Tag: short story

Strange Things

Let us fall

Although children we may no longer be

In this skin torn, old, and wrinkly

We begin

Again and again

Like the seeds falling from a tree

Birthed from death

Oh what a strange thing to see

My drifting soul becoming me

Truth

I think it was lost

But no one really knew

So no one ever searched

For what can’t be proved

Numbers and charts that say nothing at all

Misleading us to think that the truth isn’t far

It was written somewhere, but where… I forget

The bible must’ve had it, but it failed to translate

A Dream I Didn’t Have

He tried to explain to me

That my soul has forgotten how it used to be

Before it was imprisoned by this jailer, this body

As the bright light shined down on me

I was blinded and no longer can see

That this… what I love so much is just a prison keeping me from my destiny

 

Modern Problems

There sits a child talking to a tree

About the long day and how things turned out to be

…And as I talked to her-the tree

She humbly smiled and replied to me:

-“This green was of concrete, paved so harshly to stop my growth.

 Little I was, hungry for the sun at birth.”

She leaned down as she whispered to me.

Then I thought about my broken nail, my missing shoe, the lost signal, the text I couldn’t send you

Things that ruined my day

They were not concrete in my way!

So I dust off my skirt, with one shoe on

I go back inside my comfortable home

Thankful for how things turned out to be

See sometimes when you’re upset, all you need is a talking tree!

Where is Home?

Wars forced us to leave many houses behind

So home was a suit case, then a hotel, then peace of mind

I wander to meet trees that don’t know my name

I try to start a conversation, but people think I’m insane

My roots were dislocated and sometimes I feel suffocated

Then I remember,

Home was never far behind

Home is a place here in my mind

The Wide Eyed Girl

The Wide Eyed Girl

 

The wide eyes blinked

It was over

The war has engulfed the pond, the garden, and the moon

It wasn’t her choice

She smiled

Too young to worry, too old to cry

The wide eyes stared at a green leaf, among the ruins

The birds might come back

She poured what’s left of her water on what’s left of a tree

The apples will grow!

(A little darker than I usually write. That is because it was inspired by my life experience…)

Poetry Blogs

In a treasure chest only my eyes can see

I hide things that make me, me.

There you’ll find treasures of my own

poems too personal, drawings so imperfect, and sand from back home.

But here (in the blog world) I find chests open wide.

So I throw the key and join the fight.
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