Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 Feb 2012 Mary Torrez
Shukorina
So today, as I was a walking down memory lane
I reached for dreams on tops of trees,
picked memories from shrubbery frames.
I searched for who I might be,
but was shocked and perplexed,
that mysterious part of me,
had not been planted just yet...
 Feb 2012 Mary Torrez
Brycical
Recently
it seems
every time we talk
our cacophonous
voices don't sing.

The harmony's off--
lost it's charming ring.
The tye-dye mind's eye melody
is mellowing into a gray spring.

And I'm wondering why?

But...
I think I know.
Only asked cause
I was hopin' you might hum some other musical notes,
ones that won't turn this song into a black swan dive
forced to call the huntin' dogs to track
back to a time where you and I laughed freely.

But there's this feeling
that this is how your other he must have felt
while you and me were undoing our belts--
yelling & screaming
as my parents were sleeping
upstairs above--
we played each other like saxophones
to this grand Nirvana relaxed crescendo!

But as this poem progresses
the tempo stiffens--
    your voice lessens--
as the harmony's off-key
and the melody's riff softens.
It's not hitting me hard like a gong-
feels like two people singing
different lyrics into the same microphone.
Someone with synesthesia can see
our colorful speech atrophy
instead of pirouetting in turquoise dreams.

If that sounds harsh,
sorry, that's the reality I perceive--
we don't want each other to leave,
But our avoidance of labeling
what we are also established what we weren't
and now this playful...thing? we had
feels like a breaking carafe as it hits the floor.

I want to continue writing you more poems and songs
but it's hard when the harmony's off-key
and losing it's charm.
   This new lentando^ tempo's like a left arm going numb.
I want to keep composing
but it feels like water
instead of kerosine pouring
on the fire that was inspiring
as this mournful melody dilates throughout my being.
^gradually slowing

Don't judge this based on content. I mainly wrote this because of the rhythm and here is the result.
there's a man across the street,
walking real casually
past the coffee shops and consignment stores,
hands stuffed in the pockets
of his black track jacket,
and he's whistling.

i watch him from the other side,
this lackadaisical nomad,
all sunshine and songbirds.
he's whistling his persona
in this transient fiction,
past his rippling reflections
in the shop windows,
all the while believing them to be
shifting images in god's great eye--
just one more happy creation.

— The End —