Posts Tagged ‘growth’

Turned our backs on the

fruit of the land.

 

Forgotten labor,

turning to markets instead.

 

Forgotten to rejoice with rainfall

and sunlight falling on the earth.

 

Forgotten the cycle of everything,

even though it is the cycle of our lives.

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Once I cried from my powder blue room

my wails rising from my crib

like awful birds- beaks targeting ears

at which to peck.

 

Once I reached inside myself

and found the nerve to kick off the training wheels

and form my own path, unencumbered.

 

Once I found myself in a four square court

and the ball bounced between me

and people who introduced themselves

as they held that yellow rubber sphere.

 

Once I looked at the monochrome clock

that crouched, always in the same place,

on the mocha-brown walls of a building

that always smelled of new shoes and Lysol.

 

Once I found myself in a room-

painted a darker blue, the same

room where that doll-sized impression of myself

used its voice to rouse people from slumber.

Now I can use my voice to do the same,

but in spite of everything,

I take my own initiative

and set forth, out of the crib, onto the street, into the halls

on my own.

It’s funny how childlike and innocent my perception of the world, or at least the Natural world, becomes at the beginning of each season.

At the start of winter this year the snow was falling so lightly I thought it was almost dreamlike. Then winter got old. People began to grow tired of the now, especially as the weather turned foul. I tried to maintain a positive outlook, trying to see the beauty in storms and the whiteness of everything. But the sad thing about winter, when you get older, is that the season kind of loses it’s magic. You find you’d rather stay inside. I tried going out into the snow once. I only ended up being outside for fifteen minutes. Maybe the magic is also gone because fifteen minutes can feel like forever when you’re a kid.

Now winter grows into spring, and I find myself smiling as I step into a puddle by accident. I feel happy being able to see green plants now- tree branches no longer covered by snow. But I’m wondering how long this fascination will last. As a writer, observation of the surrounding world is important, but there’s this nagging sense that what I observe will get tiresome eventually.

I guess that the best option is to try and keep an open mind. To observe the changes that happen, and try to find the beauty in the heat waves and thunderstorms to come.

Wish me luck, and stay tuned!

To what Lengths does

the green lawn Grass grow?

In this Modern Age, it seems,

That we’ll never Know.

Where the bronze fire of your skin

almost seared my flesh,

there are, instead, these pale

pink petals giving me my identity-

separate from you.

The New Year is but an hour away.

Minutes separate myself

from a new sun- that new jewel

set into its old, black, stone broach-

and my changing life.

 

I have yet to empty my lungs

of old breath.

Have yet to empty my mind

of new doubts,

the kind that are common this time of year.

I have yet to purge my body

of sins well aged, like fine wine

(they lingered even on Christmas Day).

 

And so the clock and calendar eye me

with regret. And I sigh,

slump into the sofa,

play with my old thumbs,

and smile in spit of the fact

that what’s to come

is as unknown to me

as the source of this burgeoning sense of hope.

Tenderness lives in hands.

In the soft, light, and feathery touch

of skin on skin- Tenderness is passed.

In loving caresses Tenderness relinquishes warmth,

then rushes to hearts and quickens their pace.

Tenderness takes its time

knowing when tears will form,

when happiness abides in the smallest of smiles,

and gratefulness shows in the slow closing of eyes.

Tenderness takes root

at the clasp of palms, and fingers entwining.

It grows in the hearty laughs, genuine smiles,

and red blood visibly rising in cheeks.

Tenderness blooms

where two bodies meet with the slightest of touches,

and grows through years of unity,

where smiles, laughs, and touches never cease.