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The Lonely Road Poet...A Book by RagMag
by
The points I've made... without you... I even miss the way you peed when you
laughed.... knowing the way things would end....
wouldn't want to have missed it... I cant dwell on what might have been...
When its all said and done...
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by Feels
like a lump stuck
between the heart, and lips blocking
all words. Muffled
sobs, loosened
eyes, silent
tears...roll to a cry. Saddened
to silence deeply
dark, with a
mind that spins. Fleeting
thoughts rush to
empty, limp,
depleted, cold…defeated. Saddened
to silence little
one in some
far away picture.e Belly
bloated, mouth
like sand; mother’s
thinly, weeping hand. I’m
saddened to silence over and
over again. When
will it end? Watching
a child die from hunger in a
plush land of green seems, beyond
comprehension. The above poem was written after viewing an appeal for aide to another war ravished area of Africa. The near distant greenery of it's fertile land, loomed like a beckoning hand. Hungry faces sat with their backs to it, engaged by cameras and tearful pleas from white faced missionaries. Bags of maze were being unloaded from the back of an old cattle truck to waiting, eager arms. It all seemed so bizzare... Measuring Time I am nine, going on ten, and feel like the wind before rain. I
chase my brother when he teases me, wrestling him to the ground and
punching him once or twice so he knows I mean it when I say “cut it
out.” Before he recovers, I race away-across the barnyard, and under the
rickety rail fence, and through an open field speckled white and blue with
daisies and wild chicory. When I reach the woods, I stop to catch my
breath, knowing that I am safe, that my brother will not come this far to
pay me back. Where the field meets the trees, there are prickery bushes loaded
with ripe raspberries. I pretend I am a princess gathering rubies in a
magic garden. I pick carefully so that I do not prick my finger and fall
under a spell. When my apron pockets are full, I wander along the edge of
the woods, wading knee deep in rye grass, nibbling on my treasures,
heading for my climbing tree. Licking the last of the sticky juice from my fingers, I scramble up the trunk of my tree—a sour cherry that’s just the right size for climbing. I shinney out to the middle of the lowest branch, and hooking my legs around it tight, I flop backwards, dangling upside-down. This is the way I measure time. When the tips of my braids touch the earth, I will be grown up. And on that day, hanging upside-down, I will use my braids to write my name in the dirt…
>>Poem Index >>Top of Page >>Comment Karen Bashkirew lives in rural Pennsylvania, where she writes poetry and fiction. Her work has been published in several journals and anthologies, including Byline, Juxtaposition, and The Rising Cost of Getting By. One of her poems has been set to music by Suzzy Roche and appears on her CD, Zero Church. 'Measuring Time' was taken from her 2001 book of poetry Standing in the Sky, published by New Moon Press, 21 Oswald Road, Lenhartsville, Pa 19534 by Your stilled, lifeless body hung in my hands pretty kitten. No rise and fall of your tiny furry chest, limp, dirty and damp. City streets have dangers you’ve yet to learn about. Still warm, maybe its not too late. Feel the magic energy, breathing through my hand. Hear the whisper from pursed lips of the Divine; become…alive. Breath, as I empty myself of small minded, notions allowing for wakefulness. Become awake raise and lower that chubby belly, twitch your tender eyes, leap back into this life if meant to be; which pleases me You look a bit surprised little one. Where have you been… asleep? Go now awakened, careful of automobile tires, roving dogs and kids with rocks. Run in fun, yet never, ever forget. | ||
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