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C James Mar 20
Son, I remember smiling faces who
gathered around the television’s glow. "Are
you comfortable?" I asked each one.
"Yes, Mamaw," they sang out to
me like precious songbirds, my family.

Son, I remember faces who
gathered around the television. "Are
you comfortable?" I asked each.
"Yes, Mamaw," they sang to
me like songbirds, my family.

Son, I remember who
gathered around television. "Are
you comfortable?" I asked.
"Yes, Mamaw," sang to
me like, my family.

Son, remember who
gathered around. "Are
you?" I asked.
"Yes, Mamaw," to
me, my family.

Son, who
gathered. "Are
you?" Asked.
"Yes," to
me, family.

Who
"Are
you"
to
me.
For my Great-Grandmother
C James Mar 9
Praying undue forgiveness, I am numbed to fetal
in experience, birthed by prosaic desperation
to fathom life, or death, in this pill: Prozac
succubus, an offering of soothing bliss
too distant, quivering, to reach,
motherless fawn, stumbling
to my knees repenting
regrets repeatedly,
muttering God,
unheard,
alone.
Feedback always welcome.
C James Mar 7
"Hide in here."

I shut the shelter,
securing my sister

within the hanging
fabric shells,

shrouding her
in my protection.

The first bomb erupts,
shattering peace into pieces

of cheap glass,
coating the floor

like ice on a bridge. Danger,
bridge freezes before road.

Mom begins to wail,
but the siren signals too late

to escape the collision:
His words—Her heart.

And I will never fear
Sticks and Stones.

Instead, I will fear
Words. Disgustful

syllables strung together
to guillotine my mind.

I wish it had been me
sealed inside the shelter.

"Dad is home."
Feedback always appreciated, whether public or private.
C James Mar 7
Fear standing atop crumbled clifftop.
A fleeting breeze whispers to me "what’s next?"
My Earth corrodes, this tearwater runoff

lifting fertile soil. Memories cropped;
despaired debris remains in frame. Perplexed
fear standing atop crumbled clifftop.

Two arms spread wide, frantic, balance I sought.
"Resist," whispers the breeze, "and breathe, reflect:
my Earth corrodes, this tearwater runoff

you precipitated; my ruin you wrought."
My toes begin to peek: the sea. Obsessed
fear. Standing atop crumbled clifftop

we teeter with unease that love means naught
when trust already sunk below the crest.
My Earth corrodes. This tearwater runoff

shall carve away our ache, and so we fought
against the chance that our love could contest
fear. Standing atop crumbled clifftop,
my Earth corrodes this tearwater runoff.
This poem is a work in progress. I still need to revise it to clean it up, strengthen images, and remove cliches where possible. Any feedback is appreciated.

— The End —