Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
I hope someone was shot today
at four forty-seven *** em
somebody famous
with a famous death
I know where I was right then
(for once)
I don’t know where I was
when Kennedy got it
and I don’t know where I was
when Martin King went
(all I know is I wasn’t here)
I think I know where I was
when Lennon walked his last
(eating Weetabix eight years old)
and I know where I was today.
At four forty-seven *** em
I was ******* tomato seeds from a picture
of Doctor Thompson’s face.
**, good lad!
Say, do you seem to remember where I have  left my slab
of glab,
Stop. The glabular slab appears.
Granular cartography.
Marsh, swamp and boggery,
all over naught but a slab!
I know that some eyes seek beautiful shadows to follow
What suffering highlighted by moonlight can do
How the stain of the world fills spaces in our hearts
Until we no longer notice we cannot feel the fire
Of what is right and true

I know how whispers of our past can take our earthly peace
Until we become tossed like disheveled leaves
How it feels to speak and think no one is listening
The terrifying feat of trying to be strong
When I want to grieve

I know those dark nights of looking down empty hallways
When I am afraid to breathe or close my eyes
As if a spell has been cast on my life in subtle shades
With a power that I cannot wish away
No matter how I sigh

However, I also know how we wait to make a single move
Day to day how we sit still and just abide
Pushing away all hands of comfort while asking
Why all the stars have been removed
From our skies
Copyright *Neva Flores @2011
www.changefulstormpoetry.blogspot.com
www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/Changefulstorm
Oh pasta wig!
My angel hair pasta hair blows in the wig.
Olay.


Sorbet.
Touch the slop.
With a drop.
Don't stop.
Clip clop.
Pitter patter tip top.
Goes the batter of all matter.

Toe mater
Cars 2, see it in theatres.
I have bronzen blazen brazen.
All amazen.
In the amazon.
White Lightning.

— The End —