"schoolyard" poems
See those red windows by Midland Park
Where the schoolyard stands empty in the frozen dark
See that Neon motor in 21st gear
And the only question is "why are we here?"
In memory motel with unchanging rates
I still see the Moon Glow in your face
By the edge of the stream with bread in hand
Two doves chase the wind to a foreign land
As our voices are carried to a teenage past
In naïve reclusion we knew couldn't last
With a palette of hate I still can taste
I still see the Moon Glow in your face
Weathered storms on a Parisian stage
The book can't be written unless you turn every page
On a worn out, de-facto, company car
The diamonds will promise to make you a star
In sovereign rule of my mind's estate
I still see the Moon Glow on your face
On Ebony's wings coming down from the sky
Miracle rides close behind
The waves from Mexico have long since passed
No moment is forever and it won't be the last
With ocean eyes and a passioned embrace
I still see the Moon Glow in your face
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 1:23 PM UTC
School days in winter
Were such fun
Without a care,
When we were young.
At recess we'd slide
On ice,
Build our forts,
Duck and fight.
The firemen
Beneath starlight,
Would flood our schoolyard,
Whet appetites
For hockey games
Between senior classes;
We'd skate and shoot,
Fall on our *****
Such joy and fun,
And no one lost.
The bell would sound,
Then we'd toss
Our wet socks
On school room
Rads.
His and hers
Like banners waving,
Drying, hissing,
Choking, aging.
Impatiently we'd sit and wait,
Do our math
And conjugate;
The clock's hands,
Frozen,
Watched from
The wall,
At last the lunchtime
Bell would ring,
And we'd get bundled
Once again.
Before heading home
We're enticed
To slide once more
On hard, grey ice.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 3:01 PM UTC
The hanky he was sobbing into was crusty,
***** unwashed, unclean; yet strangely comforting to a little boy,
as he cried he made his way to a culvert behind the school,
some place the other kids couldn’t see him crying,
it was more comfortable being near rocks
-next to that watershed for some reason?
He looked down at his antagonist,
the scaly-green feet,
they made him cry harder,
he lamented…
“Why have I been tormented so?”
“Who gave me these feet? Who made me this way, lizardly, scaly, an animal no?”
“What class am I, what species? Are those toenails, claws or a disease?”
“The way I’m treated makes me sad. Where is my mommy, where is my dad?
“Did I come from an egg? Didn’t we all? Why do they pick on me, make me feel so small?”
“My feet are reptilian even I can see that!”
“Am I part lizard? Are there horns on my back?”
“I can’t hide in sneakers ‘cause the claws tear them apart.”
“Not great at math, language or art.”
“They always pickin’ on me, today it’s in the schoolyard.”
“That is why I sit here on the rocks crying with my ugly feet and sullen heart,”
“Cannot run fast so no baseball, basketball or soccer…”
“The other kids tried to stuff me in my own locker…”
“One mean little girl even threw a dead mouse at me!”
“But I’m only part lizard as far as I can see?”
“My English teacher says that my words are like a bird song”
“If I talk like a birdie along with monster’s feet, no wonder I don’t belong!”
“Even still, to be so mean to me, I know that it is wrong…”
“ONE DAY I WILL SHOW THEM ALL, THESE FEET THEY HAVE A PURPOSE!”
“MY WORDS OF SONG AND FEET OF MAGIC COMBINE A COSMIC CIRCUS!”
“I am no freak of nature, no forest Pan or Satyr…”
“It is not the way I look, my clothes or feet that matter…”
“It is what is in my heart and mind, the things I do that truly count…”
“For those things that make us different, for they are tantamount…”
“Seven heads, seven stages, seven fables, seven sages”
“Seven stars and seven wonders and seven heavens that we’re under…”
“And all those things they say are great and marvelous about us…”
“Will one day be written in the book by Great Old Uncle Taautus!” *
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 10:29 PM UTC
It was December 27th,
Nineteen and fifty one
The day the Christmas snowball war
Had officially begun
It started in the schoolyard
It was supposed to just be fun
But, by the time the whole thing ended
No one knew just who had won
The grade five class were ready
All lying there in wait
As the kids from home form seven
Approached the schoolyard gate
With a yell the whole thing started
They were served up on a plate
the kids from home form seven
would not forget this date
The air filled with projectiles
Launched from wet gloves by the score
As the victims ran for cover
They were hit by four score more
They were bruised and hurt and battered
As they ran for the school door
Now, the kids from the grade five class
Lay waiting there for more
Two teachers came to stop them
Get them back into the school
but, the kids just launched more snowballs
Using scarves now as a tool
They would catapult their snowballs
which was really, really cool
And the teachers ran for cover
In the safety of the school
They'd built a wall near four feet high
To protect them on both sides
It channeled all who entered
The walls acted as guides
At most their little walkway
Was only eight feet wide
and their victims ran for cover
For the school, a place to hide
It was dark when the attack happened
The form seven kids came back
They'd left the school from the front door
And had now planned their attack
Their first snowball hit it's target
With a loud resounding crack
It was clear that old form seven
Was truly fighting back
The teachers had a huddle
Met inside and chose to fight
They would wait until the battle
Had gone on into night
They would sneak out of the building
With the absence of the light
And attack the grade five children
And show them how to fight
The air was full of snowballs
Bodies, gloves, scarves abound
there were children hitting adults
And there were children on the ground
They'd been at it for six hours
When they heard the alarm bell sound
It was time to get inside for bed
Before the prefects came around
The snowball fight at Wellesley
Public School in fifty one
Is the one that they remember
Out of all of those they've done
In all one hundred people
Were involved in all the fun
For next year they are building
A snowball launching gun!!!
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 4:07 PM UTC
There was a stranger in my house today.
There was a stranger on my bus seat.
There was a stranger when I read the paper today,
and when I felt the humming of a heartbeat.
There was a stranger in the schoolyard,
he looked like the one beside him.
There was a stranger shouting out loud,
but with a mind too slim.
There was a stranger that said that he loved her,
and then kissed her on her lips.
There was a stranger feeling alone,
thinking there wasn’t more than this.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 7:13 AM UTC
You must make a decision,
but you are suffocating
and time is running thin.
It's as if you are an astronaut:
one hundred feet away from your shuttle,
and the oxygen tank on your back
is empty.
It's like you are a captain:
pulled under the abysmal blue water
as your ship of the line is submerged
and your legs are tangled in the sails.
But really,
you are a young boy sitting a park bench
next to the girl from the schoolyard
with whom you fell madly in love.
The decision you must make:
Are you going to kiss her?
Reach the shuttle with mere seconds to spare.
Free yourself from the ******* of a sinking ship.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
It goes back forty summers to a hot August night.
This cold case I’m working with no end in sight.
The girl, Leslie Zaret, was last seen alive
At the Pioneer tavern, she was standing outside.
Main Street runs North- South on Queensboro Hill.
She was ten blocks from home on that night she was killed.
She accepted a ride- was it someone she knew?
A Janitor found her- cold naked and dead
In a schoolyard in Bayside, the old reports said.
She was ***** with a hairbrush, no ***** was found.
The girl had been strangled, but hadn’t been bound..
If the killer was male- was he impotent too?
The victim was pretty, with long Brunette hair.
She never came home and her parents despaired.
My cops cleared the boyfriend, her ex- boyfriend too.
Still we always believed it was someone she knew.
She attended John Bowne, a high school nearby.
Was the killer a classmate? She was too young to die.
Her class graduated, now grown old and gray.
Most stayed in town although some moved away.
Some have passed on and are taking their rest
But none died liked Leslie with her neck tightly pressed.
People will talk, surely some must suspect
I think someone knows something
about poor Leslie’s death.
Please come forth from the shadows, help me solve this crime.
Leslie’s waited for justice for a very long time.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
What bonds bind my wrists
if not your words
that drip in heat of kiss
on naked flesh,
making of me a willing cohort
in your wicked game.
For once this rope
sang out in schoolyard rhyme
now echos screams in pleasures pain
as wooden handles held in sweating palms
now trace the heat of inner thigh.
The roughness
of well worn weft on silken skin
biting deep as bodies writhe
skipping to a new and frantic beat
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 3:42 PM UTC
Did I ever tell you you're my saviour?
There were days when I felt a little too lonely
and everybody would think I'm strange
There were days that blend together
and a face without a name
I must have been a person who never spoke
'cause I'm still surprised by my own voice
and you were there to make it heard
I can't remember how it used to be,
a single figure learning how to live
and pages were my only way
You know I don't know how to be a friend
and sometimes I think I cry too much
because I can't forget us in the schoolyard
and there moments I almost touch the past
Did I ever tell you you're my saviour?
Μissing you is like orange autumn leaves
that will never be alive again
Missing you is like colours mixed
in a bursting maze of thoughts
It must have been cold before I met you
'cause I now feel your hug embracing
and I don't know what I'd do without you
I can't remember how I used to be
without someone to love me back
and words are my only way
You know I don't know how to keep a friend
and sometimes I think I might be losing you
because trains and ships take you too far
and there's nothing I can do to bring you back
Did I ever tell you you're my saviour?
There are days when I'm so glad
because you make goodbyes so sad
There are days that I hear your name
unconcsiously it makes me smile
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 5:52 PM UTC
loosely
I allow myself to think of you
as not to become foolish
and truthfully
it's all I end up doing;
I play the fool in the schoolyard of your voice
I learned to listen without ever making noise
I fight and fetch all of your sounds
& I can't stop your pour of longing
in & all over my mouth
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 4:57 PM UTC
if you could hold me in
like burning dawn
on the tips of fall mornings
i would scratch our names
into my bark
i would lean over children
that looked like you, baby
sew my leaves to their jackets
so they would always smell
like fresh dew on a misty morning
water my roots and trim
the thorn bushes i've collected
a dress swathing hips
that are barer than deserts
and if i sing this song now
would you come to me in honest
or like schoolyard jokes
will you kiss my fingers only in jest
i'm a simple plant i need only
sunshine and damp dirt
bare bones lapping up nutrients
a stolen kiss over dinner
a bath that is not lonely
a hand to be held
on afternoons in the city
two people staring in rapture at each other
in the black subway windows
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 12:53 PM UTC
Eric kept mostly to himself. Other children didn't like to play with him, but he didn't care. Instead he used to go into the woods and collect frogs.
He never had to look for them. They came to him. He used to pretend he was their king. He imagined he looked like them. But not really like them... He was bigger and a lot more dangerous.
Eric did quite well in school even though he seemed strange to others. Occasionally someone tried to bully him but it wasn't any fun. He just stood there without any reaction.
Afterwards, he used to stand in the schoolyard and stare at those who had tried to bully him. Although they didn't admit it, this made the bullies afraid. Eric's look was so strange. Empty, cold and...dead.
Eric knew he was different, but didn't have any words for what he was. He figured he must have been adopted, because his parents wasn't like him.
In the night time he was under the water. He swam swiftly and skillfully. His destination was a sunken city. A city with buildings very unlike those on earth.
Dark and chaotic, with a geometry that would have been impossible to depict on paper. These dreams would have made most people wake up screaming, but not Eric. Instead, he was sad the dream was over.
One night the dream didn't end. Suddenly Eric was outside the place he lived, but everything was different. The sky was completely black and alien stars shone there.
In front of him was the beach and the ocean. Cliffs towered at the sides and all was shadows and silver grey. The ocean was calling him. He looked at his feet, and noticed the webbing between his toes.
Into the sea, into the darkness he threw himself. Finally he was coming home.
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 12:26 AM UTC
.you want to relearn the schoolyard? are you sure you want to relearn the schoolyard?! sure... we can relearn the schoolyard... i have a theory though, and it goes along the lines of... you know those pedophile(s)? i have a theory... they're not exactly into smoking, or drinking... like... their female counterpart... i actually think women are afraid of young boys... for what young boys are, per se... well, given Muhammad, hyper-inflated interest in literacy... that covers the whole: illiterate prior, married to an older woman, not drinking, not smoking?! so what's your outlet?! to be an object of what... "subjects"... or to be a "subject" of what... objectifies... case in point, the nuance is interchangeable in the metaphor quadratic of wording... and no... not really... i find it hardly necessary to concern myself with making the sort if accuracy to give a metric unit basis of a centi-, or otherwise, etc.
it's sheryl crow
for fuck's sake...
it's not
katty perry...
that debut:
was... pristine..
seminal...
sure... my feet stink...
what? what's wrong
with Cheryl Crow?!
you better be *******
with me for serious,
otherwise
i switch to: unhinged...
a change?
***** won a ******* grammy!
sure... she married
a glorious child of
the two pedals...
who faked Paris having faked
a tourism ploy of France...
it's still Sheryl Crow though!
a trucker's daydream
of perfect head,
incubated by a mouth
of an 18 year old boy...
no... i like Alanis...
when... whatever that was that came
from a woman's mouth was...
deemed, fun...
now?
n'ah... not really.
all i really want... that sort of **** was
fun...
now? i'm becoming more and more
bemused by the fragrance of my
socks, worn, second day to count
thoroughly...
hand in my pocket...
right through you...
so... BIG daddy gonna come around
to save this teenage girl's cherry ***
the kind of daddy that could never
have a beer with me?
like i'm feeling that:
while using my right hands when typing
feels like i'm using my left hand,
and vice versa?!
no! i'm not having it!
Cheryl Crow... &...
Chrissie Hynde!
no... don't give me the *******
zig-zag argument suggesting
i'm about to see something
"better", via an X, cross-eyed...
blurry, like some reverse Freudian
fetish off Ariel, the mermaid,
blurry, under the water...
Disney princesses my ***
head over feet...
now... that's a song.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 8:55 PM UTC
I spend my days waiting for a call to the beings of the night
Beings that are thought to be of only tale
Beings of dream
Beings of imagination
As I wander the path ahead
Listening to the whispers of shadows around
On occasion my eyes tend to wander around
Like lost travelers finding the trail back home
Only to see that the comforts of home have followed
A parent of parent
A old watcher
Old friends
Old lovers
and even
A schoolyard crush or two
Bringing the memories shared along
Reminding me
Of the struggle, the tears, the fires that I fought
The laughter, the dance, and play I cherished
The kisses blinding me to a dead end
Everywhere I go I see a glimpse of those I left behind
Is this a sign?
All of these faces aged a little more then memories sake
In a new light as I realize that their reasons are to admire
Admire the path I taken, as it was a path they observed
Is this a sign?
Undoubtly I feel eased at what I see
As all I can remember was the ease of heart when I would see
They knew it too
Is this a sign?
If so, where is it pointing?
Jul 26, 2012
Jul 26, 2012 at 2:21 AM UTC
I
The characters on the ashen keyboard were faded, now yellow smudges remain
and the words that once danced like clouds in his mind had been evacuated
Reading back on a thousand pages, the writer realised that he was wrong
while the shredder destroyed the lives of every personality he had created
(God's fading smile)
Littering the floor were the shards of paper, twisted and unnerving
Thin strips made new languages, new words, forlorn dictionary
Grasping at the shreds, our writer assembled a masterpiece
Seward on the Ouija board, advice from beyond
(Joyce laughed from) the grave
Scrawling longhand in a notebook on a jaunting bus through the city
No eye-contact, no interaction, careful contemplation
To the river he headed, concrete conscience
Writing nothing
Careless disregard for the laws of language
While they shunned his intellect
and tore pages before him
Scornful
No education, just a passion for words
Running away from his sadness
and learning that it don't stop
Ripples in the water
Single raindrop
Stop.
II
Start,
A tear fell backwards
Wrinkles in the brow begin to fade
Experiencing happiness for the first time, sweet joy
Sprinting in reverse, looking for the smile, return to a face
Think back to schoolyard glory and the books that were once relished
Admiration
They glued his life together
Praising the grinning genius before them
Careful preparation, consulting his Bible, The English Dictionary
Writing everything
To the world he was headed, mind free of guilt
Shaking the hands of a thousand folk, the happiness in a community
Caressing the keys of a pristine writing machine, black ink perfection on a white page
(Joyce sighed from the grave)
Seward on the Ouija board, applauded from beyond
Grasping at his hands, "this writer assembled a masterpiece"
Thin pages made new languages, new words, pregnant dictionary
Littering the coffee tables of many a home, words of beauty and precision
(God's enlightened gaze)
While the printer confirmed the lives of every personality he had created
Reading back on a thousand pages, the writer realised that he was correct
and the words that once drifted like clouds in his mind, now bees making honey, eternal hive
The characters on the immaculate keyboard were dazzling, free from corruption and scrutiny
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 1:46 PM UTC
Stones from Heaven ---pourles enfants de Haiti "Whatcrime what sin had those young hearts conceived That lie bleeding torn on a mother’sbreast... The human race demands a word from God."--Voltaire, " Poem on the Lisbon Earthquake" (1775) the flesh of the city blends its blood with the dust ofearth's gravethe devil quake broke the bones of their beds with itsterrorist bombthey could see the day light of death in the beaten air feel it in their prayerful souls as the some time glad daysun fell into forever's darkness and all the all reeked with theashes of fearwhere is the loving God of married hallelujahs? all the poor man's houses falling falling "amid thedeepening gloom"into a tomb for sons of promise and green daughterstheir pleasure and pain drowned in a ghost of tears lost like raindrops on the grey face of the bottomless oceanvanished like the passing shadows of stories in theimagination of cloudswhy oh darkened God of stones God of the Word God of Heaven? in the once bright light of a schoolyard's promise silencenow bleedswhere young eyes yesterday shouted from their books a beliefin tomorrows now the living dead carry their bodies with loving worms on the gallows of their bent backs wander the veins of thebeaten streets chanting horror's verbs black angels mourning the flesh of222,217 in mass graveswhere is the open hands of God the prodigal Father? they lie down forever in the weather of their sorrow withthe innocent deadweep for the seed of their breathless children in the bloodlit city of gospel sorrow no glad to be home families no wined friends with hope'sholiday songs no loving child's prayers or whispered shut eye no sweetgood nights no these good soldiers of Jesus' hosannas are the inspiredblind no moreto the womb of endless night no to the forsaken God of theirbrambled *****
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 9:01 AM UTC
Carefree gum
Next to the schoolyard children
Who blaze in the mid-afternoon
Summer of dumb love
Sun
In the hour or, is it
The minute
That youth died so fast?
Our hair grays
Our eyes grow dim
Even the light
Cannot bond us closer
To our next of kin
What is in a word?
What is in between sentences
But pleas of insanity,
Pleas of desperate repentance?
Shallow are our
Graves
Dirt is heavier
Than air
The king and the queen
Never match
They will never be
A pair
Tearing through
The theatrics
Of college level actors
Money on the brain
Fame on the skin
Feeling tearing them
Limb from limb
Scene-rated the players
Wave their paychecks in the air,
Tear them to little pieces,
Making confetti out of their
Thought to be
Hard work
I turn the table
See the faces of the former parties
Hear the tirades
Of lost giants shot dead
On forgotten battlefields
And the only thing
That seems to be missing
Is that one and only
Upside right feeling
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
It's November again.
Old men mount bicycles,
wobble down cobblestone,
shift weight
as they pass the churchyard.
Early evening. Cold rain.
The trees are stripped of their pages.
In the morning:
the scurrying of confetti.
The mailman smiles--
smells old smells.
The children sit in a circle,
mill dead leaves, build a mound
of tree dust between them.
It's November again.
Small boys mount bicycles,
wobble down cobblestone,
shift weight
as they pass the schoolyard.
K.D. Mann
Jul 18, 2010
Jul 18, 2010 at 5:14 PM UTC
Every time you take a leap
There’s someone pulling on your shoe
To pull you back and try to keep
You from doing what you do
Naysayers!
Jealous ones,
Block-your-sun,
Wreck-your-fun
Gloom mayors
The ones who simply won’t believe
You hold the power to achieve
But they don’t know what you can do
How strong you are, they don’t know you
So we won’t let them in our way
We’ll pay no mind to nayers’ say
They’ll have to judge us from afar
For they don’t know just what we are:
No-fretters
Can’t-bother-me
Get-off-my-tree
“I-will-succeed”
Go-getters
Soon enough they’ll surely see
Just how mighty we can be
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 8:30 PM UTC
This for the little brothers
And the widowed mothers
To the Sunday morning snoozers
And the gamenight losers
To the wimps in the schoolyard
And even the bullies just down the boulevard
Shake the dust.
This is for the shopfront greeters,
The youth group worship leaders,
For the early morning joggers and the late night bike riders,
And for the boy who's crush loves someone else
For milk crate ball players,
And for the wallflower haters
Plant the forests.
To the sleepers and the dreamers,
And to the bed-wetters,
As well as the lonely love letters
To the broken hearts who write poems
And the broken souls that stole them
To men who work for a family they never see
And girls who want a lover but they'll never be
Split the seas.
For the heavens you have lived and the hells you felt you have gone through,
For the demons who have overcame and the ones yet to be overcome
For the ones who have stuck with the Lord all the same
And the ones who don't yet know His name
For the fair-weather friends the friends 'til the end
The overnighters and the stories told at campfires
Move the mountains.
This is to the poet, and lovers who don't yet know it
To the writers but it's just a hobby,
The Debbie Downers who can't stop me
This is for the authors whose books is left unread on dusty shelves
And the girls who hate the look of themselves
To the ones, that when it rains, they choose to sing
And the winter you must endure to reach the spring
Shake the dust.
This is to all of you,
and I will say it again: shake the dust.
Because from the dust you were made,
and to the dust you will return.
So let this poem not be mere words that barely flow,
may this poet not just be another kid,
too quixotic to change the world.
But might my poetry be the notes
which your words are carried by.
Let them swing and sway,
a piece to our battlecry,
some sylable in your life story.
Because from the dust you will rise,
so carry the dirt with you
and take the world by storm,
for the ground you scrape from your palms
is the story you form.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 12:58 PM UTC
I'm lifted.
Floating to the place where I'm just high enough off of the ground to feel the boundless freedom
and just low enough that coming down won't hurt me a bit.
I'm seven again.
On the playground where me and my schoolyard buddies used to play tag.
I would have never imagined in my youth that two of those kids would be gone
by my senior year of high school.
None of that matters now.
Randy is seven too, and he doesn't even know what alcohol is yet.
Sarah is six again, and has yet to know that your heart can be broken.
Dan is "it", and all the girls are running from him.
but this was a time before the needle and before the germ.
Back than they ran from him because he was "it",
now they run from him because they don't wanna catch "it".
No one would have guessed it,
That this was our fate.
That we would ever grow older.
That we would ever grow up.
That five students of our graduating class would be mothers.
That two of my best friends would be dead.
None of that matters now,
I'm seven again.
We're playing tag.
The swingset is a safe zone.
No one can touch me here.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 1:34 AM UTC
I'm the mistress of emotion
I try to avoid his eye during the day
pretending I've never seen him before
but the truth is I'm at his every beck and call.
Just you wait and see,
I promise you he'll appear in the doorway
flashing his enticing smile
just when I'm trying to fall asleep.
I have a crush on love
but we've never met me before
I watch him from afar in the schoolyard
yet I've never made a move
I need to stop worrying and waiting
for him to introduce himself.
I'm the assistant of suppression
I help him with his careful work
I fold all of my fears and pains
and make them fit into tiny boxes
so they can be stored away on a basement shelf
and someday found again to open with surprise
forcing me to finally deal with everything inside.
-kk
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 9:56 PM UTC
It's November, I feel the war is almost over,
Poland will find peace again. But the war has taken me,
for I only feel the blackness of sorrow,
all of my strength is falling apart.
Oh, my spirit is falling, falling like the purple sunset,
My beloved,
I'm fading in the cradle of your prayers
All my soul is hungry for strength,
the sweat under my side
and the thorns of confusion and heaviness
are only growing stronger.
Keep me awake, dear.
Tell me about when we met, when you
smiled with curiosity when you first saw me.
Tell me about the time when we hid and laughed
behind the schoolyard,
right by the flower fields where we played hide and seek.
The time when our souls only sung with power and laughter.
Now beneath our old house, our home, I can't hide anymore.
I can't hide the hurt, the pain, the sorrow, but I do know
the flames of grace burns over and over, so don't you cry.
The psalms we use to sing, they also heal, yes, they also heal.
So remember me,
and the star I gave you, for then I'll be with you,
near the altar of your heart,
by the silver rivers of memories and love, because then
I'll always be your hero and heart,
your wildfire within.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 10:42 PM UTC
This heart has been
The smallest boy in the
Schoolyard.
Picked on, punched.
Called names, pointed at
With raw laughter of the
Cruel, cruel kind.
Grew skin as solid as its
Ability to draw
Lines, and stand for them.
I will not accept.
Sometimes pulse
Is the heart
Beating
Back.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 2:00 PM UTC