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preston-c-palmer-1Poems
I In a garden, full of grace, bouncing in the sunlight, reflecting our human spirit. II It smells like this: My mom tells me that it keeps the bugs away. And the bunnies will stay away from the tomatos. III Put into corners of 4 like a box, a prison. IV Orange and yellow are colors, the next, says the spectrum, is green. V The springtime brings me raindrops and warm soup by the window, where I watch and the snow melts VI I live in the city, a place of men and cars. I do not get to see the leaves and the flowers. VII There are people that live in Forests. They live off of wood smoke and rain smells VIII Friends hold close to eachother in cold water. IX Almost, by the end, it falls apart into particles and black dust. X Each of us is held together by a tiny ribbon, we stay in a circle. XI Fallen in mud and forgotten, dark black sky, grey air from the streetlight across the chain-link fence. XII The stop sign one block before I am home, almost there, close enough to practically be there, but not enough to feel it XIII Regret, an ending that lasts infinity. The smile you can never really reach, at the end of the long tunnel.
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Mar 20, 2010
Mar 20, 2010 at 9:34 PM UTC
The Marigold
I In a garden, full of grace, bouncing in the sunlight, reflecting our human spirit. II It smells like this: My mom tells me that it keeps the bugs away. And the bunnies will stay away from the tomatos. III Put into corners of 4 like a box, a prison. IV Orange and yellow are colors, the next, says the spectrum, is green. V The springtime brings me raindrops and warm soup by the window, where I watch and the snow melts VI I live in the city, a place of men and cars. I do not get to see the leaves and the flowers. VII There are people that live in Forests. They live off of wood smoke and rain smells VIII Friends hold close to eachother in cold water. IX Almost, by the end, it falls apart into particles and black dust. X Each of us is held together by a tiny ribbon, we stay in a circle. XI Fallen in mud and forgotten, dark black sky, grey air from the streetlight across the chain-link fence. XII The stop sign one block before I am home, almost there, close enough to practically be there, but not enough to feel it XIII Regret, an ending that lasts infinity. The smile you can never really reach, at the end of the long tunnel.
Inspired by Wallace Stevens' poem: "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird."
preston-c-palmer-1
Written by
preston-c-palmer-1
American
Mar 20, 2010
Mar 20, 2010 at 9:34 PM UTC
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