Green is the Color

July 15, 2008
By David MacDonald, Bethlehem, PA

Walking down a garden path, collecting bits of green,
and wishing that the time would never end.
Wishing is the one thing keeping everything serene,
and time's the only thing for us to spend.

A single bird flies through the air, regardless of the rain,
but wishing that its wings were not so lean.
Wishing is the thing that's driving everyone insane,
but at the same time keeping them serene.

If someone tries to wake me
or to call me on the phone,
don't hesitate to shake me
or to just leave me alone.

Eventually you notice that the paths are all the same;
all leading to the time you were a child.
After that, the wilderness makes everyone quite tame,
but the mountains and the trees have grown so wild.

The mountains all are craggy peaks; the waves crash down like knives;
the forests all catch fire from the sun.
Cool air's like a lotion upon all our scabbing hides,
and anything will burn that cannot run.

If something doesn't reach me
or gets lost in stacks of mail,
you're like a ship on the horizon;
I can only see your sail.

In sudden jerks of motion all the paths begin to shift,
and the mountains miles away begin to slide.
You find yourself alone between your friends, a mile-rift,
and the only horse to ride keeps switching sides.

Without a thought or worry, you continue on your way,
collecting bits of green for a bouquet.
Your friends will wait for hours; they may even wait for days,
but it's not possible for them to stay.

The author's comments:
This poem was inspired by late nights and early mornings listening to Bob Dylan, Jefferson Airplane and Pink Floyd. It's my stab at writing 60s psychedelic poetry, and I think I did okay.

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