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?
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
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