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over the past weeks
a gentle autumn sun
has painted colored leaves
upon the ground
and thinned
the bright abundance
of the wooded ranges

most of the harvest
is securely stored by now
or sold at morning markets
by weathered men and women
in country garbs

vintners are busy with their lots
fermenting grapes
and entertaining those
who see their visit
as pleasant pastime and escape
from daily urban chores

hunters and lumbermen
are waking up
to shoot and mark

schools by this time
have settled into the new year
teachers are happy still to share
the knowledge of our world
with students still inclined
to listen

remembering their vacations
on the Bahamas or in Saint Tropez
step sprightly into offices
womanned by secretaries dreaming secretly
of beautiful Mallorca summers
and of those never-ending nights
on the Algarve

I guess it is a human thing
to find a new beginning
and do best
when nature’s breath goes easy
to collect the strength
for yet another fruitful year

or were it better
that we also took a rest?

           * *
lmbf Jul 2018
To write someone into existence is to take all one is, who one has loved, how one has chosen to love, and spin it into something new.

Yet writing is inherently selfish. I know that as much. Every time inspiration strikes me I know I am imprinting a part of my soul on every word, every comma I carve about someone and someplace else.

To separate truth from nostalgia - that is a question we have attempted to solve for as long as time itself. In my heart of hearts, I know I cannot do it. For everytime their voices whisper in my ear, begging to be painted into a quick couplet, I have to shake my head like a dog out of water.

Every time I write a simple verse, I have to ask myself if I am writing about the people I know (knew?) or the foggy specters of the people I want to remember. Yet we all know the truth: those recollections grow a little weaker with each passing day. The people we were even months ago have been gone for a long time, and writing them out can only bring back half of our lives back then.

But I'll try. For him, for her, for them, I will try. We haven't spoken in years, but through these verses I will try to preserve parts of the world we wove in that old schoolyard - and someday, the world that arose from a burst of yellow on the bleachers, too.
So that if one day someone stumbles upon these words - or if, perchance, they stumble upon this book - the whole world will know I haven't forgotten.
No, I remember everything.

To separate truth from nostalgia - that is a question we have attempted to solve for as long as time itself. These words are my answer.
After writing for six years, I've come to a few realizations that have helped me mature in my craft. Here's one of them. // Summer Freewrite Sessions 2018
edit; thank you so much for 1.1k reads! it means the world to me.
lmbf  Aug 2018
Dear Old Friend
lmbf Aug 2018
Dear good old friend,

I don't regret a minute of it. Being given the chance to play with you, laugh with you amidst the grassy plains of our old schoolyard. Fifth grade mancala and sixth grade basketball games, the people may have changed but the memories stay the same. And I remember you, me, and our group of friends, and all I can associate with it is the feeling of finally being free.

Who would've known that just four years later, we wouldn't be able to recognize the person standing in front of us?

I let go a long time ago, but try as I might I can't bring myself to forget those years; and every moment is conflated with the kindness of your smile. Almost like it's a portrait frozen in time. While now I know that's nostalgia casting its rose-tinted spell, part of me still wonders whether you think of me, your good old friend, when those years come to mind, too.

You taught me the meaning of seasons. That every season ushers in new people, new meaning; and that what is given sometimes has to be taken away. Though I questioned this truth for a very long time, I no longer hurt over the year we fell apart. In fact, I embrace it. You taught me how to see the joys in life (even when I wanted no part of it) and you taught me how to love. And in doing so, you taught me how to let you go.

People often say that someone might leave your life after you have learned something from him/her. But you always were the exception; you made sure I knew that life goes on no matter who's in it. No matter if you've learned your lesson right away or not.
That just as we learned in seventh grade biology that the human skin repairs itself, we, too, will learn to heal - and maybe even to love others again.

Thank you.

Summer Freewrite Sessions 2018 //
though now i can't even recognize the man he has become, here is an old friend whose memories and whose lessons i will always treasure. the wisdom he (albeit unknowingly) imparted upon me before we said goodbye forms a central part of the progression of "SFW 2018" and of my personal growth  this past summer, too. so i felt it necessary to honor him through this piece.

if you have been reading my works this past month - through trending, through your home page, or through a friend, thank you so much! thank you for receiving SFW Sessions warmly and for sharing it, it means the world to me.

if you haven't, i encourage you to check them out. it would be greatly appreciated! (and also some parts of this piece might make more sense.)
Jordan Rowan  Aug 2015
Moon Glow
Jordan Rowan Aug 2015
See those red windows by Midland Park
Where the schoolyard stands empty in the frozen dark
See that Neon motor in 21st gear
And the only question is "why are we here?"
In memory motel with unchanging rates
I still see the Moon Glow in your face

By the edge of the stream with bread in hand
Two doves chase the wind to a foreign land
As our voices are carried to a teenage past
In naïve reclusion we knew couldn't last
With a palette of hate I still can taste
I still see the Moon Glow in your face

Weathered storms on a Parisian stage
The book can't be written unless you turn every page
On a worn out, de-facto, company car
The diamonds will promise to make you a star
In sovereign rule of my mind's estate
I still see the Moon Glow on your face

On Ebony's wings coming down from the sky
Miracle rides close behind
The waves from Mexico have long since passed
No moment is forever and it won't be the last
With ocean eyes and a passioned embrace
I still see the Moon Glow in your face
The hanky he was sobbing into was crusty,
*****, unwashed, unclean; yet strangely comforting to a little boy,
as he cried he made his way to a culvert behind the school,
some place the other kids couldn’t see him crying,
it was more comfortable being near rocks
-next to that watershed for some reason?

He looked down at his antagonist,
the scaly-green feet,
they made him cry harder,
he lamented…

“Why have I been tormented so?”

“Who gave me these feet? Who made me this way, lizardly, scaly, an animal no?”

“What class am I, what species? Are those toenails, claws or a disease?”

“The way I’m treated makes me sad. Where is my mommy, where is my dad?

“Did I come from an egg? Didn’t we all? Why do they pick on me, make me feel so small?”

“My feet are reptilian even I can see that!”

“Am I part lizard? Are there horns on my back?”

“I can’t hide in sneakers ‘cause the claws tear them apart.”

“Not great at math, language or art.”

“They always pickin’ on me, today it’s in the schoolyard.”

“That is why I sit here on the rocks crying with my **** feet and sullen heart,”

“Cannot run fast so no baseball, basketball or soccer…”

“The other kids tried to stuff me in my own locker…”

“One mean little girl even threw a dead mouse at me!”

“But I’m only part lizard as far as I can see?”

“My English teacher says that my words are like a bird song”

“If I talk like a birdie along with monster’s feet, no wonder I don’t belong!”

“Even still, to be so mean to me, I know that it is wrong…”



“I am no freak of nature, no forest Pan or Satyr…”

“It is not the way I look, my clothes or feet that matter…”

“It is what is in my heart and mind, the things I do that truly count…”

“For those things that make us different, for they are tantamount…”

“Seven heads, seven stages, seven fables, seven sages”

“Seven stars and seven wonders and seven heavens that we’re under…”

“And all those things they say are great and marvelous about us…”

“Will one day be written in the book by Great Old Uncle Taautus!”
Children's rhyme. Scylla represents the rocks near shores who rend ships to pieces that venture to close to them.
Gabriel Bonney Aug 2018
This for the little brothers
And the widowed mothers
To the Sunday morning snoozers
And the gamenight losers
To the wimps in the schoolyard
And even the bullies just down the boulevard
Shake the dust.

This is for the shopfront greeters,
The youth group worship leaders,
For the early morning joggers and the late night bike riders,
And for the boy who's crush loves someone else
For milk crate ball players,
And for the wallflower haters
Plant the forests.

To the sleepers and the dreamers,
And to the bed-wetters,
As well as the lonely love letters
To the broken hearts who write poems
And the broken souls that stole them
To men who work for a family they never see
And girls who want a lover but they'll never be
Split the seas.

For the heavens you have lived and the hells you felt you have gone through,
For the demons who have overcame and the ones yet to be overcome
For the ones who have stuck with the Lord all the same
And the ones who don't yet know His name
For the fair-weather friends the friends 'til the end
The overnighters and the stories told at campfires
Move the mountains.

This is to the poet, and lovers who don't yet know it
To the writers but it's just a hobby,
The Debbie Downers who can't stop me
This is for the authors whose books is left unread on dusty shelves
And the girls who hate the look of themselves
To the ones, that when it rains, they choose to sing
And the winter you must endure to reach the spring
Shake the dust.

This is to all of you,
and I will say it again: shake the dust.
Because from the dust you were made,
and to the dust you will return.
So let this poem not be mere words that barely flow,
may this poet not just be another kid,
too quixotic to change the world.
But might my poetry be the notes
which your words are carried by.
Let them swing and sway,
a piece to our battlecry,
some sylable in your life story.
Because from the dust you will rise,
so carry the dirt with you
and take the world by storm,
for the ground you scrape from your palms
is the story you form.
dustsceawung | Old English | (n.) "contemplation of dust"; reflection on the knowledge that all things will turn to dust
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