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jonny-angelPoems
I find my refuge in poetry. For in twisted stanzas, that passionate-scribbling, I can read of blue skies, write amber waves, dream rusty signs squeaking, flapping in hot summer breezes, oil rigs pumping & wavy-trees, behind broken screened doors, I hear phone’s ringing, laughing children screaming. I can eat biscuits & gravy, savor catfish & string beans, see the rolling plains, feel the clapping thunder, listen to yellow parakeets as the morning sunlight peeks through stained-glass, the pitter patter of gentle rain. Sitting on porch swings, watching ripples on streams, inhaling rivers of cigarette smoke, I visualize hay rolls & barbed-wire fences under flocked geese in flight. Soothing wind chimes in c-minor, jingling, meandering through lace curtains, I lay on lily white tiles crying, clutching my tissue, trying to make it through another starless night. Rocking with Eric’s slow hand, wearing Tony Lama’s & driving Buicks, this random selection of cells I cannot keep inside me. There are millions of things hidden in my stronghold of words, yet to be written.
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Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
Stronghold of Words (My Refuge is Poetry)
I find my refuge in poetry. For in twisted stanzas, that passionate-scribbling, I can read of blue skies, write amber waves, dream rusty signs squeaking, flapping in hot summer breezes, oil rigs pumping & wavy-trees, behind broken screened doors, I hear phone’s ringing, laughing children screaming. I can eat biscuits & gravy, savor catfish & string beans, see the rolling plains, feel the clapping thunder, listen to yellow parakeets as the morning sunlight peeks through stained-glass, the pitter patter of gentle rain. Sitting on porch swings, watching ripples on streams, inhaling rivers of cigarette smoke, I visualize hay rolls & barbed-wire fences under flocked geese in flight. Soothing wind chimes in c-minor, jingling, meandering through lace curtains, I lay on lily white tiles crying, clutching my tissue, trying to make it through another starless night. Rocking with Eric’s slow hand, wearing Tony Lama’s & driving Buicks, this random selection of cells I cannot keep inside me. There are millions of things hidden in my stronghold of words, yet to be written.
jonny-angel
Written by
jonny-angel
American
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
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