I Keep Returning To This Line In My Childhood
I keep returning to this line in my childhood
I once stood in one dreaded day
every month with my mother
to prove I was loyal and reliable,
waiting for food at what was
back in the late fifties
called the Foodstall.
Though we were not animals.
We were simply poor
at the mercy of the God-wielding charities
and though it’s nowhere near the same degree
as it is of kind, we almost felt
like natives in the hands of the Catholic church.
Mostly separated mothers left in the lurch of love
with two or three whining kids
that were plague rats of measles,
mumps, ringworm, and cold sores,
agitated as electrons wanting to jump orbitals.
Natives, dried-out rummies
with faces like desiccated orange peels,
more alcoholics than druggies back in those days,
the addle-brained with psyches like quicksand
they kept falling into, some lambs
and some the tigers
that wouldn’t lie down with them.
Lonely bachelors that came out
of their self-imposed exiles
once a month to this lottery of foodstuffs
they carried home in a big brown
Vancouver refinery two ply paper white sugar bag
stitched together like the parched skins of mummies,
as if they were carrying a woman back to their place
like one of the Sabine maidens they’d snatched
to populate Rome with their solitude.
Women with too much make-up on,
a lot of them bruised,
their black eyes waxing from dark blue
to the festering yellow of ruined orchids,
as my mother’s used to
before my old man left for good.
A few boisterous madames
with chameleonic hair
that changed colour every month,
laughing and talking too loud
as if to show the more righteous among mothers
how free and flamboyant and flaunting they were
in the face of anyone’s disapproval,
as if they always had a trick up their sleeve,
though that wasn’t always the case
or they wouldn’t be standing there with us.
I keep returning to this line in my childhood
as if it held me no matter
how hard I’ve struggled to get off it
like a spinal cord tied to a kite and a key
that’s dangerously exposed to the lightning.
Shame. Humiliation. Guilt.
Though God knows for what
when you’re a child
trying to figure out what you did,
thinking you must be evil because you can’t.
Three hundred people lined up for hours
like a caterpillar that went around the block
exposed to public scrutiny
that felt it had a right to stare
because they were doing their share
and from the looks of things, we weren’t.
though I saw what bleach can do
to a woman’s knees and knuckles
when she was trying to raise four kids
by scrubbing a rich woman’s floors.
There are bitter moments in life
that can burn holes in your heart
like the Taliban splashing acid
in the eyes of a young girl who can read.
My mother could paint.
But not with her hands bleeding and raw.
Not with her mind and heart
scorched with anxiety
like a hot iron branding an ironing board
like another steer in the herd.
Even writing about it
I am depressed by the ferocity
of my boyish helplessness fifty years later,
as I stand beside her
to help her carry the bag home,
slabs of black bear meat
with tufts of hair still on it
haemorrhaging through the paper,
that would rip open
like the stitching of a wound
in the side of the lunar bull of abundance
Mithras Tauroctonus killed,
partially bruised vegetables and fruit,
usually a small bag of day old donuts,
two loaves of bread, leprous margarine
with a packet of orange dye
to mix into it for a little local colour,
sugar and canned spaghetti,
macaroni with powdered cheese,
brown potatoes sprouting
virginal green tendrils for tails
that made them like giant sperm,
would come pouring out of it
and scatter all over the sidewalk
to deepen the spectacle
of our monthly fertility ritual.
Everything was second hand,
even our food.
Even the way we felt about ourselves
for living the way we had to.
Everything shabby, used, abused
with an aura of ruin about it
you couldn’t get out of your heart,
your psyche, your clothes,
like the smell of death
in the upholstery of a car
where someone had died at the wheel
at the side of the road three days ago.
Street shrinks by seven,
pessimist philosophers by eleven,
even the children reeking of experience,
their innocence rooted like mushrooms
that came up overnight
in the compost heaps of life.
I stood like a pawn beside
the dethroned queen of my mother
and thought one day all this will be reversed
and those who were blessed
and didn’t pass it on
would later be cursed for realizing
too late the hard way,
that you really can’t hang on to anything
in this world of change,
this cosmic hour glass
shaped like lungs,
the valves of the heart
that keep reversing themselves,
that you haven’t already given away
just like your last breath
to make room for more.
Even in the spring,
even in the sweltering heat of summer,
wet winter days when the leaves
were plastered like collages
of artists in despair to the sidewalks,
after the cross burnt the scarecrow
as the strawdog of an idolatrous heretic,
we were always the last birds allowed in
to glean what was left of Eden,
before the hunger of winter
closed it down again and the tourists
went home to their homelessness with the poor.
And the seagulls and the mice
and the feral cats and the rats
that always seemed to have
so much more right to be there than we did
waiting for the loaves and fishes
to be broken on the hillside
though we were made to stand for hours
on heel-numbing cement designed
to torment your feet by standing
in place too long as the line
inched its way up the the front
like a millipede of people
growing nasty and impatient
to get what they needed to get
of what was left, then get gone
as fast as they could not to belong
to the bottom feeders in the same lifeboat
they’ve just been standing among.
And though my mother didn’t say much,
standing there in her isolationist silence,
there was always a troupe
of housewives in kerchiefs,
turning the trivial gossip of a reality show
into a running sore soap opera
they improvised from one end of the line
right up to the time the door opened
to let them in and they left the stage
to get down to the serious busy
of picking out the best turnips
and the less stale loaves of bread
suspecting the Elk’s Lodge ladies
had stashed the freshest for themselves
as a spiritual perk for all their altruism
that remotely tasted like vinegar
mixed with the deathly sweetness
of the canned milk of human kindness
as if one too many flies and angels
had dipped their wings in it
so that by the time it got to us
or we to it, it was an albino oil slick
from a cow that jumped over the moon
in total eclipse. Circus tricks,
hoops of fire with ringmasters
the barnyard made the caged tigers
jump through once a month
through the endless zeroes
of a slinky wound around the block
that had swallowed all of us heart first
like a multi-headed hydra
with a bellyful of hungry people
in a line that’s only grown longer over the years.
poem by Patrick White
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Oh, Brother
Im not much for making little wishes
But Id like a little wish to come true for you
Im not talking about loaves and fishes
But I wish that there was something I could do for you
Heres a little bit of cheap advice
To be taken in an hour of need
Dont assume that the life you left
Is the life you have to lead
(chorus)
When you come home what you gonna do
Oh brother, oh brother
Dont you try to deny
What you know to be true
The same mess of misery that you done been through
Standing in line
And its waiting for you
One kiss leads to another
Brother when you come back home
Id like to know whos knocking on door
Id like to know what they come here for
Youd like to say no
But the words wont come
Come in and sit down, seem to roll off your tongue
You forget to remember, to never die young
One kiss leads to another
Brother when you come back home
Standing in line, all of your friends
Standing in line, party never ends
Standing in line, the river flows, the river bends
Standing in line, all of your friends
- chorus -
And that moon will be
Shining in the trees
All night long
Something bound to happen for sure
Soon youll be
Stopping by talking to a friend again
Swear you aint never tasted nothing so pure
- chorus -
When you come home, your friends are dropping by
When you come home, the moon is gonna shine
When you come home, I tell you no lie
When you come home, theyre gonna offer you a line
Standing in line, all of your friends
Standing in line, party never ends now
Standing in line, the river flows, the river bends
Standing in line, all your so called friends
Standing in line, when you come home
Standing in line, oh brother, oh brother now
Standing in line, when you come home
Standing in line, what youre gonna do now
Standing in line...
song performed by by James Taylor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Front Line
I am a veteran of the war
I up and joined the army back in 1964
At sixteen I just had to be a man at any cost
I volunteered for Vietnam where I got my leg shot off
I recall a quote from a movie that said "who's more a man
Than a man with a reason that's worth dyin' for"
They had me standing on the front line
They had me standing on the front line
They had me standing on the front line
But now I stand at the back of the line when it comes to gettin' ahead
They gave me a uniform and a tiny salty pill
To stop the big urge I might have for the wrong kind of thrill
They put a gun in my hand and said, "shoot until he's dead"
But it's hard to kill when 'please your friend' echoes through your head
Brought up in church taught no man should take another's life
But then put in a jungle where life has no price
They had me standing on the front line
They had me standing on the front line
They had me standing on the front line
But now I stand at the back of the line when it comes to gettin' ahead
Back in the world the paper reads today
Another war is in the brewing
But what about the lives of yesterday
And the many happy families that have been ruined
My niece is a hooker and my nephew's a junkie too
But they say I have no right to tell them how they should do
They laugh and say "quit bragging" 'bout the war you should never have been in
But my mind is so brain-washed I'd prob'bly go back and do it again
I walk the neighborhood parading my purple heart
With a fear of agent orange that no one will stop
They had me standing on the front line
They had me standing on the front line
They had me standing on the front line
But now I stand at the back of the line when it comes to gettin' ahead
[Repeat 2 times...fade out]
song performed by by Stevie Wonder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The Day Jane Fainted
Jane fainted in the town
by the coach
on Saturday morning
and her mother
and other women
were around her
and you stood
a little way away
wondering what
had happened to her
I think it must be
that time of the month
you heard one woman say
maybe
her mother said
but she's not usually
like this
she added
will she be all right?
you asked
bending down
next to one
of the women
who had gathered
her mother looked at you
and said
yes it happens
at certain times
of the month
oh right
you said
none the wiser
gazing at Jane
at her dark hair
her eyes closed
her features
white and sweaty
best give her some air
her mother said
and you all stood up
and her mother
fanned her
with her hat
then after a minute or so
Jane opened her eyes
and said
what happened?
I went all funny
and everything went white
you fainted
her mother said
waving the hat
in front of Jane's face
I want to get up
Jane said
and so you
and her mother
helped her
to her feet
and she leaned
against the wall
of the bank
and looked around
she'll be all right now
a woman said
it happens
another said
after a few minutes
they went off
to the shops
leaving you
and your mother
and Jane
and her mother
standing by the coach
I'll be all right now
Jane said
ok
her mother said
and you all walked
along the street
to the shops
Jane walking behind
with you
her hand stealthily
reaching down
for yours and giving it
a little squeeze
then releasing it again
looking up at the sky
which had become dark
threatening rain.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The pain behind the smile
I often saw her at the shops with her kids
she was friendly and would say hello,
then I heard some really tragic news
she'd jumped from a high building onto the floor below.
So I went and saw all the masses of flowers
at the place this poor woman had been found,
adults were standing with small children sobbing
while others were reading tributes not making a sound.
Then later on I saw her smiling picture in the paper
I never knew her but I still felt very sad,
it said she was a loving mother to her children
and it was her kids who made her happy and glad.
So why did she go and jump to her death?
what was she hiding behind her beautiful smile?
this poor young woman must have been full of agony
and putting on a brave act all the while.
Three lovely young children have now lost their Mum
but I hope their Mother is now in a much better place,
it just shows what some people are concealing though
behind that forced smile that appears on their face.
poem by Kevin Halls
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Growing Up Hard
Counting pennies, to buy a loaf of bread
More often than not, hungry going to bed
Us carrying mothers sewing machine, every thirty days
Three blocks to the pawn shop, till the welfare check pays
Got the welfare check, would get the sewing machine out
We'd pawn it again next month, without a doubt
Living on commodities, free peanut butter and cheese
Going to school without a coat we'd always freeze
We never had many nice clothes to wear
Mother would mend them when they began to tear
Having meat for dinner was a real rare thing
Breakfast and supper, beans and rice we were eating
We wore our shoes until they fell apart
Mother could only buy one of us a pair, at the mart
Quiet often we were left all by ourselves
While mother worked or went out for cocktails
The days weren't so bad alone, we were in school
But young and left alone at night was really cruel
Feeling so alone, just us three
Please stay home tonight mama, we'd plea
Times were hard when I was a child
This poem I've written, is putting it mild
poem by Donna Nimmo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
When The Geriatric Drunk Next Door
When the geriatric drunk next door who was
raising chihuahuas to make a living,
but couldn't part with one them when it came time to sell
came over one day in my childhood,
shaking like an aspen leaf in the fall,
going through withdrawal, to ask if he could borrow
a few bucks, I watched my mother give him five
of the last ten she had to raise four kids
for half of the rest of the month before
the next welfare check arrived, and say,
Here. Don't hurt yourself. Something to ease the pain.
Though she didn't drink and he'd been drinking too long
to turn the herd that had trampled him around.
She didn't judge. She didn't try to give advice.
She didn't belittle the man in the way she gave.
She didn't count how much the giving took off her plate.
She wasn't indulging her progressive, liberal, altruism.
She wasn't breaking loaves and fishes on a hillside
or trying to win a popular election.
She just gave like the sea, the earth, the sky,
like fire gives heat and light, all in one easy action
of a heart that has suffered enough on its own to know
we're all in the same lifeboat on the moon
white-water rafting through the rapids of a waterclock.
And that has been my religion ever since.
Though I've never said anything to her about it.
How much I loved her in that moment
of compassionate tenderness, how she pulled
one thread out of the straitjacket of despair in his eyes,
and rewove it not on a loom like the moon but a harp
into a flying carpet of joy so another human
in as much of a mess in her own way as he was
could gain some altitude for a little while above the misery,
and hang on to at least one single wavelength of threadbare radiance
that could still fall on the shit everybody was living in
and turn it into a flower. Indelible,
the understanding in their eyes when he
looked at her incredulously for a moment
and she knew exactly what he meant
as she laughed at herself with a soft, wry smile
as if she'd just seen the sacred fool behind her best sentiment.
That was the whole of enlightenment to me.
The beginning of a spontaneous discipline
and still is, though it's sometimes bitter to practise,
when your giving is mistaken for having been taken
and you lament how many people can't tell the difference
between a theft and a gift anymore. How they deprive themselves
of so many jewels of inestimable value,
and that human touch that can pour the heart like gold
from the darkest of ores, the deepest of mines,
or bring meteors to shed hot tears like diamonds upon impact.
Or oxygen and the bases of protein.
Though it be a nuclear winter outside.
Though the bride was left standing at the altar
and there was no one there to lift the veils of Isis
to see the stars in the eyes of the Queen of Heaven even at nadir
like a chance someone wasn't willing to take.
Though common sense dictate a rational sacrifice,
and Ayn Rand and the Union of Spiritual Snakeoil Salesmen
preach that you've got to learn to love yourself first
as if you had a self to nurture that wasn't rooted
like a mirage in a desert in an hourglass that poured
through your fingers like water when you tried to grasp
the delusion of the flower. Though all the mystics
try to annihilate what doesn't exist to see God as she really is
as they come before her like busy, busy bees
with money in their pockets and honey in their hives
and all their martyrdom proves to be just another mode of suicide.
You can give a piece of garbage you've picked
out of a dumpster like the bruised fruits of the earth,
and when you give it to someone you can eat
from the Tree of Life with impunity without having to choose
between the serpent and the apple, the evil and the good,
or the knowledge you must suffer to be understood
as a human, who can gain altitude by erring on the side
of someone else's plight without even wearing wings,
to the wonderment of the angels and demons alike,
and occasionally, like me, your angry, eldest son,
who didn't know until that one moment whether
he should approach the world like a fist
with teethmarks on the knuckles, or
an open palm with lifelines thrown out to another
like billions of umbilical cords woven like a strong rope
into a mother who didn't need to build an ark to be a lifeboat.
Who could see lucidly through a glass darkly
the veils of her own nebulosity breaking out of the fog
like the search lanterns of the stars
out of the most ancient mystery of love
hidden in her heart without the aid of a teacher or telescope.
poem by Patrick White
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Cheated Death.
Suddenly all went cold
And of my mother's hand I took hold
I held on like a drowning man would a lifeline
For I knew this might be the end of my timeline
And there in the corner he stood
Bright silvery robes, a golden cord around his waist, there he stood
Shoulder length hair as golden as the sun's rays
Eyes bluer than the Caspian, bronze skin that hath no flaws
His feet shod in sandals
His presence brightened the candles
I felt a hope build inside
A fire rekindled inside
But as quickly as it came
The hope left and with it the fear came
As I looked in horror to the other corner
There she stood, crowned by darkness in the left corner
Her eyes the colour of blood
In a black robe of death she was clad
As I focused on her, I felt the life leave me
Just as the anaconda squeezes the life out of its prey, the life left me
The odour of burning Sulphur filled the room
And with it an impeding gloom
I squeezed my mother's hand ‘til it hurt
Every breath I took hurt
I tried to tell my mother I loved her
But all that came out was a croak
Slowly the woman in the left corner removed her cloak
Revealing a crown of long fiery hair
Her eyes fixed on me in an evil stare
Her blood red lips parted in a smile
A smile so evil it shouldn't be called a smile
I turned to the other corner seeking comfort from my angel and this evil evade
But woe unto me he had slowly began to fade
And with him, the light
Impeding my sight
I felt my body consumed by a cloud of darkness
And at that moment, I felt the presence of death in the darkness
Funny how in the movies they tell you to stay away from the light
How I longed to see a light
For I knew the darkness would only lead to more pain
I shut my eyes hoping that when I opened them again
My angel would be there telling me it's alright
Bringing back hope and light
But lo and behold as I re-opened mine eyes
There I lay, in my hospital bed my mother looking on with wet eyes
She told of how I almost died
Of how my breathing stopped but her hope never died
I sat up in wonder looked to the right and there my angel stood
In fear, I turned to the left, and she too in her shroud of evil, stood
Her eyes blazing with anger
For death had been cheated and left with a deep hunger
And I knew, she would be back
And then it struck me,
Death never leaves empty handed
That's when I saw the nurses covering the old woman's body across
With a white sheet and a priest making the sign of a cross
Once again, death did reap
And it is inevitable that she will return to reap
Her taste of fruit, the unripe fruit...
poem by Esperanza Chilupula
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Laugh
I held the notice and tears like a dam
As I tried to understand
Whether they were for real or if this was a scam
Made my way through the door
Then stepped into line
It’s now hour four
This waiting is beating my mind
Finally got to the window with half my day finished
I’m was getting robbed in public and no one’s a witness
Show the teller my notice and asked “What’s the deal? ”
She sends me a smile miles from real
Tells me “Your rates are higher to help off set
A higher cost of living and community projects”
“Well can I talk to someone about getting more cash? ”
She said “You trying to get rich?
Don’t make me laugh”
I left her and went to go see a counselor
His stern tie spoke like a stadium announcer
I explained my dilemma
He stayed as Frost as Emma
An attempt at connection was like a stalagmite
As he joked “I won’t charge you for the free advice”
I told him without more aid my money won’t last
He looked at me smiling and said “Don’t make me laugh”
“You’re a hard working fellow
To show you I care, here's an extra box of jell-o”
I said “But the hunger’s made my immune system depressed”
“Gee, I’m sorry to hear that
Now who’s next? ”
I laid down on the federal building steps
Watching the people watch me and guess
If I was homeless or a crazed drug addict
A scourge on society born to afflict
Their fiber of existence unraveled
As first time felons hear cells slam like gavels
Stood up and heard the whispers walk by
“Oh he looks awful”
“Is he about to die? ”
Raised my coat collar to my ears to avoid the talk
Hands in my pocket searching for change
Not enough for the bus so I’d better walk
My eyes start shooting bullets
And my face is the range
The heart wrenching pain pounds my head down
But my tears were too tired to touch the ground
I’m a room and sadness is my adorer
A little girl and a woman walked past
The girl had a smile similar to a mourner
An old man searched for food in the trash
The girl threw her candy bar carelessly on the corner
“Is that man Oscar the Grouch? ”
The woman giggled and said “Don’t make me laugh”
I continued on my way through the city
Only my loneliness showed me any pity
I asked a store owner for a cup of coffee
I couldn’t pay now but I’d certainly pay her back
She examined me with a sense of being so lofty
“You’ll pay me back? ” she said
“Don’t make me laugh”
Nothing in me, my body starts to ache
I scour the sidewalks for change like a rake
A policeman stops me says he’s Sergeant Jake
“You can’t be on your hands and knees in this place”
I said, “It’s the hunger”
“Sir, I don’t want to go nuts”
Reaches in his car and
Hands me a bag of donuts
I asked kindly for a return ride home
He said “I’ve helped you out
Now leave me alone”
That came out wrong citizen
How can I help you?
And do you pay tax? ”
“By law I don’t have to”
“Well then, don’t make me laugh”
He sped off down the street
But at least I seemed to have more pep in my feet
The clouds still kept the sun from the day
But I felt better as I continued on my way
My tears had dried and my vision was cleared
Maybe things wouldn’t be as bad as I feared
With breakfast in my hand I felt some hope
I wouldn’t crumble like cookies and bars of soap
My joy was so much I think I was humming
That’s why I didn’t hear the footsteps coming
From behind me, he must’ve ran
It all happened in such a flash
Good thing I had a donut in my hand
He took off with the rest of bag
'Hahahahaha'
I just stood there and laughed
poem by P.R. Prosper
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Winter Days Why Do You Came!
Snowy winter days once again came!
Ah Winter days
how did you came?
Haven't you met through your road crying summer days?
Haven't you met through your ways crying Autumn days?
Ah snowy winter days
Haven't you met your friends
Through your road
while you were coming here
Ah sweet summer days
They left us in vain
They Saw our pain
Even the sun above cried for children's ache
First time through my life time
I knew even the sun above has a heart.
While unfortunately human beings didn't have!
Ah chilly winter days how could you come here?
Haven't you met through your road mourning Autumn days.
They were broken when they left
As i know you are friends.
If you ever met them there
They would tell you about our aches.
How pain we've passed through
They saw and they felt
They went home crying all alone
Ah snowy cold winter days how could you come here?
While our world is bared it's clothes
And humanIty is bared of pity as well as the mercy
Poverty huged the cold and has wrapped our world
Ah, how much pain can we bear yet!
Ah, poor souls are in pain till the vein!
poem by Sossi Khachadourian
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Lottery
The Lottery
Through their mind’s eye, patiently they stood gazing to the sky,
peering through the floating cloud, hoping to spot the pot
of gold at the end of the rainbow.
From a shorter distance, a day in the month of May,
and in the solitude of self, I studied the long line of
Mona Lisa faces against expectations and probabilities.
Some leaned on canes; others rode in wheelchairs;
still others held up under their own weight.
As the single column shrunk, it grew with young mothers
and their laughing children ducking under their
grasping hands, and using them as Maypoles.
My mind got a glimpse of a young mother with a cute little
house etched on her face for she and the baby
on her hip, and the toddler tugging at her skirt.
In the stillness of self, I was able to see beyond my likeness
into the mind of a round- woman silently, moaning as she
leaned on inflamed knees that ached for a knee replacement.
I even eavesdropped into the thoughts of an adult male,
weighed down under jobless, moneyless, and homeless.
The gold at the end of the arc is certain to replace
“less” for “more”, he thought!
I could not help over hearing the long conversation of two men
standing side by side, in the single line, making loud talk:
''I'm behind in child support payments and can’t see my child, said one.”
'Are you saying, you sat quietly in the courtroom waiting for
a judge to evaluate your family's needs, the other asked sharply? '
MAN, we got to do better!
We can’t keep letting others adjudicate our worth and that of our families!
Let’s take back our dignity, and with pride,
place it in custody of our sons and daughters.”
As the front of the line was dwindling, I plainly saw a silver haired woman, time lined her forehead; her eye lids drooping like weeping willow branches. Yet she held tightly onto the plastic holder bulging with blessed lotto cards. She fixed her eyes and mind to the heavens, silently praying that God would not forsake she and her three small grand children…though, she had fruitless results before.
The procession moved closer. I stood in awe at the speed and accuracy of the cashier’s fingers pecking the keys; as the machine violently spat out handfuls of lottery tickets. And like a robot, taking customers money- at the same time- placing the tickets in their hands. I patiently shuffled along not thinking myself as part of the aggregate in the shopping mall.
Nearing the front of the line, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket,
(Unknowingly) a ten spot fell to the floor. “Hello Boo. I’m good. No.
I’m waiting to buy my lottery tickets. Son, hopefully the cashier has that
“BIG CHECK” we have been waiting for. Okay, bye”
I leaned forward; handing the cashier my number list, then reached into my pocket and pulling out an empty hand. I wondered if gamblers count the times they lose or win.
poem by Almedia Knight Oliver
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
They're Hanging Flowerpots From The Lamp Posts Again
They're hanging flowerpots from the lamp posts again
like a change of stars every spring, and between
the young trees that held their allotted postage stamp of ground
on both sides of the street, through a long winter,
they're turning up the soil in the whiskey barrels
as if they were digging up the corpse of a drunk
to see if he died sober or not or just accidentally fell in.
And I remember a man, used to live up there,
the second story window on the right, at the top
of a flight of sway-back stairs from carrying
two hundred years of the weight of the world
like the worn chakras and vertebrae
of a beast of burden that never woke
the serpent fire at the base of its spine
in time to free itself, but as the Arabs say
the donkey at the end
is in the lead when the line or the spine
which ever comes first, turns round.
May it be so for him who lived in a single room
for thirty years, cutting out pictures from magazines
and filing them according to their themes.
A testy, paranoid man, the black sheep of his family
who kept breaking his Faberge heart
on street girls who needed a place to stay for the night,
who could read his kind of sheet music
like an open violin case on a corner,
busking for the short end of the stick.
But it was love to him, and there were always
real tears at the end when he went back to his magazines
each time more bitter than before, to clip
the eyes out of the picture-music of his dreams
like dead flowers out of his bower of bliss in the spring.
He was a nocturnal man, half raccoon, he came out at night
to scavenge the streets as an unlicensed living off the grid.
Drugs, wallets, money, cigarettes, keys, condoms,
fancy jewelled watches with gold expansion bracelets
that had slipped from some drunk real estate agent's wrist.
And then he was told he was going to die,
fifty-five, kidney cancer, six months at the most,
and I was awed by how he accepted his death
with the silence and dignity of an everyday affair
people have been doing unnaturally for millions of years.
And he gave his clippings and collages
and the most precious treasures of his lost and found
away like pressed flowers to people all over town
and when I asked him, sitting on the sidewalk
on the front step of his place, what he was going to do
in these last six months of his life, he said
I want to eat in every restaurant in town before I'm dead.
And he almost did, except for Mexican,
before I last saw him as I imagined he looked
under a closed coffin lid at a shabby wake
that pointed out which one he was
in his high school year book
with all the eyes cut out.
And you could live here for a hundred and fifty years
among the tribal locals of the highlands of Lanark
like an old testament prophet on a hobby farm
and still be considered too weird to sit at their table
without realizing you're still not one of them,
though you're tolerated like another fieldstone
in the wall with the steel gate that separates
one cemetery from another, not according
to how you died, or what you lived for,
but who you lived with on Foley Mountain
or in the back woods up around Fernleigh and Ardoch
where the people look up at the stars and wait like rocks
for the last two and a half centuries.
He wasn't one of them, hardly anyone here is
where only the black flies are drawn to the smell
of an outsider until two days of intense heat
kills them off at the end of May, and you're free to stay
as long as you like in the tiny one room
apartment of your mind, trying to make
strays and runaways stay awhile, linger a bit
on the last step of the stairwell
they're climbing down from heaven on
as if life were the bannister of a free ride to the bottom
and that was the best a furtive creature like he was
could expect to snatch from life for him and his cat
and exaggerate into an expanding universe
from a single random atom of love
before it all imploded in on him under its own mass
like a black dwarf with nothing left to look forward to
but a black hole they lower you into like a dead lifeboat
into the oceanic awareness of the starless sea before you
with an admiral's hat made of old magazines
that took the journeys you should have taken years ago
like the paper boats of Li Po down the Yangtze River.
Wary of bliss, because you've made your happiness
a nest in the depths of your desperate solitude
too important not to bobble the ball or the cosmic egg
like a translucent bubble smeared in sticky rainbows
out of fear of its loss, you can turn into the very thorn
you've feared most of your life is going
to burst your bubble into tears
that you made yourself in a hall of mirrors
look so foolish chasing it like the eyes
of beauty in the beholder with a butterfly net,
and when that doesn't work, just as often as not,
stairwells of flypaper trying to catch the falling stars,
and put them in your pocket, and never let them fade away.
And he wasn't a good earner with lots of candle power
so he had to traffic his experience for their lost innocence
like a blind lighthouse in love with fireflies
that could see him better than he
could ever see them or himself.
Love loses the mystery of the inconceivably real
once it becomes a deal in life, a tit for tat.
Most young women know that by the time
they're fifteen these days, and especially the runaways
couch surfing in the archives of ardent stamp collectors.
But it strikes me as too facile for those
who are luckier in life and love to judge him
from a few snippets of gossip on the local mill wheel
grinding the gist of the issue down to something digestible,
and barely a mention in the paper worth cutting out.
And, who knows, maybe if he had lived as he had died,
offered a last meal, he should have tried
everything on the menu that life had to offer him,
stood astride himself like a colossus of a lighthouse
in the face of the storm on that dangerous coast
he never got to see, instead of sitting in his room
waiting for some mermaid who wasn't singing to him
call him to the rocks as if she were coming to his rescue
like a black and white issue of a pin-up movie queen
in an old back issue of Life magazine.
And there's plenty of people with more rocks around here
than they know what to do with to cast the first stone,
like the kissing stone of the Kaaba in the filthy hands
of the local Taliban at a romantic man and woman
trying to find some love in life in Afghanistan
just the same as they are in Ompah tonight.
But the only rock this delinquent would throw
through his window if I were ever going to
would be the full moon at the ghost of the scarecrow
breaking bitter bread with himself
at his own harvest table, to get up out of his grave
like a lunatic with a happier appetite for life and love
and like the longing of the crow and the wolf on the moonlit hill
call out for more than he ever knew how or what to ask for,
except in the way he died, nobly, without a word of reproach,
as if a long-standing empty prophecy
had been at last wholly fulfilled by the menu
of almost every restaurant in Perth,
where a blue moon in late October
served second helpings of a last meal
to a condemned man of no little worth to those of us
who admired the equanimity and grace of the way
he pushed his chair away when he'd had enough
and left the table like a pair of scissors
on the cutting edge of life for good.
poem by Patrick White
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Stories Of Hope Series #12 Forsaken
My heart was forsaken by the one I loved
She said my love wasn’t good enough.
If I truly loved her I would give her the material things
Necklaces, pearls, and diamond rings.
She said that love is in the giving
Without these things life is not worth living.
That’s when I decided to change my tune
I couldn’t get away too soon.
I took my heart and hid it deep in my chest
And to protect it I would do my best.
I became like a zombie- mindless and blank
And my heart I did forsake.
Surrounded by people that I did not see
Feeling hurt and angry as can be.
Friends and family started to pull away.
there was nothing left for them to say.
Then I was walking home from work one night
I glanced down the street, there was this
Woman rubbing her feet.
As I got closer I could see that her ankle
Was as swollen as can be.
Can I help you? Do you need a hand?
She answered: well! “If you could
Help me try to stand.”
Her foot so swollen she screamed in pain
Trying to walk would be in vain.
I asked her: where do you live?
She said: “up the block- the house on the corner
On the second floor.”
I knew that she could not walk no more.
I swooped her up in my arms, and started down the street
The smell of her perfume delicious and sweet.
I had never really looked at her face until then
She had light brown hair, and eyes as well
When I felt my heart begin to swell.
A smile from ear to ear, and of me she had no fear.
I carried her all the way home, and up the steps
To her door. (I felt as if I had been here before)
I asked: do you need a hand to get in?
She looked at me with a grin.
She said: you carried me this far, if you’d like
Some coffee, I’ll open the jar.”
I opened the door and carried her to a chair
The apartment looked small and comfortable
And quite fair.
I said: I’ll make the coffee! You just sit and rest
I’m not good at this, but I’ll do my best.
I made the coffee and we sat and talked
Time passed by quickly and we didn’t know
That the sun was coming up, and it was time to go.
The sun shone thru the blinds creating reflections
On the mirrored wall.
Prisms of light surrounded our faces
And we saw our faces all aglow
It was truly amazing and quite a show.
I asked her if I could see her again
And hopefully become more than a friend.
She said: I would really like that to.
So I told her I will call on you.
My heart had finally become free, and took me
Out of this misery.
For six months we dated and enjoyed each others company
The riches I gave her, she gave back to me.
Love has no price, but yet worth more than gold
And it is something that we can truly hold.
Not in our hands but in our hearts, and it becomes the biggest part.
We had become more than friends, and I guess you know the end.
HOPE IS THE KEY TO SET OURSELVES FREE.
poem by Louis Rams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Letter To Mother
Receive greetings mother
Whole i hope you are
Did the doctor treat thee?
Hope he stopped disturbance
Pain had occupied you
It made you thin
Do i call it slim?
My journey was safe
The sun city received me
It had lost me in
I was swallowed by people
This was until sunset
The city is big
Mother, i saw houses!
Not like ons at the village
They touch the sky
And have moving things
They climb to the top
I think to the heavens
Then to the bottom mother
Jacob took me to one
I was frightened
It never grow dark mother
When the sun runs away
There are lights all over
Bright as the sun
And the people never change
Morning as the night
They never go to their houses
The city is very busy
Remember Koya's words?
He told of the city evils
Mother, i have seen death
I even contemplated one
Robbers had attacked us
They took away everything
Mother, even my teeth
I thought of dying
Life was difficult then
City life
Worry not!
Am a man of your womb
I work hard daily
Change came yesterday
It brought a stool
And will stay for long mother
I can now buy tea and bread
Not forgetting a daily newspaper
Mother,
Everyone has someone
My eyes have been open
And i have seen a lovely girl
She carries all beauty
My heart is no longer mine
It belongs to her
She stole it away
My body has been feeling weak
The knees cannot withstand her
They always collapse
Is this how you felt mother
When daddy was wooing you?
The girl has made me write
She is not one of ours
Her language is different
But her colour is as yours
I know she is like you
Do not dissatisfy my point
Mother, accept her as she is
Allow me to go mother
Because i have to
My pen has felt tired
Let me go and strengthen it
Do not forget the full stop
I will start there next time
Am not yet finished mother
That girl is wonderful
I wont stop talking
I will always write it to you
My heart has loved
I will be back to you soon.
poem by John Muthoni
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Dilema Of Going Home
Two decades now
Have I lived in America
And my mother
Calling from far away Africa,
Also my little sister
She propably was told of America
They all weap in my
dreams these days,
They want me back in Africa
To build the threshold of my father
That is far gone in decadence.
.
Home, I am coming home
To see my mothers face again
And my little sister Franscisca
She must be a woman by now.
But tell me brothers;
How could I ever go back to Africa
When I yet do not have wings for flight?
.
What would I say to the hungry
eyes of my mother, my sister?
What would I say to friends I left
behind my Africa ten years ago?
What would I say when they asked:
What have you brought for old
buddies you left behind ten years ago.
.
Ten years is long enough time
to be away from home,
And yet have nothing to show
for the labours.
poem by Efe Benjamin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Cross The Line
We have no way to see eye to eye
Through all the walls in their mind
These are the pleasures that terrify
So leave them behind
You keep the chains that are in your life
Well take flight of the dove
Theres only one way to satisfy
This feeling thats love
And Ill say it again, and Ill say it again
And if the power comes between us
Oh, Ill know what to do,
Im gonna say it to you
Cross the line tonight,
Take this chance and show your might,
All the worlds on the other side,
Cross the line
Raise a flag to a moral crime,
Well light a fire for this,
Make the papers by morning time
And lay in our bliss
So come on darling and share my mind,
There is no need to stay hid
cause all we are now is two of a kind
Can you believe what we did?
And Ill say it again, oh, and Ill say it again
That when the power comes between us
Oh, Ill know what to do,
Im gonna say it to you
Cross the line tonight
Take this chance and show your might
All worlds on the other side
Cross the line
Mother come to me now,
Take this hand now, Im afraid
Mother, come to me
Im bleeding
We had no way to see eye to eye
Through all the walls in their mind
These were the pleasures that terrified
We left them behind
And Ill say it again, and Ill say it again
And if the power comes between us
Oh, Ill know what to do,
Im gonna say it to you
Cross the line tonight,
Take this chance and show your might,
All the worlds on the other side,
Cross the line
song performed by by Spandau Ballet
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Introducing... Me!
I am the woman who was the girl who thought she was alone.
The same girl that pretended to be the life of our group to stay on top.
The girl who was everyone's friend even though I did not like myself very much.
I was the girl who thought that love only came in one form.
So I used it to my advantage and ended up scorned.
I was the girl that found herself in trouble too deep to be fished out.
I was the girl who grew up too fast with no way out.
I had to grow, so that I might learn to be the mother I needed to be.
I was the girl who was a child-mother with only my own mother there for me.
The girl who was afraid to pout who had to be always brave.
The girl who felt as if I never got but only gave.
I was the girl who made all her own choices and stood up to take responsibility.
I was the girl who told the world how dare you judge her because of me.
Now I am the woman who, will fight the very devil for my childrens lives.
I fought him for two of my babies and won, my fourth in God's arms lay.
I am the woman who will stand up and shout for what I believe.
The woman who learned the hard way there is no reprieve.
I am the woman who finally learned how to love herself.
And in doing so found true love at last.
I am the woman who is the life of the party now.
The woman that has few real friends, but they matter more then they did then.
I am the woman who can cry and know it will be alright.
I am the woman who can say,
I am beautiful today.
If not for one woman who was there to help show me how.
I would not be the woman standing here now.
My Mother is the woman in me who I long to be.
My Mother is the woman I emmulate and hope my girls will come to be like.
She is stronger then Breast Cancer. Stronger then Divorce.
Stronger then all the trials I put her through.
If she were not here today what would I do?
poem by Lydie Mathers
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Reckoning
My mother was carried to heaven
On the day that I turned six,
She died of tuberculosis
Spitting blood in a coughing fit,
She'd been so ill for a long long time
That I couldn't recall her smile,
My father, he just grumbled, said:
'Your Ma will be gone for a while.'
'She's gone to sing in a choir up there,
Who knows how long she will be? '
But I saw the coffin that carried her out,
The hearse and the burial tree,
I watched as it sank down into the ground
And my father just left it there,
Went off to visit my 'aunt', he said,
A woman with long, blond hair.
I stayed at home, such a lonely child,
And went to a place in my head,
Where mother was fit and without a care
She laughed at the things I said,
My father left me alone a lot
So mother would tell me, 'Shush! '
We'd laugh and giggle when he went out
But talk in a sort of hush.
I played outside at other times
Where the grass grew long and wild,
I'd catch the skinks as they darted past,
I was always a curious child,
I'd bring the Sleepy Lizards home,
My father didn't mind,
He said I could keep the pets I caught,
I thought he was being kind.
But then one day he came on home
With this 'aunt', who moved right in,
He said they were married now, so I
Should call her 'Mum', not Jen.
I scowled, and went to my room to cry,
My mother was looking sad,
She said, 'just do what your father says,
I'm your Mother, but he's your Dad.'
This Jenny, she was all right at first
She tried to make me smile,
But I was feeling rebellious then,
And turned my back for a while,
I kept my rabbits and guinea pigs
And fed them out in their hutch,
But Jenny came out to look at them,
And she didn't like them much.
I knew, she wrinkled her powdered nose
And said, 'Oh pew! They stink!
We'll have to find you a hobby, one
That's pure and clean, I think.'
I heard her talking to father, say
That she thought I was rather slow,
She wanted the garden tidied up
So my animals had to go.
It was just about that time, I think
That my mother said goodbye,
She couldn't stay in that house, she said,
It was time for her to fly,
She left me alone in a great big world
So I brought a Lizard inside,
And put it under my bedclothes
Thought it a perfect place to hide.
When Jenny made the bed, she screamed
And shook me like a rag,
She went and got a kitchen knife
And a plastic shopping bag,
She made me put the Lizard in
Then she took the bag outside,
And stabbed and stabbed 'til the Lizard bled,
'Til my Lizard friend had died.
'Now bury it! ' she said to me,
'And don't you ever dare
Bring filthy animals into this house,
For if you do, I swear...'
At this she put the knife to my throat
And stood and watched me scream,
I saw the hate in her powdered face
It was like an awful dream!
Whenever my father left the house
She'd always scream and shout,
Knock me around for the slightest thing
Then drag me, throw me out,
Lock the door so I couldn't get in
And give me nothing to eat,
She said if I told my Dad on her
It would only get me beat.
She killed my rabbits, cooked them up
And served them from a pot,
She gave me a crooked, evil grin:
'You'd better eat the lot! '
I found myself in a black, black rage
Inside, at the things she'd done,
And hoped that my father would go on out
And buy himself a gun.
He never knew what she did to me,
I never would dare to say,
I knew that she'd get me on my own
And then there'd be hell to pay,
So I stayed outside in the barren fields
And found me a hessian sack,
Then went for a hunt with a long, forked stick,
It was time to get her back!
I waited until he'd gone away,
Was gone two days or more,
Then bit my tongue as she raved at me,
Spat hate from the kitchen door,
The morning came, and there wasn't a sound
To come from that angry head,
And I will never regret the day
I put a snake in her bed.
10 March 2009
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To Forgive and Forget
When it was ten minutes to lunch bell,
my Chemistry lecturer completed teaching.
I swivelled to my right and looked out.
I was surprised and embarrassed
to see my mother and her sister
standing beside the walkway.
I went out with his nod and asked my mom:
' Why did you come here? '.
' Just to see your college', said
my mother in amazement.I led them out.
Walking some ten kilometres in the hot Sun,
from her Sun-baked birth place,
she came there.The lunch bell rang in my ears.
I got some cheap snacks and drinks for them
and sent them back to reach home before sunset.
I strolled back to hostel mess, with my friend.
I couldn't eat non-veggie food.
I told my friend about the sudden arrival
and departure of my illiterate mother,
clad in a cotton sari with sparse gold chains.
' You are not a man at all.If you had told me,
I would have brought them here for lunch', he said.
He had carried me through tense situations.
Yet he didn't speak to me for two more days.
I went home in the vacation and pleaded with
my mother to forgive me for sending them back
in hunger without taking rest for awhile.
'It's nothing.I felt sorry for not bringing you cash',
she said and continued clearing the weeds in our fields.
My mother's great heart forgot it and it felt no need
to forgive her son.But my sleepless mind
reminisces often that day in my college
and feels remorseful.
My mother has left this world but my heart.
Till I breathe last, her memories will give me
a healing touch to my tearful heart.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To My Mother
Why
you went
and in this
bitter and cruel world
alone me left
was death so beautı ful and your beloved
did you miss it very much
fed up of us
you used to take us
under your skirt
and protect us from rainy days
from everything harmful
is you grave as cold as ice
why did you made it be dug so large
whom are yı ou expecting near as dear
was death so beautı ful mother
why you left us alone
ı t ı s evident
you longed for it
ı was angry
do noyt go do not leave us
pardon me mother
after so many years
ı came to your place
to embrace
may be youare lyiş ng in tears
and of longings
again another december
the day you left
did you remember
your hands were cracked
may be of cold
forgive me moı ther
ı could not afford to buy cream
to soothe them
you gone with your cracked hands
there is alittle ceddar on your grave
who sowed it ı do not know
some kinds of fruı t on it
ı took and smelled
they smelled you mother
ı took some with me to home
they are dried now
my wife does not know
ell me mother
after so many years
are your hands or
your heart are still cracked
tell me how can ı soothe them
or am ı so late to you
pardon me
forgive me
remember the only thing
the most longing of my heart
is still you
every night ı will go on talking with you
in my dream
in my sleep
or in my awake
poem by Metin Sahin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Forsaken
Holy Mother of God, Merciful Mary. Hear me! I am very weary. I have come
from a village miles away, all day I have been coming, and I ache for such
far roaming. I cannot walk as light as I used, and my thoughts grow confused.
I am heavier than I was. Mary Mother, you know the cause!
Beautiful Holy Lady, take my shame away from me! Let this fear
be only seeming, let it be that I am dreaming. For months I have hoped
it was so, now I am afraid I know. Lady, why should this be shame,
just because I haven't got his name. He loved me, yes, Lady, he did,
and he couldn't keep it hid. We meant to marry. Why did he die?
That day when they told me he had gone down in the avalanche, and could not
be found until the snow melted in Spring, I did nothing. I could not cry.
Why should he die? Why should he die and his child live? His little child
alive in me, for my comfort. No, Good God, for my misery! I cannot face
the shame, to be a mother, and not married, and the poor child to be reviled
for having no father. Merciful Mother, Holy Virgin, take away this sin I did.
Let the baby not be. Only take the stigma off of me!
I have told no one but you, Holy Mary. My mother would call me 'whore',
and spit upon me; the priest would have me repent, and have
the rest of my life spent in a convent. I am no whore, no bad woman,
he loved me, and we were to be married. I carried him always in my heart,
what did it matter if I gave him the least part of me too? You were a virgin,
Holy Mother, but you had a son, you know there are times when a woman
must give all. There is some call to give and hold back nothing.
I swear I obeyed God then, and this child who lives in me is the sign.
What am I saying? He is dead, my beautiful, strong man! I shall never
feel him caress me again. This is the only baby I shall have.
Oh, Holy Virgin, protect my baby! My little, helpless baby!
He will look like his father, and he will be as fast a runner and as good
a shot. Not that he shall be no scholar neither. He shall go to school
in winter, and learn to read and write, and my father will teach him to carve,
so that he can make the little horses, and cows, and chamois,
out of white wood. Oh, No! No! No! How can I think such things,
I am not good. My father will have nothing to do with my boy,
I shall be an outcast thing. Oh, Mother of our Lord God, be merciful,
take away my shame! Let my body be as it was before he came.
No little baby for me to keep underneath my heart for those long months.
To live for and to get comfort from. I cannot go home and tell my mother.
She is so hard and righteous. She never loved my father, and we were born
for duty, not for love. I cannot face it. Holy Mother, take my baby away!
Take away my little baby! I don't want it, I can't bear it!
And I shall have nothing, nothing! Just be known as a good girl.
Have other men want to marry me, whom I could not touch, after having known
my man. Known the length and breadth of his beautiful white body,
and the depth of his love, on the high Summer Alp, with the moon above,
and the pine-needles all shiny in the light of it. He is gone, my man,
I shall never hear him or feel him again, but I could not touch another.
I would rather lie under the snow with my own man in my arms!
So I shall live on and on. Just a good woman. With nothing to warm my heart
where he lay, and where he left his baby for me to care for. I shall not be
quite human, I think. Merely a stone-dead creature. They will respect me.
What do I care for respect! You didn't care for people's tongues
when you were carrying our Lord Jesus. God had my man give me my baby,
when He knew that He was going to take him away. His lips will comfort me,
his hands will soothe me. All day I will work at my lace-making,
and all night I will keep him warm by my side and pray the blessed Angels
to cover him with their wings. Dear Mother, what is it that sings?
I hear voices singing, and lovely silver trumpets through it all. They seem
just on the other side of the wall. Let me keep my baby, Holy Mother.
He is only a poor lace-maker's baby, with a stain upon him,
but give me strength to bring him up to be a man.
poem by Amy Lowell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!