We walk past the unnoticed,
Insisting they remain unseen.
Shout over the unspoken,
Their words unheard, assured.
In streets lined with untouchables,
Eyes fixed on paths familiar, unyielding.
Real problems of heart lie hidden, unresolved,
Questions unanswered, unexplored, obscured.
Will pleadings touch unyielding ears?
Will the unmovable whisper, “Let’s try?”
Will the unengaged refocus eyes?
Will we listen to understand?
Three houses side-by-side savoring sweet slumber in the clear cold night.
The water’ssurface stagnates,still,as long as I clutchtightthe cold,heavy stone.No ripplesreflect daylightuntilI decideto let go.
Keep listening [to] music
Kind, loyal man
Kills living monsters
I hate this poem. At the time it was posted, though, I probably thought it was brilliant. Looking back, I can see why. I was exhausted. Not poetic exhaustion. Real exhaustion.
Like thosewhenJesus wept—not weak felt,but love kept. Tears shedfor landsshattered,for heartsoverburdened,for handsoverworked. Tears fallwhen justicefails,when truthstrays,when kindnesswithersaway. Tears streamto nourishour scorched earth,with hope—that shemay once againflourish,bringing forththe fruitsof the spirit. I amunashamedfor sheddingliberaltears.
We are on bikes when clouds roll low into our street
Cloaking our final minutes of autumn light
Hints of charcoal-charred meat blow in the breeze
Reminding us
We are late for dinner