Tag Archives: Poetry

Dreams – Restrained

The boy is twelve, maybe fourteen,
course, curly hair cut close to the scalp,
his skin is dark, the genetic dark of generations spent
roaming savannahs under a hard sun.

Now he roams rough streets in a hard neighborhood,
more often hungry than the ancestor with a spear,
more often afraid of the lurking predator,
more often alone, with no tribe for protection.

He dreams of escape from this life he did not choose,
to run from this place of hardship and fear
to where lines of difference are blurred
and seeking betterment is not betrayal.

At night, when he flees through his dreams,
a hand grasp him with a grip like a shackle,
refusing him the escape for which he longs,
a hand with the same dark skin as his own.

Ekphrastic of a Seattle Mural
By Artist Alex Gardner

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Anonymous

I found out today the custodian
for our office
had passed away.

We often exchanged pleasantries
when passing in the hall,
she always had a smile.

I never did learn her name,
or where to send
the flowers.

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In dark Corners…waiting For dawn

sometimes…..you miss the
……………………………madnesS

……………….It becomes more of a hunger
than an urge

you listen Close to silence,
study it’s …………………………………movement
follow the slow
……………………………daRk
…………………………………….trails
………………………………………………of its path
you Shout often
revEl in the boundless ………….power
of an unrestrAined wind
…………………………hold close the sound of
………….whispers.
Memory is a gritty irritant
…………….like sand in your
………………………eye…..

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Exchanging Babies in Parking Lots

They park out by the road
on the edge of the gas station
parking lot,
or sometimes the grocery store
or a church.
Probably not the one they attend,
but still, a church.

They move bundles and bags
between cars,
the necessities of a young life:
diaper bag, change(s) of clothes,
formula, toys, pacifiers, blankets.
The content changes with age,
the concept stays the same;
transient growth, multiple caregivers.

Often it is a young mom
handing off to her mother,
who gladly accepts
another round of raising babies,
even though she is supposed to be past
that time of her life.

Other times it is the parents,
a couple’s love abandoned,
a child to nurture.
He listens to instructions,
attempting patience with
words he has heard before.
She wrings her hands often.

Grandma always leaves slowly,
cautious with precious cargo,
dad is quicker, with something to prove.
Mom tends to wait a while,
only leaving when they are
out of sight.

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I Resolve … Not A Damn Thing

This concept of a magic reset switch
which flips with a calendar page
baffles me.

Come January first will we be…better?
Will we hate less, love more?

Shall we develop empathy overnight,
or an ability to listen to — much less
understand — the words of an adversary?

Perhaps we should resolve less,
and do more.

 

A Friday Flash 55

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Moving Day

My son moved out today…

He packed the clothes he would need,
the books he wanted near,
his favorite mementos,
and said goodbye to his dog.

He hugged his sister, his mother,
and me,
setting his sights on new chapters and grand
adventures,
excited by the anticipation
of great things to come.

While we are not sure what to do,
other than pet the dog
and avoid the empty room
at the end of the hall.

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Warhol Questions

I wonder if Jacqueline appreciated 

the seriousness of Andy’s study

of JFK’s assassination, or his 

portrayal of her life afterward?

Did Mao find the humor

in his cartoonish caricature?

Would Marilyn be secure enough 

to understand no amount of screen-

printed color could hide the glamour?

Is Campbell’s appreciative of the massive

amounts of free advertising?

Did Valerie know her bullets would alter

the tone-focus-mood of the art

as much as they altered the body

of the artist?

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