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Jonathan White Poem
Beautiful, soft, lavender
P
E
T
A
L
S
Fell from the heavens to blanket
The cold hard ground
The steel and concrete are
Soaked, like pillows, from the rain.
Like the flower girl before
The procession who spreads
The warmth with her fingertips,
Something, someone dawned on me
The truth.
And slowly, my heart unthawed.
It was no longer callous,
No longer cold.
I thank the messenger,
An angel of sorts,
Who injected her wisdom
Into my shriveled veins.
And brought back
The dying hope
In what I was living for.
Sa aking mahal na bituin. (Filipino)
Copyright © Jonathan White | Year Posted 2009
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Jonathan White Poem
"Sorry" doesn't cut it.
Well neither does a butter knife.
I guess I'll have to say "sorry"
For being in your life.
"Sorry" for being black.
And doing what i do best.
Like RAP, BASKETBALL and SWEAT.
Instead of studying for a test.
"Sorry" for being imperfect
"Sorry" for getting sick
"Sorry" for being a man
"Sorry" for makin' you tick
There are some things you cannot change
Like color and heredity.
There's one thing I forgot to say.
"Sorry" for bein' me.
**************
This is sort of a sarcastic poem. I love me. :)
Copyright © Jonathan White | Year Posted 2006
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Jonathan White Poem
I built her a glass castle
And set her as my queen
And promised her the East and West
And e'r'thing in between.
She placed me on her white cake -
Her Golden Figurine.
It looked like I could do it,
But that's just how it seemed.
I tried to keep my promises.
I did with all my might.
But in the end I failed at that
And proved the hater's right.
The queen's still in her castle,
Her raiment's simply stunning.
She's waiting for her Charming,
But I'm not sure he's coming.
Copyright © Jonathan White | Year Posted 2009
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Jonathan White Poem
Never did I dream
No never.
At ALL.
That one can be controlled
By something so small.
You think you have handles
You think you cant fall.
But my life is controlled by a 29 1/2 inch ball.
Hypnotized
By the sound of rubber
On wooden floor. The squeaking
Of shoes that enter through the door
Entranced by flying down the court
Ninety miles per hour, I love the sport
Flash back again to that one day
You made the most amazing play
"I want to relive it", what we all
say. We want to press
start for an "instant
r e p l a y"
Never did I dream
No never
At ALL
Not in my WiLdEsT dreams
Would I be controlled by a something so small.
Can YOU control it?
Can you?
At ALL?
Beware.
Of the 29 1/2 inch ball.
Copyright © Jonathan White | Year Posted 2006
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Jonathan White Poem
Depending on the way you look at it,
The water's different.
If you want to,
You can see all the colors in it.
You can only see the rainbow,
If you believe in such.
And if you don't believe in the man in the moon,
You wont see much.
A fat man can fit down a chimney
And stay clean.
While little children stay in bed
And have sweet dreams.
Look for a shooting star
You can't miss it.
But depending on the way you look at it,
The water's different.
Copyright © Jonathan White | Year Posted 2006
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Jonathan White Poem
It's cold over here
Where hearts pump icicles,
Decelerated from normal time wrinkles.
I sit here
Trying to unthaw my mind.
In order to wonder if I exist in time
I never succeed.
I am suspended.
A pig flew over,
And the fat lady sang.
I managed to press "Unpause"
On this game.
The superball sprang
And animated bounce
An energetic ocean
From a simply lifeless ounce.
But time must continue.
The speed must decrease.
And all the lil' sparks here have ceased.
The sloths here get tickets
And man are they slow.
I'd gladly leave
If I had somewhere to go.
When all else has ended,
I remain,
Suspended.
Copyright © Jonathan White | Year Posted 2009
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Jonathan White Poem
I often find myself in the same situation
As a life guard
Who dives into the water
To save a swimmer.
She can save herself from drowning,
But she's content with letting the tide
Determine the outcome.
Don't forget.
There is always that little boy
Who walks down the road
Who will save the wheat from the weeds.
Let him. Please, for his sanity.
And if thee feelst
That thee art beyond
The young boy's grasp,
Reach out.
For he knows.
The boy wants more for his estrella bonita,
Than his corazón propio.
Copyright © Jonathan White | Year Posted 2008
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Jonathan White Poem
Falling.
In one swift motion,
Through love and hate.
Not knowing where you are,
Or where you are going.
Having only the power
To sit...
And wait...
For the end.
But, seemingly,
It never comes.
No.
Never.
Teasing you,
Torturing you.
Knowing that you have no control.
You are still falling.
Uncontrollably.
And then you crash.
Rock bottom.
Left only to look back.
At where you started...
Falling.
Copyright © Jonathan White | Year Posted 2007
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Jonathan White Poem
The only thing that hurts me so:
Your saying, "No can do."
I burned my list of painful things
And crossed the line for you.
I know you mean not shatter hearts,
A noble deed indeed.
But sometimes fact negates intent
And crashes at full speed.
My love is not conditional,
But I must gain control.
I must restrain myself so much
It empties out my soul.
Promise me that you will try,
A promise you won't break.
I'm not supposed to speak a word.
A risk I had to take.
I can't traverse back to that place
'Cuz I've been bad enough.
My friendship you will always have
As long as you hang tough.
I know not what you're dealing with
And maybe that's for best.
I can only sit and hope
And pray you pass this test.
There's one thing I must Post Script.
You know you're my North Star.
We cannot correspond like this,
But I'll never be that far...
A mi Estrella Norte
Copyright © Jonathan White | Year Posted 2008
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Jonathan White Poem
We claim to be a mixing pot
Of Blacks and Browns and Blues,
Of yellows, reds and oranges
All different kinds of hues.
They tossed us all into the mix
And put the spoon inside.
In unison we all cry out
Our multi-colored pride.
Yes, that is how it's s'posta be
They mask it all so well.
They simply float "the best" on top
And condemn the rest to hell.
They shackle us below the dumps
To keep us in our place.
They talk to us as if we're poo.
Not worthy of their race.
But yet, tomorrow, when they come,
We'll hold the stirring sticks.
We'll be the ones to dig way down
And put us in the mix.
America just means diverse.
I hope we all prefer it.
Just give the pot to someone else
And count on us to stir it.
Copyright © Jonathan White | Year Posted 2008
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