POEM TITLE
Ancient and Old
POEM
Sitting bored alongside the little stream,
Feeling the Blackness of Sea
stretching in the offing,
I see the Lobster Pot floating,
Paper boats sailing,
Children on the other side,
drifting smiles, and bright giggles
when a breeze blew by,
and I close my eyes —
My hair bangs tickling
my nose, and as I sneeze,
Dew drops fall from grassy blades
wreaking havoc in the peaceful
stagnant rain puddles
next to my wet jeans.
Melting, melting,
the watery turmoil shakes off my reflection
showing what new portraits it can make of me
against the painted blue sky and grey cloudy nimbus
Dispersing drizzle
when memories too waver
in ponds and puddles
that surround the ordinary green of my hearty soul
Bursting slowly over falling leaves
the dancing variance of my self:
a possibility I want to groom
I pick up the grocery bag,
Hold it sluggishly in my arm,
The umbrella swoosh open
and I hide my face under its dark.
We are in the dark,
in between the woods,
Memories of my baby feet
playing and crashing in the rain
carelessly slip past me and disappear
as the rain begins to pour down,
and kill whatever mirage
was still living
through the looking water drops.
I am trapped in your forest-pool eyes,
Long, dark roots
Thick strands growing and grabbing me—
As if a living doll, mesmerized, enchanted
sucked continually into this track to aging.
You make me ancient and old,
Gathering in me lost and scattered thoughts.
Misty images in the air,
My memory is what this forest breathes
into unknown origins and beginnings.
I am one of the clambering voices
merging with the world —
when tanned sails of barges drift up with the tides,
Like a void in the cracked girth of time,
feeling alive against the crystal touch of rain,
m y w e a r y s k i n
dripping in blue