"excused" poems
I met her once
a little, blind girl
who had let me
inside her wonderful world.
Yes, she couldn't see,
the girl with eyes bright.
Yet, she loved her world
like she never lost her sight.
She heard the music
of the breeze that blew.
The love for her world,
it only grew.
She acquainted me with
that music she heard,
from the buzz of the bees
to the chirping of the birds.
Yes, she couldn't see
the wonders of life.
Yet, she smiled
without a sign of strife.
She had beautiful eyes
filled with wonder.
I stood speechless and thought
how could God make such a blunder?
She danced and sang
with a graceful twirl.
How she loved her life
the little, blind girl.
She smiled and laughed,
her face filled with joy.
With wonder in her eyes,
she was serene, yet coy.
She felt her world
beneath her tiny fingers
and on me left a mark
that would forever linger.
Yes, she couldn't see
the life that she felt.
Yet, she never showed
the sorrow that she dealt.
Her world was dark.
Yet, she saw
the Earth's true form
pure and raw.
Yes, she let me in.
But I couldn't overstay.
So, I excused myself politely
and quietly walked away.
I had met her once
a little girl who couldn't see.
Yes, she was a child
but the happiest there could ever be
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 8:13 AM UTC
Depression...
angry vultures pecking at my mind
Depression...
crying glass out of my eyes
Depression...
a pretty portrait with only black lines
Depression...
defeating the purpose to fall in love
Depression...
street roses red of mistrust
Depression...
scars hidden under an innocent cut
Depression...
suicidal thoughts as an only option
Depression...
OCD with a lot of precautions
Depression...
misbehaving to fill a little noticed
Depression...
irritating as a bleeding nose
Depression...
an excuse non excused of sickness
Depression...
told to get over yourself and weakness
Depression...
coping with life by stress eating
Depression...
looking for another high in an addiction
Depression...
sounds so wrong when you're Christian
Depression, depression, depression, **** this depression
Nov 18, 2022
Nov 18, 2022 at 3:39 PM UTC
O life come embrace me,
O life come embrace me,
Like I have embraced you,
And each sorrow you gave.
O life come embrace me now,
O life...
I have excused myself...
Hidden from the society...
Behind my eyelids I have housed you,
And got your support oh life.
Yeah, I've got your support...
O life come embrace me,
O life come embrace me,
Like I have embraced you,
And each sorrow you gave.
O life come embrace me now,
O life...
O life come embrace me now,
Embrace me now...
Embrace me,
Embrace me...
May 28, 2017
May 28, 2017 at 9:52 AM UTC
For 21 days I saw changes wrought
by the freedom of 22 years
Secrets of razor wire straight and taut
Speak of those who continue to fear
I saw nature’s beauty in land and face
As black heel continues to rise
Via school, ambition they prep for the race
Even as secretly despised
What’s changed in Soweto? I did not live
But photos and newsreels survive
Pictures of shanties bulldozed to give
Whites room to extend their hives
Now malls; monuments to white retail
Built on Mandiba’s words
Polished chrome and marble hail
“Happy” workers in a black-faced world
Monuments ringed with vendors tribal
Carved goods for sale and cheap
The rands they make do not rival
What multi-nationals’ continue to reap
Happiness is shallow until sundown
When the curtain of decorum lifts
Showing reality’s new shanty-town
Where space and plumbing are gifts
I wonder if He would be okay
Seeing his people so used
As pawns for labor with little say
As black is seldom excused
The young know the time is now
As old hatred’s in shallow graves
To be unearthed by book and plow
Keeping dreams from stunting and fade
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 8:48 AM UTC
when we are kissing
(i’m pressed against your chest
your arms around me).
i spin. not with confusion but with joy.
like a dancer spinning along with music.
you’re the music that winds me.
can you make me your princess.
(love me, satisfy me).
i can be a beautiful girl
in a cute dress that you’ll run you hands over.
i could feel your skin,
(my hands slip under your shirt)
my prince.
we can’t get in trouble
(...no worries…)
since we have the power.
(“excused.”)
it’ll be okay.
princesses don’t get in trouble.
(it’ll all change once i’m queen
and you’re king).
i’m only queen so you could be my king.
assuage me/ answer me/ gratify me.
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 1:40 AM UTC
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Who is the fairest of us all?
Skin so delicate and fair
Blue eyes and long black hair
A good king, a good daughter
A wicked stepmother
One day full of gloom and dread
When The Wicked heard it said
"The Daughter is the fairest,
O' dear! You are second best!"
The Wicked was wild with jelousy
And begun plotting conspiracy
Getting rid of the fair lady
Was the wicked plan of the day
The Wicked called on her servant
The name was **** Cindy
Bribed her with riches women want
Promised her a gift of beauty
So **** Cindy and The Daughter
Went into the depth of the forest
**** Cindy has led the pretty girl
She surely must put her to death!
Our **** Cindy however
Found the girl a thing of beauty
**** Cindy's courage betrayed her
Excused herself and ran away
The pretty daughter was left alone
Terribly scared but still alive
Tears fell as she thought of home
Doubtful if she will ever survive
**** Cindy returned to the castle
Showing a heart of a roe deer
And served as a loyal vassal
To The Ever Wicked stepmother
So **** Cindy got rewarded
With unimaginable riches
Lasting beauty she was awarded
At last she got her wishes
At night our **** Cindy
Her riches, all she gathered
And then she vanished swiftly
Away from The Ever Wicked
Meanwhile the pretty daughter
Found a place to stay
That house was full of laughter
And the rest was history
Highly pleased now The Wicked
Turned again to the mirror
But her hopes became unsettled
After the unpleasant cheer
She must die! She must die!
Went The Wicked's awful cry
She became an old peasant
Killed the girl with a poison
And so the pretty daughter
Laid in the forest for days
The cute house lost its laughter
The Wicked went on her ways
The sad news reached the town
And to our **** Cindy
So she wore her sexiest gown
And started on her journey
Into the forest she went
Looking for that pretty girl
Her heart skipped and bent
Feeling that awesome thrill
**** Cindy found The Daughter
Lying on a wooden bed
"Thy beauty is oh, so rare!"
Was the thought inside her head
She could not help but wet her lips
Staring at the sleeping lady
She felt a tingle below her hips
And sensation inside her belly
They said no man can wake the girl
And maybe no man really can?
So **** Cindy kissed The Daughter
And so her passion has began
The kiss was oddly very awesome
And it stirred the sleeping girl
It brought a funny slurpy sound
Waking up The Royal Daughter
"Oh God! Oh my! Oh my!
Oh my beautiful princess!
Take my hand, come with me
Away from this very place!"
So **** Cindy and The Daughter
They ran away together
Across the land of nowhere
Where they lived happily ever after
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Who is the fairest of us all?
"Snow and Cindy are the fairest
O' dear! Now you're the third best!"
~THE END~
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 12:51 AM UTC
It was just a Kiss
It was a fellas hangout
Why I refused? Still don't know
We were all there, ballers and players
Ian was always there, behind
Never fails to appear a Lover
Tonight she is a drunkard
No hold backs; No barrier
"How long Adelaide, how long?"
You can't kiss me in public
I am not your side-chick
No more , No more, NO!
I've done it all, everything
Come dear can we go home
We can talk about this at ....
**** you Adelaide! Sit down
These are your friends, aren't they?
Tell them who i am to you NOW!
She's now the Boss, I get Bossed
For your information, giggles!
I'm pregnant and I'm not terminating
Oh! Baby... Don't baby me...
Gabby should have kept quiet
'Hm-mm Sorry can i excused?"
Shut the **** up Gabriel!
Are you saying you aint in this?
Giggles! NG Gabby has a child ...
"What! SLAP! Jeez! ***
Its enough Ian! SLAP! Silence
Long silence.....
Tears, agony, wailing, pleadings
Guess its more than just a kiss
It always is Stupid...
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 7:50 AM UTC
People show love in many ways
A note on the bathroom door
An extra brownie in your lunch box
Starting the car on a cold morning
For her it was in her food
She cooked her emotions the way most chefs add salt
You could taste them clearly in every bite connecting your tastebuds to your heart,
If she was happy the steak melted on your tongue
If she was sad the soup made a tear glisten in your eye
But when she was in love with me
Every Bite sang in my mouth
She made my favorites every night
Life was good
But one day the bread wasn’t so fluffy
It held a melancholy note i’ve never tasted before
I asked what was wrong but she didn’t have the words to explain what she as feeling,
So I let it go
That was my mistake
Day by day, she started to crumble
So did her pies
She went from a wonder dancing in the kitchen and licking the spoon
To a hollow shell serving you lukewarm pasta that left you unsettled
I excused her behavior
I was busy she was stressed
The food was only cold because I was so late to the table
I didn’t realize it wasn’t dinner I was neglecting
It was her
If i could change one moment in my life, i’d be that night
The one where she finally felt up to baking again
We had some time together, she hummed a bit as she stirred the batter
But then she stumbled and dropped a glass measuring cup of milk she was holding
It was bitter irony seeing the woman i loved,
The light of my life,
Crying over spilled milk
That’d be the moment i’d change
I’d catch her wrist and hold her up
Just Like I promised I would
I wouldn’t fail her if I had another chance
Our kitchen is quiet these days
There's a thick layer of dust everywhere except the microwave
And around the edges of the room are tiny bits of glass
Glistening like diamonds
Or unshed tears,
Abandoned like me
But I can’t complain
After all, I abandoned her first
I should have read the recipe
I should have realized she was breaking
I didn’t see it at first
But every bite held a piece of her suicide note
If i’d only tasted it before it was too late
Now she’s gone
My hearts as broken as that measuring cup
And I’m the one crying over spilled milk
By Aknier ~this is fictional~
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 10:48 PM UTC
The arrogance of the men and their violence
in all possible forms
– completely everyday or extraordinary,
subtle or extreme,
considered as being normal or abnormal –
depend on this, of course,
that they are either denied or justified
from the perpetrators of the violence themselves.
But also by the women in any way
glossed over, excused or forgiven,
which from childhood to the present day, in Western countries too,
has been brainwashed thoroughly,
which means: shut up, be obedient
and offer no resistance.
© Barbara-Paraprem, 2015
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
David, like David and Goliath, like the statue
was made in 1501 by Michaelangelo.
A fatherless son, born perfect to the world. Full Grown.
But in Italy, they'll tell you that Michaelangelo
never wanted to be a sculpter;
That he was an artist but that his gift was his curse.
Yet he still managed to create this marvelous marble masterpiece.
Gave the world beauty to call it beautiful and behold it for hundreds of years,
because heaven knows he never would.
But sometimes I feel like you see yourself more like Galatea.
But a rose by any other name might smell more sweet than thee,
My fair, dark lady,
Only to be loved by those of your statue.
I mean, stature.
My fair, dark lady,
who chased me from the light in spite of just wanting to help
the charity case.
My fair, dark lady,
I made you to be a hero,
But a villain you became.
How can one love the name of a rose proud enough
To ***** the finger of tender green thumbs?
Still, its handed a clean slate for the sake of soft petals.
Justified by sweet smells and vibrant colours.
Excused.
Just, if only I could forget the thorns,
I'd have spoken "Love" differently.
I wanted to love you like no other sister would,
but couldn't.
I wanted a savior to stay even when things are okay,
wouldn't you?
When the giants weren't around.
Well, who's hero are you now?
Tell me how a statue saves lives,
rather than turning to stone when the sun rises
And I will eagerly believe.
Or don't.
Strike your pose.
Bask in the spotlight.
It's what you wanted.
It's what you got.
Hear them say "Galatea."
Not marble but ivory,
"Eliza."
"Aphrodite."
And believe them.
"Perfection created."
But I'll call you David;
Never abandoned,
forever alone.
Because humans don't need solution or heroes to depend on.
We need friends.
Well, congratulations, beautiful.
Everyone loves you.
Except, the people who should.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 9:11 AM UTC
you are the sovereign tide
i- the feeble yacht you consume
i contort and conform to abide
by the rules from which you are excused
i am the pathetic attempt
the sun makes to escape from the clouds
whilst you are its radiant rays
that no darkness could ever beat down
i am the dust of the earth
and you are the Northern Lights
whilst I dwell on my lack of worth
you climb to unprecedented heights
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 1:34 PM UTC
All defined, labeled, identified.
like quiet children who stand aside,
Silent as a dusty book,
Captivated by their own shoes,
must be pardoned, must be excused.
Those who mumble and avoid your eyes,
them do not mind, they’re just shy.
Imagine if everything still and reserved
Were undermined by such a word.
What would we say of those calm characters
mountains, towers, poetry, flowers?
If perchance one afternoon we met the horizon or the moon,
Are we to say that because often they stand away,
Afar in photos, landscapes, scenery,
off center, silent, beyond the sea,
That these defining features of the sky
Should be cast off and labeled shy?
Those amongst us, who silently
Live largely in their reverie,
Hiding behind their books and journals,
Heard not, but for the scratch of their pencils,
Will name you someday;
They'll have something undeniably brilliant to say.
Should you disagree, consider and think,
Violent, boisterous thunder is the voice of silent-seeming lightning.
Aug 3, 2011
Aug 3, 2011 at 11:15 PM UTC
Mediocrity
Mediocre
No good melody
A definition stained on the upper region of my brain
Actively producing fungi fumes
Nauseated, you are excused
Instant hate when uttering its name
It makes our hands shake, to be displayed in such a way
It has no purpose, only an intention
Killing curiousity, by outlining others self righteously
Mediocre is my creative space for acceptance and I have requested an invitation to everybody
No reasoning just letting go of expectations consuming
Hope to see you soon
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 4:00 PM UTC
How many more shots of Jack Daniel's
Will you pour over that glass
Half-full of Coke
And half-empty of enough
Until you get enough?
The sadness in your silence
Makes it hard to tell if you're paying attention
To the voices you hear
Or the thoughts you listen to,
And the more glasses you empty,
Objects you slam intentionally,
And songs you let speak for you,
The more you show the lonely twenty-something
Or more
Is better than the icy spirit I first met
Escaping his bottle
Back in that car ride I will now always remember,
For if it weren't for it,
You wouldn't be good as drunk now,
Sober enough to finally say out loud
What you've been screaming about quietly
In that seat you never sat on
In spite of the last few hours you stayed with us
And the only two or three times you excused yourself out,
And I hope somehow we really did do something
To make you feel better
Or better yet stop you
From feeling at all
For at least a little while,
But I'm pretty sure you only saw us
As a good excuse to finally
Take that bottle of Jack Daniel's
Out of your sight of misery
From that shelf where it was placed
To do you the most good.
So I'll leave you my cheeseburger,
In case you need a reminder
Of the moment you once had company
In that emptiness you call a condo unit,
That will last long enough
Until the next time we say goodbye,
And by then I just might try
To leave something other than
Cold food and disappointment
Upon my answer of “I don't like them”
To your question of whether or not
I know of Backstreet Boys,
And instead provide a better cheerer-upper,
Like a good song or advice or poem,
Than a bottle of Jack Daniel's.
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 4:17 PM UTC
I had a red parrot with a long beak
It was a smart bird I aptly named Nick
One day, it caught a cold and fell sick
It refused to give a speech all week
Even its favourite words, it wouldn't speak
Dear parrot's future seemed very bleak
Off for a solution I went to seek
Out of many I made my pick
For the services of a vet called Vic
She was beautiful and brilliant, very chic
Just as I heard, her talents were slick
Her office was neat, her armpits didn't reek
During treatment, my Nick was quite meek
I excused myself to quickly take a leak
Suddenly, from the restroom I heard a kick
I hurried across the hallway to take a sharp peek
And what I saw made my shocked jaws tick
My skinned bird was hanging on a stick
Over a flaming fire laid on a burnt brick
What had I done to deserve such a trick?
Why would Vet Vic perform this flick?
I peered at her carefully but it didn't click
So I wrote this poem and put on lipstick.
REALLY:
Nick is healthy again, it was only a gimmick
I am so happy now, I always wear lipstick ☺
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 8:42 AM UTC
Stains on your shirt
Stains on your hand
The stains gets ******
As you keep rubbing your hands
Your leader
Your master
Within 30 seconds
He died before you
You felt no sympathy
You felt no remorse
Angry in your head
Sadness in your heart
The stains are everywhere
The stains confuse you
He once said "Cold hearted people don't bleed."
Your are surprised that he bled
But he knew
But you never knew
The strength you had
Your strength that came out in a fury
He knew not to do it
He knew not to laugh
You grew angry and emotions ran high.
Are you accused or excused?
Apr 2, 2010
Apr 2, 2010 at 5:53 AM UTC
I stood across a fiery red
and ended up purple.
Greased thighs, dripping down and
rested on knee caps
too brittle.
“So this is how you fall apart.”
I say,
“this is how you fall apart.”
When it isn’t as glorious as others make it seem
and the only sound you make is an
inner monologue, where you berate yourself.
“This is you, you **** of a train wreck example.”
And then you stand and you cower
at the mere sight of a figure ahead.
You tug down the remains of your shirt
and you wipe your busted lip dry,
like it will hide the cut and bite.
You wince once sweat kisses your brow
and you hiss like someone hoisted you against a brick wall.
You never stand. You never stand
and you are excused for cursing.
All the ******** the dammits, the batshit *** **** flow out
like breath – naturally, an incestuous inhale and exhale of
“someone give me that thingamajiggy for the pain!”
But it never comes.
And you are never cured.
And it never goes away,
when a quicksand of that stinky pile of unwritten brain farts start farting,
one by ******* one.
Blessed are the stoic ones, for they glorify aching.
****** are the loud ones, for the stoic ones are deaf.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 7:46 AM UTC
So you have turned me into a rock.
A quiet, still, hard, cold rock.
I’m burning to speak
And tell you how I really feel—
That I can’t stomach you.
But I know I board the plane in a few hours,
And for this, I find peace—
Enough peace to remain the rock.
From you, I have gained nothing but tolerance,
And the knowledge that you should never travel to meet someone you met online—
At least not without a backup plan.
I can’t fake a headache or the flu
and ask to be politely excused.
I so wish I could—grab my bag,
apologize sincerely,
and run for the door.
I would think it would be worth giving you my opinion—
just to appease me.
But in the same thought
an overpowering realization—
that even you are not worth that energy.
You might possibly even thrive on it—
Like a roach thrives on Raid
once the poison has lost its ability to throw the bug on it’s back , kicking.
So I instead will bite my tongue,
And do my best
to keep my eye rolling to a minimum…
when I’m in your peripheral…
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
All defined, labeled, identified.
like quiet children who stand aside,
Silent as a dusty book,
Captivated by their own shoes,
must be pardoned, must be excused.
Those who mumble and avoid your eyes,
they do not mind, they’re just shy.
Imagine if everything still and reserved
Were undermined by such a word.
What would we say of those calm characters
mountains, towers, poetry, flowers?
If perchance one afternoon we met the horizon or the moon,
Are we to say that because often they stand away,
Afar in photos, landscapes, scenery,
off center, silent, beyond the sea,
That these defining features of the sky
Should be cast off and labeled shy?
Those amongst us, who silently
Live largely in their reverie,
Hiding behind their books and journals,
Heard not, but for the scratch of their pencils,
Will name you someday;
They'll have something undeniably brilliant to say.
Should you disagree, consider and think,
Violent, boisterous thunder is the voice of silent-seeming lightning.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 11:02 PM UTC
My body
Is not obscene.
It is not something
That needs to be hidden,
Brought out only in the dark of bedrooms,
And showers,
And alleyways,
And incognito mode.
My body
Is not for sale,
Not a commodity, though if I chose to sell it for money you'd ridicule me--
Deep down you love it, don't you?
The fine you pay for fine curves and no promises.
Those desperate nights you need something to come into.
Is that what we are?--
Somethings?
And no sooner exchange the dollar for a dance than sweettalk for ***
And I could do the same to you, too-- I am not excused.
Not that you know that. We all pretend I can't...
Just a prize to be won?
I'm not anyone!
Come on, try to take me...
And when you do, oh-oh-oh!
Congratulations!
Lucky you!
You got me.
Success
Sweet success.
I have desires too,
But they don't matter--
If I want to **** him, he's the one who won
Because females don't desire.
And being trans?
Genderqueer?
Androgyne?
Hell, that doesn't exist!
What a load of ****
And I smile now, because I don't remember how to cry.
I am not allowed to desire,
And if I do, and I reach what I want,
Then I am a ****
Worthless.
Trash.
But were I a "real" man,
I would be a winner for it.
Anger has lived in me.
Jealousy has made my bones its home.
I am not allowed to exist.
I am not allowed to want.
I am not allowed to sin.
I am not allowed to be.
I am a second, a lower form.
Collateral--
And I'm yours.
Why do you worship my body and yet disrespect it?
And disrespect me?
I cannot exist.
Kiss me just to shut me up----
I'm tired of pretending to be human in a world that won't let me be.
I quit.
You complain that I complain.
But sexism pervades every moment of my life:
I am constantly fighting it;
Each kiss, every ****
My schooling, my career,
Everyday conversations,
All of my relations to other people, no matter which kind,
Each time I shower,
Get dressed,
Exercise,
Turn on the TV,
Go out to the pool or a hotel or on a walk,
Sexism is there to hold my hand.
It is with me.
I've never had an ally so loyal.
It wouldn't dare leave my side.
Would I dare?
To leave it behind?
Would you?
Could we join hands,
Across genders,
Across sexes,
Form a new alliance?
One that helps me feel safe in my own body,
My own mind,
My own home?
That gives other women and other afabs a chance to be seen as more than just bodies?
Will there be a day when I can stand beside an amab, both our chests bare, and be seen as equal?
Will there be a day when you will see me as my gender?
And will there be a day that you will finally see a trans woman as more of a woman than me?
We may be females.
Biologically or mentally--
But that does not define us.
We define us.
This is My Body.
It is not me, but it is mine.
It will never belong to anyone else.
My Body.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
when she was a junior,
things were out of control.
and her days were spent,
living in secrets,
trying to figure out,
exactly who she was,
and what she was doing,
and why she felt the way she did.
and she spent her time thinking,
about the things she kept inside,
and wondering how long,
she could keep carrying the weight,
of unspoken words.
and she was never there,
when her dad came home from work.
and she ate dinner in a different house,
with a different family,
and everything was exciting,
and new,
and she didn't have to ask,
if she could be excused,
but she did anyway.
and she didn't have to help,
with all the chores,
but she did the dishes anyway.
and afterwards,
the two best friends would sneak,
into the back bedroom,
and they would do things,
that two girls
should not do.
and they would explore things,
that made her uneasy.
and before she went to sleep,
in a house that was not hers,
she would get a kiss "goodnight",
but it wasn't from her mom.
and she would think about the secrets,
that she always kept inside.
and things were out of control.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 6:54 PM UTC
She screamed,
And the blood of her victims
Reigned down upon her.
Sealing her thin body in a scarlet coat,
Her naked eyes shown through.
No emotion for anything,
No sign of the murderous frenzy taking place.
The murdered thought she was one of them,
But they couldn't see what she did.
Images flashed from one to another,
Totally normal to
Morbid nightmares
In her everyday life.
She was just scared,
We justified.
She thought they were harming others,
We excused this little mess,
And let her free,
But that is not what should be.
Her victims walk around my room
And stop In my doorway,
Embodiments of normal people.
But the fear of the lady coming to **** them
Is terrifying.
So I wake up,
And live my life
Sleep deprived and afraid.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 6:06 AM UTC
it's past mid September,
the modest gradations
(and graduations)
of temp and the indirectness
of the ever shifting sun
are not lost on the
the skin of the locals,
nor even the
summer sojourner, who
recalls the past rainy June,
and the "who knew that
winter lasted so long"
on this peculiar planet island land
the calendar dictates
that the obligations of the
living are fully recommenced,
and the avoidance of realities,
cannot be excused, refused,
but they go ignored for just
one more day, and the ever
more spectacular pastel sunsets
tease, "see what you will be missing..."
the skeletons of beach fires
doused by silver beach sand,
are the last to say, we will still
be here, even though you've
hasten to where we have no
counterpart, and though we
will blend back to just being
sand and driftwood,
in time for what we the
inanimate,
loosely call next year,
but not remarked upon
any calendar in any ink
we can read...
forty years some tribe
tented in a desert, before
finding shelter,
we've counted 46, summers,
passed, neighbors, too, the
landscape dotted with newer
arrivals, and we just cluck, like
so many others, at the longing ferry line,
those who walk on the road's wrong side,
the one or two remaining tradespeople,
who still call our abode by our predecessors
last name, wondering when, if we will make
that grade
so much more to say,
what we've witnessed,
what has changed, what,
thank god, hasn't
but the city wants its fair share,
of us, and our taxes true, so come
upon just another last day, and look
back in the review mirror, remembering
the first last day of many years ago...
Sep 15, 2025
Sep 15, 2025 at 1:44 PM UTC