When  you  are  young.
The  village  seems  only
one  field  away.
You  can  skip  it  in  no  time.

Middle  aged  it  feels
two  fields  away.
And  is  getting  a  bit  
of  a  bore.

When  you  are  old
it  seems  like  three  fields
Almost  Impossible  to  walk.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2017.

were
I to awake a day
to nothing abstract
to
just real life
nothing obtuse
or glorified
might the sun shine?

The poverty I am saddest about
( his shoutings about politics )

…..he read that online
mine poetry about this poverty
the stupidity started scolding me
declared instantly me-moi as its enemy
its words, so absurds
a lunatic so terrific

not its area nor its section
I oft write in Dutch and this is mine declaration

I do now one step lower
From “it” I step a bit lower down to “his”
his profession does not read poetry
but he thought he could read
poetry poesy and poems

true very pity
not his art nor his profession
he meddles in everything
mine poetic wings, not his thing
(contin.on Part 2)

© Sylvia Frances Chan
Copyright Protected

after he read my poetry online
in the darkest café while drinking wild wine
he copied the full title of mine poetry
“Saddest about the poverty nowadays”
and instantly emailed me,
that I started talking about politics

I thought he could read poetry
but….I was mistaken

my loved one never knew
the alienating appearance of this blind male

I wrote about true poetry and its poverty
he associated with politics
once again here I repeat my last poem’s title
“Saddest about the poverty nowadays”

his unwanted eyes are peeping constantly
copying my poem, the constant liar

he read mine poetry
I wrote about the poverty
instantly he started shouting about politics
just like this male person

he has that poverty I have in mind
about vocabulary, grammar, and all that kind
I thought he could read poetry
I was mistaken

he was peeping constantly
at mine poetry
I wrote about words, nouns
the present and the past
and all the tenses
it pained all my senses

when he accused me of politics
of yelling at innocent persons
shouting at innocent poets

not mine strife in this forsaken life
I am suffering from pain
restrained

I thought he was clever
I am now mistaken forever

do you wish to know who is he?
a constant stalker, an insane talker
alienate appearance


© Sylvia Frances Chan
Copyright Protected

what you wont
******
an apology or somethin's
chip on you's should'a all's
I see's
looks like your brown teef
no one's taut ye' to brush 'em?
and yo' mama ain't in the mood
to do lawndries
next thin's
yo' gon' be
all up 'n
me faces
prof sizing

takin' God's name
makin' his words
fit your visions

Some kind a flag ya' got there
that stood for
a bunch of racist traiters
dude

bold cross red blue and white
almost like
our countries

I think you's a bit
jell'us ins'cure
like at
least gradiate
third grade
next year

(1)

                    An Open Door....
          
.....invites you, to move your feet...if you agree
you'd metamorphose from an old self, to a new one,
an open door brings in light...it's a portal, for sun,
air, wind, even fire......presences......emotions,
so they may slide in and out, easily...

in many ways, YOU become the door,
either you allow, or you refuse entrance, to
some knowledge, an opportunity, a flow of art,
an energy...or people...or deep hidden feelings,
could be a love that knocks...when time is right,
it flows beyond control, there're no barriers, no
hurdles...only wide spaces and clear pathways...
heart and mind are willing...no more holding back,
.......never mind, if there'd be half-open,
.........or half-closed moments...
::::::::::::::::
time...gives way for what is meant to be,
..........energies conspire
...molecules grow together into one mass...
...ideas meet, merge into one whole thought
or theory....allowing a glow to flow, and rule,
::::::::::::disregarding:::::::::::::::
the creaking and squeaking of the door jamb,
the broken ****...the loosely ******* hinges...
:::even the lowly moss, stubbornly clinging
to the edges of the tiled floor of the veranda,
the vine-y, bushy passion flowers growing wild
on the trellis, they both look perfect...to one
inspired, to one in love, nothing could be amiss,
....all become negligible...dispensable...
.....you show willingness.....to cope with
..........i m p e r f e c t i o n s.......


                         (2)

                        If I...

........were moss, i'd silently
fill the surface of my chosen ****** panel,
my concrete wall...my loved one, in hues
of green...coating its rough-surfaced gray
with tiny growths, so cool to the touch

i'd shield his sturdy, cold and moist body,
my tiny green leaves would be his slipcover...
inseparable, we shall be....i'd be grateful
for, he gives me a home, my habitat.....

.......i'd be the door to his wall...

.....when his existence is threatened
......i'd face all....go down with him
......break into pieces with him
......he and i...stony concrete and moss...
.....would recreate...start all over again,
......he...the wall toughened by seasons
.....and i....the door to his edifice..



Sally

Copyright September 3,, 2017
rrab