"Series of Poems"

May 28, 2010
By Scrabwriter BRONZE, Wilmington, Delaware
Scrabwriter BRONZE, Wilmington, Delaware
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

Forlorn the duck wanders around its pond,
Encircling a stream whose flow never ebbed,
Past the mellow, flimsy leaves that utter weary words of welcome,
Dangling over the ground as the breeze flutters by.
Forlorn the duck wanders around its pond,
Fearing a glance to the wicked waters below,
Which once again will cast him that cursed, unending image
Of his spotted strawberry bosom,
His scarlet beak and eyes filled with feeble fire,
His forest green skull and feathery turquoise
Top which he never doffed for another.
Forlorn the duck wanders around its pond,
Mourning as his eyes fall upon his own corpse,
Overripe with rich and vibrant hues,
Luster that never glowed,
That became lackluster by never losing its luster.
Forlorn the duck wanders around its pond.

Lies in
The teardrops one sheds.
Crying is born by the stun of a sting,
From the shock of a collapse,
Or from the piercing of the heart.
Yet crying is always done
By a seed enthralled to sprout
To enter the world.
Crying is a beautiful form of art,
An orgasm of the eyes,
The deepest portrayal of one’s emotion,
And mock of it with sneers and jeers,
Is little more than mock of oneself,
For such a careless, heartless reaction,
Can only come from one gone astray
From feeling the immaculate beauty
Of the embracing hands of God.
Never mock the power of a teardrop.

Oh, how powerful life is,
Its knots and glitches gnawing at our minds in frustration,
Its hopes and pleasures gripping the body in fixation.
Its droughts and disasters snaring the soul in starvation.
Life’s mood swings and storms
Can create a heart attack.

I hate it when a friend tells me
She can’t trust her mom or dad.
I know I can.
Some kids fear their parents’ wrath like tornadoes.
These are poor relationships.
Some parents try way too hard to take care of their kids
When the simple problem is a lack of understanding,
Between mother and she who was born from her womb.
What explains these many poor relationships?
Fear of the child
To confide in her mother
Fear in the mother
To trust her child.

My mind stares at you,
And a blanket drapes over it,
A blanket of spring, warm, gentle,
Just right,
A mild, perfect comfort
From 8 a.m. to 10 p.m.
My mind stares at you,
Strong, smiling, shining
Its spotlight o’er your dazzling eyes and face,
While shimmering raindrops
Inches from the side of your cheeks,
Race with passion to the earth.
Even a handful of snowflakes
Bounce beneath that still smiling sun.
My mind stares at you,
Still swathed in that warm, smooth blanket of spring,
For it stares at you and sees
All the possibilities,
Likely and unlikely,
Of the forecast for the upcoming summer.

The depressed, frustrated man who loses his way with his son in the car,
And keeps driving until he hits Kirkwood Highway or 141,
Is the soldier who keeps his own.
The depressed, frustrated man who loses his way, alone,
And keeps driving until he hits Kirkwood Highway or 141,
Is fit to survive.
The depressed, frustrated man who loses his way, alone,
And stops in the middle of the woods, drops his head onto the steering wheel, and gives up,
Is in need of encouragement, of a turning point.
The depressed, frustrated man who loses his way with his son in the car,
And stops in the middle of the woods, drops his head onto the steering wheel, and gives up,
Is dangerous.

I was the son with my dad in the car, when, depressed and frustrated, he lost his way,
And he kept driving till he hit 141.

Somehow maybe I think that
If I stay up all night,
That will guarantee something,
That will guarantee your safety.
It’s already 4:00 a.m.
You have to be there in two hours.
Should I call you soon?
That’d just worry you more,
If you knew I wasn’t getting any sleep.
So please, no telepathy,
Go on about your business.
This and my thoughts, they better count as prayers,
Caused darned if I can muster up an attention span
Amidst this fatigue that’ll
Pray the Hail Mary for minutes, hours straight.

The mystical sensation of the middle of the ocean’s surface,
Yet white is the water
And cobalt is the iceberg,
Menacing, ominous,
A refreshing dessert,
Yet the taste not lighthearted,
As vanilla or cherry or watermelon,
But intense, freezing the roof of the mouth,
Perhaps the reason blue
Is the color of my passion,
The color of the way I think,
The air I breathe.

Life is an orchard, every soul has his own,
Private, owned solely and never to be recycled,
Only visited by the Judge at the final hour,
To count how many apples have been picked.
Or likely he needs not even to count,
For trees full with apples mean naked years,
With no mark left but the pollution from apples,
While trees naked of apples mean full years,
The scarce bearings of nature not stranded.

It stuns me how God gives me so many an opportunity,
To me, a youngster with a heart that aims straight
Yet with a grace that often wavers,
For it seems that those who keep a graceful presence,
On every daily exploit, simple or momentous,
Are pelted with stones heavier and jaggier,
Some which whet one’s physical stamina,
Some limitations which hone one’s tolerance,
So when I compare the fortunes of my life,
To those apparent of others,
Why is it I seem more immune
To the wrenching ropes of daily stresses,
Chances trickled down the drain,
Or is it that I just observe in this way,
Perhaps roots of complaints I bend and snap,
And keep my eyes on the blossoming facets,
Which only seem to reproduce as time soars,
And as more piles form bearing cherry and vanilla aromas,
The plainer objectives like tests and homework
Are shone upon with dimmer and dimmer light,
Yet to this day I have not dropped success,
Not at the slightest minimum,
But if I do, what shall result,
For should I immerse myself in tangible duties,
Or shall I continue on the road
Down which destiny has propelled me?
All valid sources have told me numerous times,
To let my protruding worries disintegrate,
Let my doubts descend tranquilly,
Like soft, mushy flakes of snow,
Rather than stare at life as though it were
A twisting, tortuous whirlwind of piercing chunks,
And snaring attention from those
Dominated by grace and patience,
Worry wasted on one whose path he knows distinctly.
Breathe deeply.
Ogle not ahead to distant obstacles,
But open eyes gently to whatever is now,
And know that with the ample strength from God,
Through Himself and countless human beings,
That I can handle whatever.

The author's comments:
These are various poems that I have written over a span of several years, inspired by things I have seen or that have occurred in my life.

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