RE: Some poetry
July 12, 2014 at 2:11 pm
(This post was last modified: July 12, 2014 at 2:15 pm by Mudhammam.)
These are a some poems I wrote, untitled:
People say
the hardest part
is getting on.
I say
getting on
is the easy part.
The hardest part
is staying on
after you’ve realized
how much time
you have spent
and how little reward
you have reaped.
It is a proud but sad moment.
A deep breath is taken and the culmination of hours or days or weeks
is processed and analyzed.
The source of pride is folded and put back on the shelf.
Another is taken off for consideration.
It's like a drug that may or may not be enjoyed but is nonetheless
invaluable to those who wish to escape.
Those experiences that become alive and familiar when passed along
the right way.
Sadness lingers as this drug will no longer have the same effect,
if any effect, on the user for some time to come.
The only thing that can be done with it
is to share it with someone else who has not yet experienced
the words on its pages.
Darkness, fog, rain,
29 degrees Fahrenheit,
a curve in the road ahead;
no street lights.
You feel your car begin to slide,
thoughts race,
adrenaline begins to pump,
panic sends your heart
into your throat,
and life slips out of your control
with the wheel.
No matter how hard you slam the brakes,
your tires drift
toward a ditch.
The car catches air
in slow motion.
You’re upside down,
tumbling off the road
soon to be one
with a tree,
glass and metal folding into your bones.
You breathe in deeply,
coming back to reality.
Darkness, fog, rain,
29 degrees Fahrenheit,
a curve in the road ahead;
You slow down to a near stop
and safely take the curve.
I appeared uneasy.
Bumpity-bump.
The pressure heightened with each minute.
It filled a little more.
I tried to play it off,
smile and laugh with everyone else.
It worked for a while.
Then my thoughts wandered back to it.
I swelled like a balloon inside.
My friends chattered about sports and the workshop
but my mind focused solely on the pain at hand.
The van traveled along.
Bumpity-bump.
“Looks like an accident up ahead.”
My foot tapped the floor.
My hand tapped my knee.
I counted to 100 and back down to 1.
I almost made it;
14 Mississippi,
13 Mississippi
12 Mississippi.
Then I felt relief.
A warm wetness dribbled down my leg.
In life I was a beggar.
It didn’t matter much that my father
was Camp Prefect of the Sixth Victorious Legion,
I was still called dumb,
a devil, cursed by the gods,
left by my own family
to linger in the streets.
The truth is
I was born with Klippel-Feil syndrome,
although everyone then
only knew me
as a helpless cripple,
a freak.
People said I wouldn’t amount to anything
and I half believed them.
There was certainly nothing noble
about my death and burial
and I received no special ceremonies
or decorations
as my father had.
Only by the grace of Vulcan
on my final day
in the streets of Pompeii,
was I given a chance
at a new life.
Today I
stand
proud,
for all the world to see.
The wieners sizzled on the frying pan.
The cat gazed in admiration as she worked at the burners.
Cheddar cheese noodles were Harvey’s favorite side.
The main dish this evening
was chili dogs.
No beans.
She lit a nag champa stick.
The aroma from the incense
and her impeccable cooking
would make even a grouchy Harvey pleased.
She placed a couple candles on the table,
poured two glasses of Shiraz,
and set out the plates.
Dinner was ready.
She helped Harvey and herself to a serving
and sat down.
She stared at Harvey’s picture on the chair across from her.
“I can’t believe its already been ten years.”
People say
the hardest part
is getting on.
I say
getting on
is the easy part.
The hardest part
is staying on
after you’ve realized
how much time
you have spent
and how little reward
you have reaped.
It is a proud but sad moment.
A deep breath is taken and the culmination of hours or days or weeks
is processed and analyzed.
The source of pride is folded and put back on the shelf.
Another is taken off for consideration.
It's like a drug that may or may not be enjoyed but is nonetheless
invaluable to those who wish to escape.
Those experiences that become alive and familiar when passed along
the right way.
Sadness lingers as this drug will no longer have the same effect,
if any effect, on the user for some time to come.
The only thing that can be done with it
is to share it with someone else who has not yet experienced
the words on its pages.
Darkness, fog, rain,
29 degrees Fahrenheit,
a curve in the road ahead;
no street lights.
You feel your car begin to slide,
thoughts race,
adrenaline begins to pump,
panic sends your heart
into your throat,
and life slips out of your control
with the wheel.
No matter how hard you slam the brakes,
your tires drift
toward a ditch.
The car catches air
in slow motion.
You’re upside down,
tumbling off the road
soon to be one
with a tree,
glass and metal folding into your bones.
You breathe in deeply,
coming back to reality.
Darkness, fog, rain,
29 degrees Fahrenheit,
a curve in the road ahead;
You slow down to a near stop
and safely take the curve.
I appeared uneasy.
Bumpity-bump.
The pressure heightened with each minute.
It filled a little more.
I tried to play it off,
smile and laugh with everyone else.
It worked for a while.
Then my thoughts wandered back to it.
I swelled like a balloon inside.
My friends chattered about sports and the workshop
but my mind focused solely on the pain at hand.
The van traveled along.
Bumpity-bump.
“Looks like an accident up ahead.”
My foot tapped the floor.
My hand tapped my knee.
I counted to 100 and back down to 1.
I almost made it;
14 Mississippi,
13 Mississippi
12 Mississippi.
Then I felt relief.
A warm wetness dribbled down my leg.
In life I was a beggar.
It didn’t matter much that my father
was Camp Prefect of the Sixth Victorious Legion,
I was still called dumb,
a devil, cursed by the gods,
left by my own family
to linger in the streets.
The truth is
I was born with Klippel-Feil syndrome,
although everyone then
only knew me
as a helpless cripple,
a freak.
People said I wouldn’t amount to anything
and I half believed them.
There was certainly nothing noble
about my death and burial
and I received no special ceremonies
or decorations
as my father had.
Only by the grace of Vulcan
on my final day
in the streets of Pompeii,
was I given a chance
at a new life.
Today I
stand
proud,
for all the world to see.
The wieners sizzled on the frying pan.
The cat gazed in admiration as she worked at the burners.
Cheddar cheese noodles were Harvey’s favorite side.
The main dish this evening
was chili dogs.
No beans.
She lit a nag champa stick.
The aroma from the incense
and her impeccable cooking
would make even a grouchy Harvey pleased.
She placed a couple candles on the table,
poured two glasses of Shiraz,
and set out the plates.
Dinner was ready.
She helped Harvey and herself to a serving
and sat down.
She stared at Harvey’s picture on the chair across from her.
“I can’t believe its already been ten years.”
He who loves God cannot endeavour that God should love him in return - Baruch Spinoza
