Sunday, April 24, 2011

Because I felt like it....

In the spirit of poetry month (April - duh!), I've decided to share a few poems I've penned not relating to a contest I know I won't win.  But, it is fun - the creative side is forced to flow when poetry is involved.  Each poem share a tiny short story, a theme, a meaning, a thought.  These are few from my journals written mostly on airplanes.

"One White Pigeon"

Coos whisper in secret,
The sound of travel
Washing over the street
In a sea of gray, fluttering

Except, one white pigeon.
Standing, cocking his head...
Amidst a sea of slate
Watching his brothers,
His sisters, soar and dip
With hues of the rain.

Not knowing
Not understanding
Not seeing how
The difference
The blinding
The down of his cumulus feathers,
Make him the one...

The one, white pigeon.

I wrote this next poem after a former student was murdered by her child's father.  Their relationship was tumultuous at best, and it sadly ended her life (and his - he committed suicide after he killed her)

"Eyes Wide Shut"

Watching, waiting, staring
A yell, a door.

Slap - It's not my child.
Slap - It's not my home.

Watching, waiting, staring
Work, works starts at 8a...
Have to get to bed,
Have to get to sleep.

At least tonight they are quiet.
With the fall of rain
These strangers that argue in the night.

They are not me, not mine to tend to.
Not my flock, nor my sheep -
They are too far gone to save.

In the silence,
A foot, a door swings wide
Tears and anger and words fly
With a rage beyond control...

Eyes wide open, the gun
Fires into the night
And she is down, blood seeps.
A single wound, a fatal wound
The baby cries, a child
Full of fear and not of...
Will live with her father's choice.

Panic.  Rushing, overcome with grief,
Stealing cars in the night
Afraid of the power
Afraid now of the choice
Regret, rage, resentment.

The gun turns in the night,
A single wound, a fatal wound
Self-inflicted punishment
Rises from the stain
Cowering under a blanket -
Seeped in his blood.

8a, work begins - doors open.
A new day outside
And a white sheet
Covering the body
Of the woman, not of my home.
The child crying, not my child.
The lights flashing..."Sir, did you hear?"
"Sir...sir"  "I don't even know her name..."
Realizing, regretting, standing there knowing

We all live with our eyes wide shut.

No comments:

Post a Comment