Skip to main content

The Wanderer

They ask me at the city gates
Who I am -

May I say I am a flower fallen,
Withering in the dust,
Longing for the bough I was born on;

May I say I am a kite broken,
Plaything of the winds,
Longing for the string that held me;

May I say I am a son exiled,
To wander from shore to shore,
Longing for the soil that made me;

But the bough bears new blooms,
The string flies new kites,
My motherland has new sons;

All we can do is wander, drift, meander;

Can you, O city guards,
Give us a home to die in?

But all they can give us is a rubbish bin's
damp, smouldering fire. Thus must we -
The flower, the kite and I perish.

All they agree to do
Is scatter our ashes in the wind,
And in its ceaseless motion,
We find our graves.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

She's complicated

She's complicated. She'll charm you with charts, statistics and that corporate smile. But look into those eyes, they're fiercely bohemian. She's complicated. Her chatterings seem to resonate with happy sounds, but listen with the other ear, to an unhidden lament. She's complicated. Her silences agonise, her voice echoes in her absence. And yet there is a mild dread as her name flashes on the ringing phone. She's complicated. Sometimes she's a poetess, shallow, romantic, trying to hide a sardonic, world-weary wit. She's complicated. She could be a spiteful Fury, wrath unabated, but that's just to hide the lamb-hugging girl within. She's complicated. She's an enchantress, a fool, a tyrant, a nurse, an imp, a priestess, but she's generally a good friend. She's complicated. Published in Making Waves - A Poetry Anthology , ed. Pam & Bill Swyers; Swyers Publishing 2011. ISBN: 978-0-9843113-6-1.
8 comments
Read more

Fit

 What we are is a jigsaw pieces that come together searching for edges that match some we know will never sit: a sideways glance, a crush, a lifelong regret; some we think will last, but no we stick around a while and then we know we are meant for other things, other people, other places but mostly just being othered some of us are corner pieces who know where we are and who will come to find us eventually I can only wish I was that and some of us are that piece that doesn't fit neither color nor shape nor corner we force it sometimes, set it aside for some later unfulfillable hope until it is too late to realise we were left over from another puzzle, with only the longing to fit, to belong, to be included
Post a Comment
Read more

Rat

I'm a rat, I'm a rat, I scurry and I bite, I eat what I get, And I fuck and I fight, I dodge the black crows, I run from your shoes, But I'm old or sick, you'll trample over me.
4 comments
Read more