"nontraditional" poems - Hello Poetry

I had the most scary, awful, horrifying, sickening dream last night. It was a dream that my grandmother had passed away. Died. She was gone. And I wasn't even there for her. I was told, no, informed, through the most insensitive, impersonal means possible. A simple, three worded, text message. I don't remember how much I cried in the dream. Or if I really even shed a single tear. All I know now, as I scribble down these scattered thoughts in a handwriting almost illegible, an attempt to rid them from my mind, is how I feel with my mind racing through the possibility of such an event. My stomach hurts, every muscle in my being clenched in a sudden stress, a tactic to hold back that urge to purge myself of all contents and feeling whatsoever. Both hands are cramped as one braces me against this abnormally warm and now uncomfortable bed, the other struggling to write while my forearm throbs with discomfort. My breathing is off. There is no normal steady rhythm to it; rather a scattered pattern of inhales and exhales both long and short, often separated by uncharacteristic pauses. I've dealt with death before. More than once, many years ago. (I'm still dealing with it.) I understand that it is very much a part of life, and the rest of us must continue on, void of voice or choice. It is the cruel awakening. And my relief at waking to the most normal of texts from dear old Dad and the realization that my fear had only occurred in the depth of that unconscious realm ruled by sleep... I just cannot ever explain. I can only remain horrified that I would dare endure such a pain, even in imagination. And yet, as the day's busy agenda begins to take over all else and I am only too eager to push the dream away and let it disappear into nothingness as I mentally prepare for today and this week, I've already decided... I think I'll call Grandma today.

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Sep 8, 2013

Sep 8, 2013 at 10:30 AM UTC

kelly-anne

A Nontraditional Nightmare

I had the most scary, awful, horrifying, sickening dream last night. It was a dream that my grandmother had passed away. Died. She was gone. And I wasn't even there for her. I was told, no, informed, through the most insensitive, impersonal means possible. A simple, three worded, text message. I don't remember how much I cried in the dream. Or if I really even shed a single tear. All I know now, as I scribble down these scattered thoughts in a handwriting almost illegible, an attempt to rid them from my mind, is how I feel with my mind racing through the possibility of such an event. My stomach hurts, every muscle in my being clenched in a sudden stress, a tactic to hold back that urge to purge myself of all contents and feeling whatsoever. Both hands are cramped as one braces me against this abnormally warm and now uncomfortable bed, the other struggling to write while my forearm throbs with discomfort. My breathing is off. There is no normal steady rhythm to it; rather a scattered pattern of inhales and exhales both long and short, often separated by uncharacteristic pauses. I've dealt with death before. More than once, many years ago. (I'm still dealing with it.) I understand that it is very much a part of life, and the rest of us must continue on, void of voice or choice. It is the cruel awakening. And my relief at waking to the most normal of texts from dear old Dad and the realization that my fear had only occurred in the depth of that unconscious realm ruled by sleep... I just cannot ever explain. I can only remain horrified that I would dare endure such a pain, even in imagination. And yet, as the day's busy agenda begins to take over all else and I am only too eager to push the dream away and let it disappear into nothingness as I mentally prepare for today and this week, I've already decided... I think I'll call Grandma today.

63

A nontraditional background white and black or other Created by your false narratives Not my father or mother But, am I less? A Skin tone that is visibly filled with melanin Seems to determine my ability to succeed I worked hard to deepen my knowledge But that’s not enough or so it seemed But, am I less? A mind filled with culture Aretha Bob and Diane Created by my Afro roots They became more then society plan But, am I less? A society built these walls around me But everyday I knock them down Your casual racism isn’t ok Just because your cousin is brown But, am I less? We got civil rights so I suppose I should be happy But isn’t that the standard procedure Don’t reduce my oppressed community Because the mass media delivers you fear. But, am I less? I am more more then this society offers I’m going to preach all week til you hear me Because I’m more then what you say I am I’m capable of greatness and I’m not even free I am not less.

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Apr 11, 2019

Apr 11, 2019 at 12:12 PM UTC

chloe-parkes

But, Am I less?

A nontraditional background white and black or other Created by your false narratives Not my father or mother But, am I less? A Skin tone that is visibly filled with melanin Seems to determine my ability to succeed I worked hard to deepen my knowledge But that’s not enough or so it seemed But, am I less? A mind filled with culture Aretha Bob and Diane Created by my Afro roots They became more then society plan But, am I less? A society built these walls around me But everyday I knock them down Your casual racism isn’t ok Just because your cousin is brown But, am I less? We got civil rights so I suppose I should be happy But isn’t that the standard procedure Don’t reduce my oppressed community Because the mass media delivers you fear. But, am I less? I am more more then this society offers I’m going to preach all week til you hear me Because I’m more then what you say I am I’m capable of greatness and I’m not even free I am not less.

30

halfway between sleep and the beach, thoughts drift to needs unfulfilled made greater by perfect words and better timing. nontraditional in the conventional way, confusion raging through my veins faster than white cells multiply. the space between the stone and the setting, cage. the space between the canal and the mountains, distance. bruised and beaten, no beauty on the outside. mirrors **** the soul out so they've been covered and crossed. taped the stories together like a storybook from another life. watch death come to me with the first bit of scotch. Greendale wasn't perfect but the steps up don't equate to those that we take down that self-destructive path that leads home. rumors from a past, littered with truth. scared of mixing that with this, oil and water. a child's tornado, just add food coloring to match the mood. eternal corruption may be the curse of this path i've chosen no time to look back, no reason to question. paths crossed like oregon trail. only i'm the indian and you're the settler - small pox is coming to wipe me out. spineless because i can't do this on my own. tried too much, can't do it all anymore, done it all before. stand tall on my own, crumbling, because these bones are old. a ghost dance with the past, no desire to two-step. need to go west, start afresh, fall for something new. cold feet, wrapped in layers. intimidated by possibilities. hope for the future in strange ways, engulfed by rancid news. curious of the other side; how about them apples. eyes waiting, legit heart hurt, unreasonable. muttering words you'll never hear for my own well being. twenty-two legs, twelve eyes, pulsating like a flame. separation of heart and mind because there's no other way. in over mind control, never had control over the yellows and red, seeping in between the blinds. this is paradise.

0

Feb 6, 2014

Feb 6, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC

wearyneverrest

until we finish

halfway between sleep and the beach, thoughts drift to needs unfulfilled made greater by perfect words and better timing. nontraditional in the conventional way, confusion raging through my veins faster than white cells multiply. the space between the stone and the setting, cage. the space between the canal and the mountains, distance. bruised and beaten, no beauty on the outside. mirrors **** the soul out so they've been covered and crossed. taped the stories together like a storybook from another life. watch death come to me with the first bit of scotch. Greendale wasn't perfect but the steps up don't equate to those that we take down that self-destructive path that leads home. rumors from a past, littered with truth. scared of mixing that with this, oil and water. a child's tornado, just add food coloring to match the mood. eternal corruption may be the curse of this path i've chosen no time to look back, no reason to question. paths crossed like oregon trail. only i'm the indian and you're the settler - small pox is coming to wipe me out. spineless because i can't do this on my own. tried too much, can't do it all anymore, done it all before. stand tall on my own, crumbling, because these bones are old. a ghost dance with the past, no desire to two-step. need to go west, start afresh, fall for something new. cold feet, wrapped in layers. intimidated by possibilities. hope for the future in strange ways, engulfed by rancid news. curious of the other side; how about them apples. eyes waiting, legit heart hurt, unreasonable. muttering words you'll never hear for my own well being. twenty-two legs, twelve eyes, pulsating like a flame. separation of heart and mind because there's no other way. in over mind control, never had control over the yellows and red, seeping in between the blinds. this is paradise.

37