When middle-class dreams shatter,
rarely do the jagged shards fall upward,
which would require muscle, pulleys, power,
a secret conveyor belt pointed toward hidden privilege.
Rather, the broken pieces almost always rain downward,
Tag: <span>poem</span>
…
Campaign flyers torn on the wet lawn
They’re grinning at me, those old soaked posters,
The faces of old men made up as youngsters
…
How many kids have died,
have been shot
by an assault rifle, a war weapon,
in the hands of a madman or woman?
The onion, now that’s something else.
Its innards don’t exist.
Nothing but pure onionhood
fills this devout onionist.
Oniony on the inside,
onionesque it appears.
It follows its own daimonion
without our human tears.
If I were a tree,
I could stand there still.
I would sink deep into my roots and
rest from the haste of life.
When my Sorrow was born I nursed it with care, and watched over it
with loving tenderness.
…
For a long time I wanted to see you again,
my old childhood friend.
There were some things I wanted to tell you
and I knew you would understand.
***
His head on my shoulder
I feel his breath on my neck
A quick kiss, then a deep sigh
Letting me know that he is happy
It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark. Evening came on, the last evening of the year. In the cold and gloom a poor little girl, bareheaded and barefoot, was walking through the streets. Of course, when she had left her house she’d had slippers on, but what good had they been?