Movement

Nick Cannon told everyone
that he thinks of things
and makes them happen.
But then I think of the millions
of Nick Cannons, pilgriming
West, spilling out of buses,
only to be a story shared
by everyone else.

I tried to climb-up trees, but already knew
I would never be my friend, who never fell
to where I am at. I was never lucky enough
to be born with my friend’s hands
just as many hopefuls and wannabees weren’t
born with the right stuff, or were born
at the wrong time.  I already knew
what my parents knew,
that I would never be president,
even when they told me I could be anything,
each time I fell.

I never ventured
West, because I knew
I would live long in this town,
with its many trees.

Written for the Thursday Prompt at Because We’re Poets.

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The Son Writes

Death is blackened
by white roses orchestrating
the stage for grief.

My father wrote
those three lines,
before he died.
Now I hear them,
those lines, once more
as his fellows gather and muse
and drink about.

He was a good mentor,
a sensational man of letters–
his passing is felt.

But I’m the only one who manages to see
what my father wrote–lines
ready to be drowned by history’s waves.
I see through the mush,
and the things my father did
to achieve a pedestal amongst guardians
of the ivy halls. But, he remains
for now, while I am alive and trying to confine
my own place for when they look at me
they only see the son, the shadow
of his greatness.


Note: I posted a version of this a few days ago but deleted it in favor of this rewrite.

The Insomniac Dreams

The center of night
stretches into the street,
hugging hovering lights,
the wet air
pummeling the sidewalk.

From this night I arrive
back to where they received
retribution for my misdeeds–
their fists sunk into me, my stomach
slamming into itself.

My mind carries along
to that old school, entering
a windowless room, imagining summer
sleeping in piles along the fence,
the gum-stained carpets
contrived into paw prints.

When I used to lie
in my room, I would turn
to the ceiling, waiting–
it was never calm, now
the night passes through me.
All those things
seem like they never were.

Inspired by the Sunday Scribblings post: Wander.