In the Teens

Day 16: Time Never Ends, Your Song Lives On

Put to rest your doubt and fear.

Sun always rises above dark clouds,

put to rest your doubt and fear.

Time withers hope when not cultivated.

Cup your hands ‘round living sparks,

Put to rest your doubt and fear.

Cup your hand ‘round living sparks,

Breathe softly on tindered moss, and

cup your hand ‘round living sparks.

A gentle wee nudge – your breath of life

nurtures, sustains, feet trudging on.

Breathe softly on tindered moss, and

Let go the fluttering moth, once cocooned

now violently flapping birth-damp wings that

nurtures, sustains, feet trudging on.

Purposeful trekking towards setting sun.

Put to rest your doubt and fear,

time never ends; your song lives on.

Put to rest your doubt and fear.

Day 15: Do I write poetry? Or does it write me?
slapdash efforts
mosh pit finale
contrasting words
spiced with dots and with dashes
words that rhyme
words that mime:
                feelings
                senses
                internal chances
                from exposure and time.
failed efforts
when not overseen
framed
by rules
guideposts
or clear expectations – give me:
                schemes
                dreams
                clear boundaries 
               Where freedom lies.
Day 14: Now?
A moment of my time is all he’ll ever share.
What wall is this closing my ears?
“So boring.”
He sighs, slumped in a chair.
Sturdy and white (slightly grey with use),
these chairs have for years harbored bums of all stripes
cautious young women with delicate linens,
widowed matrons in curlers and hand-sewn quilts
mothers with toddlers (in tow and wide-eyed),
leaking mismatched socks and ratty diapers
lonely-heart men; neither young nor old –
all join in the pilgrimage required
for spinning suds, drying fluff.
“How so?”
I barely lift my eyes.
“My day off and I’m here.”
I pause in my scribblings with ballpoint, lined paper.
A clear leave me alone! for folks with eyes.
“Read a book?” I offer. “Play a game? Take a nap?”
He grumbles and sighs,
fingers tapping his phone
in frantic reprise.
A triumphant grin, “Here, check this out!”
A toaster – repurposed — for Nintendo aficionados
graces his Facebook page
the home of deep connection . . . (not)
but for him, yes, indeed.
Regaling my ears with tales of curiosities, oddities, strange little posts
on the gamer’s evolution, on the gamer’s delight.
It’s a badge of honor, I suppose,
A bit of street cred. Or a subtle suggestion of a place of connection.
“I’m older than you,”
Just a wee tidbit of information.
“My first game was Pong, played on a black and white TV.”
There’s a long pause, welcome silence
broken only by the scratching
of pen still crossing the white divide of blue scored lines,
holding half-formed thoughts and inept poetry.
With a sudden move, he’s on his feet
hailing a young women,
starting coy conversation
describing the relative merits, you see,
of dryers numbered six, nine and thirteen.
Day 13: The Flame
What does a trimmed, waxen wick suggest to you?
                 time nurturing dreams, soft-scented
                lazy breezes ripple orange flames
                bending, bowing, falling to knees . . .
                unfolding, opening
Flame come alive.
Proud beacon of life.

 

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