"bowdoin" poems
It has been 3 years since you've been gone, Jill, and I want you to come back to me now. Since the summer of 2010, I always remember you from the start since I was on Bowdoin Street. You always love the rain a lot and give me hugs and kisses because you love me every single day. Sometimes, I always take care of you all day and all night. I wish i wanna marry you and i wanna be with you again someday. You are my sweetest girl in the whole community, Jill. I love you and I miss you to death.
Anomynous. 5/15/2013.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 11:24 AM UTC
old, old withered hands
grasping the edge
of a red handled rake,
old man stands upon
lone green hill
lavish under sweltering shadows
and swaying stems
of daisies, lavender and petals
the hue of burgundy cherry
lone house on a hill
spotted passageways
out into sweet oblivion
where the sky and earth
greets with hello,
this lone man stand on a hill
raking as he goes
the pebbles in the grass
clutter like trinkets
ringing affectionately,
simple land, simple hands
he mumbled solemnly to himself
trying to lead him to believe
the day she left
was not the last
he would smell her perfume
dark, curly locks
piercing gaze of sapphire
greyed into wisps of smoke
ashes swirling in the wind
her hair rustled in the wind
chocolate brown and olive glimmers
and the slightest salmon pink
painted on her lips,
smile like in still pond water
his heart aches melancholy,
raking the pebbles left in his garden
the one he nurtured for her
of dewed lotus and blossoming peony,
twirling bark of ancient sakura
showering the garden with cascading petals,
almost like snow, shining in the garden
the way his heart ached
for her sweet voice
only sound of trickling pebbles
chrysanthemum dotted golden yellow
spurred in sweet dance with the lilies
bonzai trees twisting, elegantly unfolding
over the expanse of the bowdoin,
unfurling like in memory
the way her words would spill
like spilling sunlight at dawn,
or the way her steps
carefully planted from stone to stone
across the trickling river bend,
currents adorned with that
of galloping salmon,
the color of her lipstick
so long, lovely song
the old man could no longer
see wide eyed,
his grip faltering with fatigue,
raking the pebbles in directions
line meeting line, like the rhythm
of his frail heartbeat,
eyes tired and dull
long shadow after his frame
a thousand butterflies fluttering
in the slight breeze,
mumbling to himself
lean on, one of me
believing she was
still watching over him,
smiling and caressing
his sore arms,
breathing through
the beauty in the garden
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 7:12 PM UTC