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jhilmil-breckenridgePoems
I am the whisper of a leaf in the breeze I am the flutter of a butterfly against the white honeysuckle so sweet I am the gurgle of the flowing river I am the wind in the willows I am the waitress picking up coffee cups in the cafe I am the old woman reading a newspaper against the window I am the siren of the police car as it drives by I am the laughter of an old man who twirls his moustache I am the chatter of a young child I am the taste of sugar on your tongue I am the scent of a hundred roses in your nose I am the sound of plaintive notes on a flute in a land far away I am the smell of candles and incense in a wooden church I am the flavour of Marmite on hot buttered toast I am the feel of the cool granite table against my wrist I am the refugee who hides in subway tunnels I am the man who cheers for Arsenal I am the woman buying anti ageing creams I am the child kicking stones on the path I am the smell of rain I am the taste of freedom I am the sun upon your skin I am the honeyed kiss of your lover on the inside of your wrist I am the taste of violence upon your lips I am the woman in the red dress and the ebony skin dancing I am the poet on Speaker’s Corner I am the woman licking her fingers as she eats I am the autumn leaves that rustle under your feet I am the man checking his phone I am you and you are me and we are a hundred other things And we are all unseen, forgotten, experienced, reviled, overlooked, and replaceable And the music plays, the clock ticks, and we look away
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Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 5:11 AM UTC
A Hundred Tastes of Me
I am the whisper of a leaf in the breeze I am the flutter of a butterfly against the white honeysuckle so sweet I am the gurgle of the flowing river I am the wind in the willows I am the waitress picking up coffee cups in the cafe I am the old woman reading a newspaper against the window I am the siren of the police car as it drives by I am the laughter of an old man who twirls his moustache I am the chatter of a young child I am the taste of sugar on your tongue I am the scent of a hundred roses in your nose I am the sound of plaintive notes on a flute in a land far away I am the smell of candles and incense in a wooden church I am the flavour of Marmite on hot buttered toast I am the feel of the cool granite table against my wrist I am the refugee who hides in subway tunnels I am the man who cheers for Arsenal I am the woman buying anti ageing creams I am the child kicking stones on the path I am the smell of rain I am the taste of freedom I am the sun upon your skin I am the honeyed kiss of your lover on the inside of your wrist I am the taste of violence upon your lips I am the woman in the red dress and the ebony skin dancing I am the poet on Speaker’s Corner I am the woman licking her fingers as she eats I am the autumn leaves that rustle under your feet I am the man checking his phone I am you and you are me and we are a hundred other things And we are all unseen, forgotten, experienced, reviled, overlooked, and replaceable And the music plays, the clock ticks, and we look away
#i#you#am#unseen#identity#unforgotten
jhilmil-breckenridge
Written by
jhilmil-breckenridge
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 5:11 AM UTC
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