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Maya Tod. Poem
Look at this leaf.
Where did it come from?
Stuck in a mud, like a
discarded grief from a weeping willow.
I like its shape.
Follows my hand. Pair it
in two and you can make a glove
or a puppet doll that says “I love you!”
It’s full of wavy hurdles,
a caterpillar’s slalom track.
Can be frozen, curled or wet,
wears all season’s colors like a traffic light.
Enjoys to float, especially in waters of Hoogvliet
rushes to meet other leaves,
while gives a ride to marsh fleas.
Once it went disguised,
I couldn't recognize it.
Dressed in the lost feathers of
floating white hearts and undived “quack, quack”
pretends to be a Sioux Holy Man.
It may come in different sounds too.
Like a bandmaster, it orchestrates winter winds in dramatic
symphonies.
Or, when a thickening fog occupies city parks
still dark and tainted from night,
you hear a crunchy, cranky sound as it get’s
crushed under lover’s heels or
sporadic brave joggers,
in short sleeves.
Dissipated in the air
it’ll wait for its turn,
to blossom proudly again and stare
how spring Sun in the west burns.
Hey little leaf
you would like to crawl into my pocket
like a sneaky thief?
I’m lonely too,
keep me company
in my autumn view.
Copyright © Maya Tod. | Year Posted 2014
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Details |
Maya Tod. Poem
I glaze a look at the street, from
our apartment window.
You are coming slowly, teetering
one leg in front other, with back slightly hunched forward,
burdened with sleepless nights and yesterday’s undones.
Vibrant spirit once you had is lost, tossed among crowded
train wagons, useless meetings and broken deadlines.
One vein in the left corner of your forehead, swells, pulses in the rhythm
of your dark, fuddled thoughts as unremitting, sprouting baldness
reflects evening lights.
Still, I smile,
for you are here, with me in all this madness
we call life, half diced with wants and haunts that braid
every tomorrow we greet together.
I would like to put you in a different frame, picture of
nor “Yeses” nor “Nos”,
just us, being us, each moment celebrating
without lamenting for what “ifs” or “shoulds” and “coulds”.
Still, I smile,
as I watch you battle your restless leg syndrome,
wrestling to sooth demanding expectations,
lifted bars for higher remunerations, in constant marathon
of best comparison,
for you care, you dare.
I take your hand with eyes of approval,
life’s gigolo and gigolette,
ready to play each day’s illusive roulette.
Copyright © Maya Tod. | Year Posted 2014
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