The GuitaristGuantanamera… Your music fills the air And tumbles lazily down the streets Of Old San Juan.The Guitarist
I sit on the park bench,
Overwhelmed with the colors of the buildings, Shifting from pastel peaches and soft blues To the warm greys of the early evening.
The song plays on and on Until you call out, in Spanish, enough! I stir from my bench
And disappear, smiling, into my welcoming hotel.
MarinI didn’t know you, but you brought light to me With your gentle manner and your quiet determination And I’m shaken to walk this life without you You who had so much to live for And I, who live a life uninspired.Marin
You were 18. And my daughter is newly turned 14. She had a brush with death… We look forward to her end of treatment. But everything you looked forward to Is now in your past. Still, so amazing, so inspiring. You were to be a Olympic swimmer And fell from grace, through no fault of your own To struggle through the Paraly
paper cranes and picket fencesi am folding you one thousand paper cranes because it is all we have left.paper cranes and picket fences
legend says that if i fold one thousand paper cranes, i will get a wish. i could wish for a pair of iridescent wings or an ocean in a teacup or just to finally be happy again, but i don't want any of that--with every crane i fold i am imagining you. one crane for the circles under your eyes, one crane for your jutting ribs, one crane for every seizure.
i love you and you're dying and i will run out of paper trying to fold your broken pieces into birds.
-
you drew me a picture of us in the future. our houses were
Loss, in five Actsi. ReturnLoss, in five Acts
Through a dark tunnel
of bent birch and cedar I walk. Soft moss on cobblestone. Home.
The tilted bird bath drips with
tea coloured rain. Vines snake up
old walls even as the sandstone crumbles.
Decaying gutters sag with sad, welcoming smiles, heavy with dead leaves and the fallout of terracotta tiles.
ii. Memory
On her lap, in the evening, swinging on the front porch chair. Humming
a lullaby, she whispers softly and
marks with a brush of her ringless finger,
magpie and minor, chicken and hen &nbs
being in love.it's like when you were five, when your pet rabbit died and you learned that nothing good lasts.being in love.
it's like the time you dropped him off at his house to watch tv
before you drove yourself to the emergency room, sobbing.
it's like the first time you saw your kindergarten teacher cry.
it's like ring around the rosie, a pocket full of posies, ashes. ashes.
it's like when he went too far, and he said, "is this okay?" and you said, "no," but it didn't matter.
it's like when he said, "but i want you."
it's like the number seven, or rubies.
i
--
BT.
"The truth knocks on the door and you say, "Go away, I'm looking for the truth," and so it goes away."
— Robert M. Pirsig
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle maintanance
I'm glad you like it! ^^
I hope to see you soon!
--
4500 kiriban on anima-en-fuga's [link]
--
4500 kiriban on anima-en-fuga's [link]
--
Help bring Lit into the spotlight, support the *Lit-Underground
Keep writing!
--
Seen it all, done it all, can't remember most of it
Previous PageNext Page