More of my poems, these being from all different periods in my life...
I dreamt of Beauty,
She would fall and touch me,
And she would bring
And comfort when she loved me.
As a kiss,
Given in spite of itself,
Given because that's what they do in the movies.
As a touch remembered,
From a time when touch was still unsure
And charged with significance.
As our conviction --
About what, I don't know.
After Langston Hughes
“What happens to a dream deferred?”
It does not die, not quickly at least,
It remains, sagging like rotten meat,
Reminding us of its existence
At every opportunity.
Its weight, its whispers --
Sometimes subtle, so subtle
That we could pretend we didn’t hear them,
That we didn’t feel a thing.
Sometimes not so subtle --
Our faces tense and twist and others see
The grinding at the center of our brains.
And we snap, and sneer, and do anything
But tell them of our dream deferred.
Some days we hate the dream for being born:
We retrace the steps from its conception,
We think terrible things about it.
It cries and screams for attention;
We wish it would mind its own business
Or else dry up and explode.
We couldn’t justify or explain why
Our dream was set aside.
Was it foolish? Inconvenient?
Not a one of us could say.
We don’t know why we gave it up,
We only know we’ll get to it someday
If they’ll just leave us be;
Do they think we enjoy the endless grinding
Of dream against reality?
How do you speak to yourself?
How do you tell yourself who you are?
Poetry is your voice.
Speak soon, my friend:
The second song is always best.
My friend --