Stream of consciousness #6

I suppose you could say the village grave poem and this one are loosely related to Romeo and Juliet  since that’s what we’re studying in English class right now…

Stream of consciousness #6 

at the foot of my door sits a wench

whose legs are bent

and doesn’t speak a word to me

even when I whisper hello to her.

she minds her own business, I think, or at lest I think that’s what I think

you left me, like a wilted flower,

did I look like the woman there?

disheveled hair?

or was I a bundle of wilts

lying like a mung-root, crying my eyes out

simple, pleading, desperation?

x  x  x  x  x   x x  x x  x x x x  x  x  x x

where the devil’s head are you? I plead, I scream and struggle to hold onto a mung-root that beetroot still stuck in the soil. Howling, touching the innermost fibers of the ground. I see the sky unfold, I think, or I think that’s what I think, It lies there, like a lilting summer facade, you touched it, it melts almost instantly. and it hurts. “WHY YOU DID THAT?” lying in pain, I howl, yelling, looking at her face, which is also scarred from a charred facade late years ago. I whimper to her, but I see only kind eyes, and an understanding smile: she is my mother I realize, she is my mother.

 x x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

light as a feather you are, light as a feather.

you lift up only one finger, and come crashing down.

you swore on the seedling

that it would lift you up

and temporarily

you were a smart girl-

you did not kiss boys in the street

and neel at their feet

like kristabella whose eyes have tempted everyone and anyone

you keep your distance girl

you stay safe

you be the girl the girl that people say

“wasn’t that  who got stuck in a tractor wheel last summer last

I remember her poor lass she was my best pal”

and they take you away to the cemetery-

they all say it was death!

it wasn’t death, you say,

lifting your finger,

it was suicide.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

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“Between the Lines” recap and a poem “only a feather on the beach”

I stayed up until about 10:45 last night reading the book, and finished it in about four hours because of the large print. It was a bit annoying, stylistically speaking, because it’s in that lazy format “I see the girls walk by me. they don’t speak to me, even when I say hello to them. Then, I realize that I have to get going and stand up straight”, and the story was a bit tiresome at points, but I was glad to be able to sit and read for a change. It was quite creative and amusing overall. There were parts in the story that just couldn’t have been more cliche- a friend saying they “didn’t recognize them anymore” and felt betrayed, parents thinking a child was crazy-plus the whole “romance” aspect was pretty dumb, and extremely unbelievable. At certain points in the story I kind of felt like I was reading some stupid teen’s novel where the romance and the love is all contrived and you get absolutely nothing from it, and the ending was pretty sappy, but otherwise, yes, I guess you could say it was a pretty good book. Now for today’s poem!

Only a Feather on the Beach

I mastered the way to hold a rope

from swinging on the branch.

faith,

they called it,

dangled on the edges, made dips in my pockets.

why was I so tangled,

soft, slump, thinking?

I was just me two years ago.

Unknotted as i think this,

an apple falls to the ground. I eat it.

It tastes like a mowed lawn.

Mother and I exchange looks, until

I realize it’s not her, it’s you.

we both look somewhat surprised,

the looped arch of our touching

fingertips suspended in midair.

before they do, the raven calls to me,

minding his own business at the same

time. I hear only a bird’s shouts, or something like it.

You slipped away from me, and as you left me, all there was of you were caws and calls

I held on to only a feather.

I talk about you to the tree we had always sat under

The other whispers I hear form a swooshing barrier

to nudge my head at, lovingly, as any loyal cat.

The tree would have wanted the affair: she cringes as i say your name-

“Four-long-years-of-devotion”, the tree explains:

“only-a-feather-on-the-beach”.

The tree cries beside me, my rival, on

heaven’s deep green grove, crying because I was happy.

I looped a hole out of the knot and gave it to the tree

it happily ties it around it’s trunk

I saw it hum

I heard it cup it’s hands over it’s ears and smile

and the doves that had made her their home gave no reply to her,

but instead

settled on my shoulder;

her branches wrecked havoc with your Raven Wing

the tree wanted to run back to me, panting with happy exhaustion,

pointing at the town that the war had crumbled, demolished:

the plumes of smoke make frames around the skies edges,

and,

licking my finger and testing the wind’s direction

I know that it still lies in the hands of the enemy.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry