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Gregory Wajda Poem
The middle branch
Supporting and connecting.
Unrecognized deeds
Blow through the air
The door.
The warning; the marker,
Two rival clashing
Differences meet in grandeur.
A moments relief,
Expressed in the weight
Of a thousand voices.
A smile sets ablaze
a thousand farmsteads.
I wonder
How The weight of almost none,
Can repel the weight
Of the entire land of feelings.
The slightest of which
Gets lost in a sea of
Indecency.
A refill of spirit.
A wave in a sea of
Is crashed over in a instant.
Dissolved in the sand
The painfulness.
Hosts of flowers,
Bloom anew.
From the bottom
Of an hidden heart
They will grow.
Shatter they will not,
Obstacles cant stand
The might of the spirit.
The spirit of the one
The one who,
Is deserving of the
King’s prestige.
For it may not be
Enough of sacrifice,
To fully embrace,
What has been extinguished
And is now a garden,
With remnants of the shade
Now out of breath.
Embrace I will,
the common deed,
Has no capacity,
To encompass what has blossomed.
The chorus of life,
Will come and go.
What perpetuates
Through time.
Is the one who
Has made the time
Go by faster
Than smiles can fade
When enshrouded
With the memories
Of a fallen loved one.
This one,
Is one that should,
By the kindness of man,
Be held in
The front pockets,
Of the hearts
Who remain steadfast.
Who never waiver.
Who never falter.
Those who stay,
Consolation they
Do not need.
For theirs is the time
Of the giving.
The giving have a secret
The secret of a friend.
A friend who
Fulfills what many people
Spend their whole
Lives trying to be.
But only pale in
Comparison.
The sun sets everyday,
But it looks brightly then,
Upon the one,
That brightens
What it cannot reach.
The impact,
Reigns not of a
Church bell.
A different ring
Is heard,
One less appreciated.
The ring sounds out,
Limited in its reach,
But magical in its touch.
The person to emulate,
A partner,
to the shambles of humanity.
Copyright © Gregory Wajda | Year Posted 2007
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Details |
Gregory Wajda Poem
I could write a poem that no one could tell was for you,
As no one knows about when
We used to walk on the light grey rolling curbs,
On the black gravel streets with the quilt of sidewalks alongside.
The moon and only one star was out to glance down at
What we were partaking in.
The feeble attempt at comedy,
With our swinging of long splintered two- by-fours.
They resembled our youth that was filled
With images of gleaming daggers dancing through the air,
And the crackling of light sabers in the movies.
Down in the basement,
White ceiling tiles above us,
And our old blue rug with bunches of red flowers.
Our favorite object in the entire house,
A ping-pong table in the traditional green color,
On top of a mahogany pool table with blue felt.
Oh, how the hours wasted away when we would play.
Chores, Bed times, homework, nothing
Seemed relevant as we caressed the ball back and forth
To each other in a manner of different strokes,
Each as fluid and quick as the last.
Red on one side, black on the other,
Cheap cedar wood extends out from the foam
To form my single weapon in this game.
We had a dream of always moving it outside,
The wind and the trees could swirl our hair around as we
Cinch our eyes tight on the ball as it returns to our side of the table.
But we could never haul it through the tiny glass door,
And so our dream was crushed.
So it shall remain,
In our basement,
With all the other lockers and T.V.s,
The one thing that connect my brother and me the most,
Our ping-pong table.
Copyright © Gregory Wajda | Year Posted 2007
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