can beg, borrow or even steal from one another.
The people’s cultural lineage had been woven together,
Like the strongest circle of rope.
Clans and dreams caught and woven into that rope,
But since that time only a few souls kept it strong.
They repaired the cuts and the unweaving.
The people were strong and journeyed to find their way in life.
They conquered their obstacles and surpassed their dreams.
Now, after years of being given as wards,
The people have become sick and weak.
No longer wishing to dream.
The spirit will come again,
The old will become the new.
And the dreams have become visions.
Throughout life there are many circles.
Some circles become cycles.
Cycles of many abuses,
Circles of sicknesses.
More cycles of mistrust,
Even circles without hope…
…some circles are made to be broken.
Copyright © Joel Tyndall | Year Posted 2009
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Details |
Joel Tyndall Poem
The water from my eyes makes it difficult
to see the future, blurring the present with the past.
This past has created the path for my eyes to follow.
Stories told of anger with pain, tales
of separation with secrets. Betrayal,
a condition of enlightenment or civilization.
All is not lost,
forgotten or forgiven. Stories remind us
of tears shed while anger reddened the eyes.
Strong and silent were the survivors, twisted
and loud were the traitors, weak
and confused were the casualties. But
all became the victims.
Remembering the past to ensure the future. Lessons learnt
through sacrifice, tales become the visions for
our youth, as a baby cries out a legend.
Its’ screams are heard by all the people, the child’s tears
are not wiped away, for they carry hopes and dreams.
They are harvested to water the seeds of change, mixing
with the sweat of determination, life
can now grow once again.
The infancy of a soul now grows toward
maturity of the mind. Teachings held dormant spread
like a wild dance set forward by musical
voices of inspiration. Many
children are born with scars of the past, yet
heal their parents with visions of the new dawn. Even now
the ripple of inspiration flows from the rebirth stone, cast
into the lake of the people.
The glare of spirits awakened rise to greet the new
sky, where there is no shame and no hidden agenda.
But only minds gazing unto the dusk of despair.
The people are healing…
Copyright © Joel Tyndall | Year Posted 2009
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