"burg" poems
I don’t know what to say anymore,
Nothing can make this right.
You want so badly to save us,
But I don’t want to put up a fight.
We’re in a sinking ship here,
But you’ve still got buckets in your hands.
You keep screaming for me to help you,
But I can’t accept your demands.
You’re asking me to choose here:
“It’s either me or her.”
But you’ve played this game before with me,
So I’m taking her offer.
I won’t say goodbye
Even through she was the ice burg
I won’t say goodbye
Even though the last straw was her
I won’t say goodbye
I’m taking back my wings
I won’t say goodbye
And I’m the bird here that sings.
I don’t know what to write anymore.
Can’t pick up my pen and go.
You still beg me for the words,
But these words I’ll never show.
You fret over every word I said,
Like a moment stopped in time.
You scratch, I bleed and look at you,
And you say I crossed a line but,
I won’t say goodbye
Even through she was the ice burg
I won’t say goodbye
Even though the last straw was her
I won’t say goodbye
I’m taking back my wings
I won’t say goodbye
And I’m the bird here that sings.
And then you turn me around again,
And hold me ever close.
All I wanted was to love,
I’m such a lonely ghost.
Save me now I’m drowning,
This ship is going down.
The fires spreading rapidly,
And our bodies won’t be found.
I won’t say goodbye
Even through she was the ice burg
I won’t say goodbye
Even though the last straw was her
I won’t say goodbye
I’m taking back my wings
I won’t say goodbye
And I’m the bird here that sings.
Jan 29, 2020
Jan 29, 2020 at 1:45 PM UTC
Mother thinks that because she’s seen the tip of the ice burg,
She knows whats beneath me
Mother thinks that because she’s seen me hold myself together,
She knows that I’m strong
Mother thinks that because she makes me smile,
She knows how to fix me
Mother thinks that because I laugh,
I’m happy again
Mother,
Tell me how you know all of these things when you’ve seen nothing but
The shadow of myself I mask to keep you happy
Tell me why everything I touch turns to smithereens,
When I’m trying to hold it all together
Mother,
I’m holding it together for you,
But I just don’t know ******* how
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 4:55 PM UTC
Hail in peace wherever you abode now, dear Nadine Gordimer
You white daughter of Africa, the pen-mistress of July’s people,
You are the lover of July, your holy months of literature
That similarly gave a ****** grave marriage to Maziz Kunene
The African saint of orature; And Okot P’ Bitek, the lion of Gulu,
July have wedded you to the sombre grave in the Jo’burg,
As its apparatchik, the menacing jaws of death feel humdinger!
O! Dear little daughter, cursed are the jaws of death
They have kept on wooing and wooing you relentlessly
They have yearned for your betrothal with mad jealous,
For your iconic position in white African literature,
In which you stand with soldierly embrace a Nobelite,
They have now taken you to their inner chamber nuptials in death,
Before anything; let them now pay dowry to your bothers;
J M Coetzee, Alex La Guma and Dennis Brutus,
For there’s is a competent herds boy, a black shepherd;
Ezekia Mphalele, his living soul will keep the cows
Off down Corner B of the troubled African Image.
Say hello for those you are with in the current realm,
Say hello to foremen and fore daughters of Africa
Those that chose to visit the realm of ancestor precociously;
Say hello to them; Angelo Maya and Doris Lessing,
Let their caged birds and blooming grass sing uproariously,
Marriama Ba and Margaret Ogola, African girls,
They had a long letter and the source of the river from black dialectics,
O! Dear old baby Nadine Gordimer, stand firm in face to face with nothing
Other than the present time you’re in; the Africa’s realm of living dead
To sing the ballads of anti-apartheid both in heaven and on earth,
The only true testament of your footprints on the global sands of times
That Nadine Gordimer, July’s white-African daughter is deadly alive!
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 9:18 AM UTC
For far too long we have been victims of police brutality.
We came in peace but got treated like criminals on the 21st of October.
These are the very same men and women who we trust to protect us.
But they failed us dismally, barricaded us from expressing our concerns.
You could see the visuals all on TV, it was all too hard to believe.
The revolution will not be fully televised, it will be tweeted.
For far too long we’ve accepted the government’s mediocrity.
For far too long we’ve been victims of police brutality.
Your teargas, rubber bullets and stun grenades will never stop us.
Our parents were sold dreams in 1994, we’re just here for the refund.
Now it’s time to finally bump the cheese up, so what’s the hold-up for?
History is repeating itself in South Africa, what a time to be alive.
They’ve become worse than their oppressors but they won’t oppress us.
Sorry for the inconvenience, we are just trying to change the world.
We will keep protesting in Jo’burg, Pretoria and Cape Town until we’re heard.
There’s no amount of police brutality that can dampen our spirits and no gun you make can **** our souls.
Our parents were sold dreams in 1994, we’re just here for the refund.
Now it’s time to finally bump the cheese up, so why is there a hold-up?
Hold up, we’re tired of being victims of hate, fate and police brutality.
We came in peace but got treated like criminals on the 23rd of October.
For far too long we’ve accepted the government’s mediocrity.
Your riot police, rubber bullets and stun grenades will never stop us.
Sorry for the inconvenience, we are just trying to change the world.
When burning buildings come down, I just hope you’ll be ready for us all.
When burning buildings come down, we will effortlessly heed the call.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 6:21 AM UTC
#1 | 31 Poems for August
I want to do more than just write poetry.
I want to paint pictures.
So be my muse and surrender your body as my canvas.
I’ll make every single swift stroke bring you to life.
I’ll show you what this brush of mine is capable of.
You are the sun that my sky yearns to hold.
Beautiful cocoa butter skin.
Your beauty is not only found on your exterior but every single place within.
I want to insert my poems in every single atom in this galaxy.
So that you can feel my love wherever you go.
From Pretoria to Toronto.
From Jo’burg to Moscow.
From Cape Town to Glasgow.
Static thoughts and kinetic conversations inspire my flow.
I have thoughts that my words cannot describe and I wish to share them with the world.
I wish to share them with you.
I love the way your eyes see past my smile and deep into the fibres of my soul.
I love the way your smile makes me whole.
Let’s become a poem our friends can always snap their fingers to.
I want to hold your body the way canvas portrays paint.
I want to kiss your lips while I gently hold your waist.
I want to do more than just write poetry.
I want to tell the world about you.
Let me tell the world about you.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
.
Bleeding ripe woman,
wet naked stone;
honey rock dries--
fast star bone.
Dead memories change
just like laid,
wants fly open--
soul sky parade.
Sea moon dreams,
daddy heard stars--
known little face;
death drives cars.
________*________
Rainy days wash--
brick looking mud,
blank reality strings
dry midsummer blood.
Dog's child minds--
revolution spreads wings,
***** molten other
fraught angel sings.
Corner ocean waves--
milk sounds morbid,
freeing minnow slaves
gritty condor kid.
________*__________
Catch passing eclipse--
my suicidal dream!
Kissing dying lips,
conscience eagles' scream.
Roots stop barely--
silver burdened rhyme;
river's metal tracks
help God remind.
Lofty smokeless breeze--
bird's echo box.
Ice burg floating,
saturates frozen socks.
__________*___________
Rings pulled strangers
silk blossoms singing--
remembering ancient maps
deep words bringing.
Canon pirates' soup
dreamer's record stalkin',
river's whole amount--
dead man walkin'.
Instant scattered corona
clenching eagle drowning;
rubber slamming secrets--
reading Robert Browning.
.
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 4:11 AM UTC
oh the joys of idyllic
small town life in this
whitewashed village where
everyone knows everyone
and everyone knows
everyone’s business
where the groceries are
overpriced and the taxes
are high and everyone but
the wife knows he’s cheating
where everything is a scandal
and nobody will admit to knowing
anything but they’ll still talk
about it behind closed doors
there are supposedly prostitutes
on main street but i only ever see
the drunk and drugged out there
and if someone is single there is
someone determined
to find them a match
all and all a very pleasant
charming life we lead here
what with all the arrests
and the highway department
yammering away on things
and the way the tops of the semis
scrape the bottom of the
traffic lights on their way though
something charming about
the way the sides of the buildings
all need a good power washing
and there’s probably lots of
good clean arsenic in
the water supply
scenic
a most sleepy
little burg
they say
spend some time
with us and
you’ll find a community
you’ll find a home
you’ll also
find a thing or two
you’ll wish
you didn’t know
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 9:05 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
My heart has gone out for all families on the street
That came out of the erstwhile street boys and girls
Kudos to your creativity as you make life from nothing
Blessed bye your bravado and sense of oblivion
With which you have held the riches of the world
In which effortlessly swim the powers that be,
Beautified be a street family in the all quarters of the world
Wherever you are kindly be ennobled
Whether in India or Chicago of Americas,
Be it Nairobi, Lagos or Jo’burg the infernos of urchinery
Good times and chances befall you children of the street.
Great beauty with you is condemnation of the tribe
In Africa where ethnicity is the bricks of tribal mall
Your names are conditional but not tribal connotation
They sing songs of exclusion but not chauvinism of ethnicity
I was in Kenya at the city of Eldoret, I visited your platoon
In the suburb of Langas, I derided not in the glory of your nomenclature;
Some of you festooned in the street emperor, as other wallow in mauverick titles
Like; Cop-puncher, weed-cooler, ****** breaker, top sniffer, hotel sentry
And many other accoladic names as you feasted me on your virtuosity.
Royal is your blood as you bivouac in the blizzards
The blood in your vein came from the state panjandrum
During the libidinous hour in the wee of the night
The teats you suckled were of your undergraduate mothers
In the high powered Universities of bourgeoisie education
Never regret in your ego for great is your genetics
It was solely misplaced priorities of your vulnerable mothers
That had you dumped on the street garbage in the oblivion of society
But great you are because 10% you hitherto make
Of the ostentations African population that is whoopingly a billion!
Time is coming for your final say, bivouac wherever you are
For your day is very soon.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 7:13 AM UTC
He is the puppet master, that has
strung his strings through my
wooden hands, played fate in
my hollow days.
I am the puppet dancing to
every rhythm of it's somber tune,
playing psychic to his every wish.
I am the warrior, crying surrender
to me in my strongest days,
denying defeat after it's already
happened.
I am the warrior, oiling his guns
after using them on I-playing
slave in a world of freedom.
He is the ice burg that sank my
ship, when I almost reached
shore, teasing the land.
He is the mountain that blocks
my view of joy, blinding my
eye to know this.
Now I am the guilt in his
heart, playing nightmares in
his mind.
SDPope
Jan 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010 at 6:28 AM UTC
I'd call you both my North Stars,
but then Trish would point out
there's only one,
and Chaney would argue
that if that's the case,
it would have to be her
and I would pull up images
of night skies in Calcutta
and Jo-burg and Rome
to prove that different views
show different stars,
so you two could agree I'm wrong,
something we all know I'll never admit.
So I'll squeeze your hands
and keep quiet,
looking up towards the sky
for guidance and light,
a constant reminder
of how to find home.
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 1:53 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
My heart has gone out for all families on the street
That came out of the erstwhile street boys and girls
Kudos to your creativity as you make life from nothing
Blessed bye your bravado and sense of oblivion
With which you have held the riches of the world
In which effortlessly swim the powers that be,
Beautified be a street family in the all quarters of the world
Wherever you are kindly be ennobled
Whether in India or Chicago of Americas,
Be it Nairobi, Lagos or Jo’burg the infernos of urchinery
Good times and chances befall you children of the street.
Great beauty with you is condemnation of the tribe
In Africa where ethnicity is the bricks of tribal mall
Your names are conditional but not tribal connotation
They sing songs of exclusion but not chauvinism of ethnicity
I was in Kenya at the city of Eldoret, I visited your platoon
In the suburb of Langas, I derided not in the glory of your nomenclature;
Some of you festooned in the street emperor, as other wallow in mauverick titles
Like; Cop-puncher, weed-cooler, ****** breaker, top sniffer, hotel sentry
And many other accoladic names as you feasted me on your virtuosity.
Royal is your blood as you bivouac in the blizzards
The blood in your vein came from the state panjandrum
During the libidinous hour in the wee of the night
The teats you suckled were of your undergraduate mothers
In the high powered Universities of bourgeoisie education
Never regret in your ego for great is your genetics
It was solely misplaced priorities of your vulnerable mothers
That had you dumped on the street garbage in the oblivion of society
But great you are because 10% you hitherto make
Of the ostentations African population that is whoopingly a billion!
Time is coming for your final say, bivouac wherever you are
For your day is very soon.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 6:39 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
My heart has gone out for all families on the street
That came out of the erstwhile street boys and girls
Kudos to your creativity as you make life from nothing
Blessed bye your bravado and sense of oblivion
With which you have held the riches of the world
In which effortlessly swim the powers that be,
Beautified be a street family in the all quarters of the world
Wherever you are kindly be ennobled
Whether in India or Chicago of Americas,
Be it Nairobi, Lagos or Jo’burg the infernos of urchinery
Good times and chances befall you children of the street.
Great beauty with you is condemnation of the tribe
In Africa where ethnicity is the bricks of tribal mall
Your names are conditional but not tribal connotation
They sing songs of exclusion but not chauvinism of ethnicity
I was in Kenya at the city of Eldoret, I visited your platoon
In the suburb of Langas, I derided not in the glory of your nomenclature;
Some of you festooned in the street emperor, as other wallow in mauverick titles
Like; Cop-puncher, weed-cooler, ****** breaker, top sniffer, hotel sentry
And many other accoladic names as you feasted me on your virtuosity.
Royal is your blood as you bivouac in the blizzards
The blood in your vein came from the state panjandrum
During the libidinous hour in the wee of the night
The teats you suckled were of your undergraduate mothers
In the high powered Universities of bourgeoisie education
Never regret in your ego for great is your genetics
It was solely misplaced priorities of your vulnerable mothers
That had you dumped on the street garbage in the oblivion of society
But great you are because 10% you hitherto make
Of the ostentations African population that is whoopingly a billion!
Time is coming for your final say, bivouac wherever you are
For your day is very soon.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 6:48 AM UTC
May you never convince yourself that your last, will ever truly be your last.
Withstand everything.
Even though all you see are apparitions of people from your past,
Do not lose sight of the moment.
Despite the fact ninety-nine percent of your thought process is spent trying to figure out exactly where things went wrong.
Use the one percent to let go...
Continue to breathe,
Continue to smile,
Continue to grow,
Become the Hydra.
Know that for every head severed from your body,
Two more will rise.
May your "Hello(s)" present themselves more often than your "Goodbye(s)"
Let the fires of your mind be forged by the words of infinite knowledge:
"Do, or do not. There is no try."
You are the steel bolt that binds this foggy, eight-thirty traffic jammed bridge together.
Or an ice-burg waiting patiently to capsize others.
You have only scratched the surface.
Keep searching...
Allow others to spend their lifetime on the quest of consistency.
Still the sun will rise and set.
Experience all you can, while you can.
Because every spec of dust is significant, and things happen for a reason.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 5:17 AM UTC
All that's left of me...
Cross-legged in meditation at four AM.
Sitting in a provincial burg. Alone.
Completely comfortable with obscurity.
Ambition dead as ashes of embers.
Swallow emptiness as it swallows you.
This world holds no prizes worth winning.
Youth: dream dreams and lust.
Prime: chase success and love.
Age: write poems and be quiet.
What can a dead cat do but bounce?
You've done all you can for your fellow man.
Action is the province of the young;
there are reasons soldiers are only twenty.
People say go for it, time remains.
You know, you know, there's nowhere to go.
Everything important ends before it begins.
If all your words turned suddenly to gold,
at your core you would still be poor.
The things men chase: money, women, fame;
no longer matter at the end of the game.
Grab those pillows, sit down and see:
already all that you need to be.
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 6:16 AM UTC
moist eyes fall upon the limp figurine
of a jewel encrusted snowman with a corncob knife.
i dream walk through the ether of our dislocated soul.
i comb the beach of our lost island
and build a raft from our bones
and a lock of your eyelashes,
flashing in the wink above -
your high cheeks
in the moon glamour of your perfect skin.
we smile untethering the harness
from our rogue star
we sally forth across the empty streets of Hell's burg. on the outskirts
of an astral cataract...
a laughing gloom with night's teeth tearing at the hem
of your lace robes and my nakedness.
with moist eyes drooling saltine gems
like dewdrops dripping from the lip of a cracked goblet of frozen fire.
our eyes that fall upon the void, weeping from the answer to a foolish prayer,
answered by a jealous god. our testament is dust and deep Love.
we have no other sky above, as is the custom of deep space...
we drift with our horses, across the nether bridge of our uncertainties....
and there
we part ways.
you go where the sun
has slain the moon.
i go where the moon's never been. and sleep in droves.
holding your hand like a grain of hope
and your heart like a golden
shadow
too heavy to lift
from the
unknown
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 3:49 PM UTC
“I never raised you to be afraid of love,”
Was what my mother told me as I cried into the phone.
You don’t really notice you’re cynical or broken till one day
You realize you can’t love somebody the way they deserve to be loved.
I don’t know if it was one hit that sank me,
One giant ice burg that brought me down;
Or if it was just years of small splinters,
Tearing me away from the inside.
When I look at you it feels right.
95% of the time I’m sure I’m wrong,
So this must be right, right?
I know we’re not on the playground anymore
And I can’t chase you, but if you ride around
On this merry-go-round with me I promise,
It’ll be worth it.
I’ve stopped sending you songs because they
Don’t mean the same to you as they do to me.
But that’s okay, I’m beginning to understand that
I don’t need you here for things to be beautiful.
I know we’re not on a playground. But you’re still it.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 1:39 AM UTC
The urge to purge from this submerged burg delivers a vast surge of courage and whispers of dirge.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 3:57 PM UTC
No dream is too big... No target is beyond reach... if you dreamed of changing the world and you find yourself too cornered, change someone's world and that will count... If you wanted to be a philanthropist, donate the little you have to whoever's in need and it will count...if you wanted to be the rose of kindness in the garden of humanity, blossom amongst your folks and it will count... If you wanted to be the greatest president, be a great boyfriend, father, uncle, aunt, mother, girlfriend and it will count... Having dreams and failing to score them should not break you, you won't be the first to never win the race you wanted, always be happy that you tried, appreciate the far that you could go...
If you cannot build the burg khalifa or the landmark plaza you always wanted, build what you can and plaza it, it sure will count for life was not supposed to be about the impression we leave in others, that was never the original plan, at some point this life is all about you and what you choose to do with it and how the end result makes you feel... As long as you feel complete, the rest doesn't really matter... No dream is too big, and not achieving a big dream you tried so hard to catch is part of the game, there is no victory without failure... Failure is success to those who put in their best and it did not just work out...
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 5:23 PM UTC
we become, what we inherit...
just as the current schism in islam...
there is no talk of wahabi shia...
is there? no! music! ding'ah ah ling'ah ling!
the ******* tehran banjo!
iranians love music and poetry is music to them!
what's happening?
it's within sunni islam...
well...
let's go for it:
infantalism given the modern western
woman being... very *******
sensible...
the malbork castle...
sure... but the battle?
burg grünwald (green forest)...
it's really hard to hear the western
narrative with their transgender issues
and find yourself basically ********
out these terms... and being called a child
for it?
that's ******* western... that really
deserves a slap in the face...
they're ******* annoying...
i know i live here... but they're like:
meh meh meh... me me me... meh... me... meh...
master race ********
they're pretending to be the masters!
no wonder some islamic terrorist puts
them in their place!
i'd sooner be scared by a fire-cracker
on new-year's eve than the reaction...
goo goo mmm ha...
honestly? watching
the **** these people get up to in their
pornographic depictions?
i'd probably rather **** a donkey
to hear a duck's quack when it *******
but sure... it's
infantile to have some sort of ethnic coordinates...
because forgetting your ethnicity
leaves you with free-radical pronouns...
but i bow... your problems are
really needed in these days of concerns...
******* hell: clap... clap... clap... clap...
well done!
i'd rather be a child
with ethnic history posits than this zeitgeist
of modernity making problems
of grammatical terms, with no philosophy
book ever having used grammatical categories...
wheeturd gonna blow the **** at
some paris venue!
there's no point pledging
an allegiance to the west...
oh **** i wish there was some reason...
i just can't find enough reasons
to truly believe in the barbarity of darwinism
and then translating that into: defending retards.
i'd actually defend a ******
but these are ultra-retards...
i literally have no conscience
about putting them into concentration camps
where scots teach them grammar;
sure, they get all the food they need, after all we need
them to come out well versed and over-weight!
concentration camps where they teach them
nothing but grammar...
i swear that would end up being more sadistic
than something out of north korea...
but i am a sadistic ************
and i'm ****** *** *** yo ** ** and a barrel
two more!
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 11:52 PM UTC
Nhn aayna- e -saaz main go-mago yay kaifiat
Jaisay burg- o -bahar main ** koe chingari
Jiss kay sholon main bujhay yay dil rakh ki soorat
Jisss kay chahray main jalay angari.....
Main wo zaat hon jiss ka koe shahar nhn
Jo jahan chalay wahan aag lagay
Jiss kay bayan main naan zahar naan amar
Jiss kay wajood main dah-kain sab raaz chupay.....
Nhn asbaab koe, nhn imkaan koe
Mere zaat kay hisaab main nhn jaan koe
Phir bhe toofan-e- azam liay chalti hon
Kay meray dard ki intiha ki nhn intiha koe.......
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 11:34 AM UTC
The dream is large and
Hard to hug.
The work-a-days are long
And seem to get longer.
Heading home from work spent
On one of these days,
I see these words—
“Remember who you are”.
Remember who you are.
I, we, are:
Poets
Engineers
Architects
Scientists
Mathematicians
Entertainers,
Working the daily as:
Baristas
Bartenders
Forklift operators
Custodians
Truck drivers
Grocery store clerks—all noble
Honest posts, every one.
Daily I meander this mid-size burg
In a cranky van as a courier,
Acting as grease to lubricate
Said burg’s school district cogs.
I wonder…
I wonder how many work at these
Worthy and square occupations and
Either do not recognize or
Ignore the fire burning deepest
In their heart’s furnace.
I jaunt about remembering,
Always observing,
Always knowing the fire will
Spit out the next poem.
Remember who you are.
Remember it is a choice.
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 9:44 PM UTC
Everlasting: Romantic
If only my simple words could captivate every emotion that I am trying to convey. To summarize an illustrious story which I hold close to my dearest heart; then I would give you the entire world and then even more. From the deepest skies I would soar, just to bestow a higher power that you deserve; I would revive our love and mark every ocean shore for all to glance upon. My heart sets on fire and burns in blazing flames every time I hear you say “I Love You”. I lose control, my nerves kick in and I am frozen within time; with you everything seems endless. The taste of your sensational kiss halts my heart; for when we depart, I hold on to that very last kiss and cleanse to it compassionately; the thought of you ponders everlasting.
Reminisce of Her Memory: Mystery
Blood shatter the wall, glass covered the floor. The smell of death lingered franticly throughout the whole house, like a graveyard that seizes corpses in their casket. The scenery made me reminisce about my wife’s death; I found her dead and inert, frozen like an ice burg. For some reason I upheld the same emotion that I portrayed at her death; she left me too soon, at times I still feel her presents. The gloves blanketed my solid hands, as I reach to retrieve the victim; they fell solemnly into my arms. I gazed into burning Hell; then Heaven appeared, she had return to me; I sat there holding my wife as she lied dead, then I woke from my dream.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 2:02 PM UTC
We hadn’t seen it for a couple years,
The film being a bit difficult to watch
Without dropping a few bucks
To stream it in all its black-and-white glory,
(A prospect which would have brought a grim smile
To a certain white-haired small-town banker)
Our laser disc scratched, our VCR beyond obsolete,
But there have been enough viewings
That certain tableaus
(Flower petals strewn, the glycerin tears)
Remain as familiar as the views out the front door,
And so on a whim we drove up to the quaint burg
Which espouses its claim to be Capra’s inspiration
With a tenacity which belies the season
(Though one look at the bridge which sits astride
A wan offshoot of the Erie Canal
Is sufficient for a startling bit of déjà vu)
Finding ourselves by ourselves in a restaurant
(The times after all, and it a weeknight to boot)
Surprisingly open, even though the town fathers
Had opted hopefully to decorate, as per usual,
The village streets to be as Bedford Falls-esque as possible,
And as we sipped our soup and munched our salads
We mused on how wonder and anxiety
Could walk hand-in-hand
(As we did on the way in and again on the way out)
And though our laughter was a soft, muted thing,
It tinkled in the manner of such things
Which enabled seraphim to gain their wings.
Dec 23, 2020
Dec 23, 2020 at 4:00 PM UTC