Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
among the skyscrapers my mind wander
how narrow my sight was
to only surmise what one might feel
realizing there are more to conquer
so i take a step back
revisiting another possible tracks i could take
Andrew Rueter Sep 2020
"From the depths
of the mirror,
a corpse gazed back at me.
The look in his eyes, as they stared
into mine, has never left me."

Closing the book I looked at the cover,
Night by Elie Wiesel. Averting my eyes
from the book to my teacher, she stares

at the class in profound silence, then she says,
"There's something very similar happening in America
today." I was shocked, I couldn't believe it took me until

middle school to hear about this. My ears perked up in morbid
curiosity as the other students nodded making me feel like a *******,
"Abortion." the teacher stated with lofty arrogance as I breathed a sigh of relief

encouraged by the banality of right wing indoctrination replacing revelation
of more senseless slaughter. I didn't watch Fox News, I didn't know I was
supposed to hate abortion and Dr. Tiller; that's where Elie Wiesel and

teacher come in. Elie Wiesel wrote a book that makes people want
to change the world, my teacher narrowed it down to the target
in her crosshairs. Tiller died a few years later, Wiesel died

several years after that. My old middle school teacher
is still alive using books of the dead to demonize the
living for demanding demonetizing democracy

until malleable minds are mangled
shifting their forming mentality
into one as narrow as hers.
Safana Sep 2020
For you
to see me,
hills and valleys
oceans and seas
moon and stars
days and nights
water and fire
heaven and earth
must fall asleep
for you to see me
take a tour and pass
through, the narrow
of needle space
for you
to see me,
close your
eyes and sleep
to dream about

Safana & Bamalli 2020
for everyone to see someone
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2015
A reflection on birthdays, friends departing this world, and surveying ones life

this one poem is not lurking,(1)
turmoiled bursting,
shaking, quaking,
release aching

write it in droplets,
my chest speak squeaks,
each thought, a stanza,
each moment, a bonanza
of  the doled, muddled mix
of tremblings on this my extravaganza,
renaissance day of birth
upon this earth

sixty five calendars,
this space,
so gulf and so narrow, (2)
for what profit this man
for himself, others?

a Judgement Day of sorts,
where the man~poet is efficiently
prosecutor, defender,
judge and jury,
as is he not,
his one true

let his biases be betrayed,
his fault lines be paraded,
let his deeds be the unlawful legal coda
by which he is remanded

if found guilty of a ledger imbalanced,
more sins than glory,
only one sentence permitted,
life imprisonment

even the NYC weather
clued in and deity cooperative,
wakes me up to this advisory:

Slight chance of a rain shower.
High near 65F.

High near 65.

what portent this oracle,
a warning guide to this morass
of a contradictory, crevassed man
full of mea culpa poetic messes,
his old is his high...
or are these just winking,
birthday instructions from
an observer on high?

this space of years, this life,
so gulf and so narrow,
engulfed, yet so sparse is his barrow,
his first minutes of the day
a lean inventory taking,
for better or worse
as he overcasts a full review,
plus a bonus (!)
a forward progress prognosis

there is a fresh formed
Cain mileage marker upon his brow,
a check-mark scar,
resultant of his self-checkup
upon the tree rings of his tiring body

weeping only because a mistrial is declared
and no verdict returned
and he rises for coffee,
promising himself someday an honest resolution

these the acts of
sixty five calendars,
of this, his-space,
so gulf and so narrow,
subjected to a now daily interrogatory:

for what profit this man,
his actions, his loved words,
for himself, to others,
to this world?

October 1, 2015
but I can't stop
for each hour of the last 72
has witnessed a new poem
minute one and minute sixty five
written for you,
writing for life,
writing of this moment,

this space so gulf and so narrow
in and between
the unity of
why does the world which is wide
becomes so narrow?
why do the eyes which see a ray
see only sallow?
why does the fresh air which spreads happy
brings sorrow?
you are the born to to grow and magnify
the wealth not make fewer?
we push the hate at every side
not prison it at outer hollow
let us spread the love at every sight
the world will be so major
let the love spread and you will see
Somewhatdamaged Nov 2019
Flowing like water
Going wherever I need to go
Cutting through the way
No narrow path can stop me.
I am the water
I am a river
I flow through everything
That's all I know.
Nothing is ever what it seems,
I am the sea
I am the ocean.
Mark Wanless Apr 2019
slowly step across
the narrow path -
fear    crawl backwards
George Krokos Oct 2018
I can see you but do you really see me?
How can you know what it’s like to be?
Surface impressions can be so very deceiving
if the onlooker is by a narrow mind perceiving.
From "The Quatrains" ongoing writings since the early '90's
Leslie Ledezma Sep 2018
soft expectations
surrendering to rage’s sweetness
that’s my eyes on your words
I said, oh God I’ll get to
through the narrowest, silent, anguishing
so that when I’m there, I’m really there
Next page