fools

The Wooden Doll's Puppet Hands

The wooden doll’s puppet hands

 

I sat next to her, her and her aroma.

It perfumed the air around my circling thoughts.

They, bewildered by the sweet intoxication, could think no more.

 

In that dull chamber of routine,

I did not tend to my task, as I could not.

Not next to her at least.

 

A stranger, perhaps no stranger than the norm,

And indeed my eyes had once before gazed upon her body, approaching me.

Mind you that I did not have, in me, know of her soul.

 

Certainly, I knew nothing of her heart.

Certainly she cared not for me, I pondered to myself at least.

She did escape my present tense.

 

But then again,

I am better known for chasing dreams awake,

Than cool romance in trance, lost somewhere in the wake of exchanging pressing words and thoughts.

 

Regardless, me being the fool that I like to play, I took the plunge into her eyes.

I then spoke my soft spoken words,

Both fearful and out of childish curiosity,

 

I asked my stupid question and she felt obliged to answer.

 

I then, became so foolishly aware of just how stupid I had been,

I took evasive action, and turned too soon.

But I, at least, did thank her.

 

Then only silence for the rest of the way.

Just her perfume revolving parallel to my growing sentiments of both desire and apology,

As we sat side by side by circumstance.

 

She as a wooden doll,

For my amusement,

And I as a wooden boy gutless in his pursuit.

 

For no particular reason,  I in that moment:

A physicist, a scientist, a philosopher, and,

 For no deeper meaning Alive.

 

If she would have asked me too.

I would be hers, like a dog.

I would give up my freedom, my freedom!

 

For the sweet embrace of this stranger,

For the foreign love that she possessed,

And for that second of a thought in which:

I was pitifully in love and happy for no greater reason.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I have learned so much since then but then again the sentiment is a striking one, one that I will make sure to remember.

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Children Of The Earth

Squandered without consideration,
A heartless act of bitter vengeance at the world,
Feeling rejected, ejected from familiarity,
Contemptuous and scorned younglings,
Unarmed and void of forbearance,
Becoming a vacuum for anguish without release,
And a mirror of community neglect,
Reflection of parental confusion and malevolence,
Rancid energy bouncing out and back again,
Like a lifelong game of handball with societal ills,
Defective skills, knowing no better,
Seeking no end, with peace undefined,
Due to taking root in a life unkind,
What will grow in this wasteland?
Putrid soil of chemical waste,
Splintered shreads of nothingness,

Spitefully believed to be gods,
Dreams, falling to ash like rotted flesh,
The shells of what once sustained hope,
Lying in the cocoon of human ignorance,
And no returns of virtues past,
For the sake of reaping a fool's gold.

 

© 2013

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This poem is about today's youth.

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