So what better of a time to write than at 4:20am on a Saturday morning coming down from a wine buzz and you can't sleep? BINGO
I have been throwing around a few ideas in this think tank of mine one poem involves a child growing up in a lost world one that doesn't give back based on poor decision of the parents and the innate unlivable circumstances of his or her well-being, one involves a late train connecting the darkness to that of the tracks and the sounds a train gives off with a melancholy feel, the next is connected perfectly to nature and involves the vivacious mountains of Sapa, Vietnam (or any place but reference helps me write better). I'm just going to try and put them down and edit later, happy reading :)
Child Unaccounted For
A black world mixed with
dust, soot, and tar.
A cord connecting you
to a wind up car
unwound and ran afar.
Your whole life is unsure
not a fault
but a blur.
Your mind a mix
of love, hate, and pure.
A chemical reaction
would stir this tales
combustion
matter mixing with another
creating an unsound
robust solution.
What this object has not heard
is its not done
this life is sure.
But soon as this rally of childhood is over
Get on your bicycle and scream
HELP ME.
Midnight Seed Train
The late night express
has arrived
a musty rally of metal oil and
crisp air.
Carrying only a carriage of
bulk wheat and seed.
What more could a dough use
besides it's knead.
Clunking each moment
with the wheels so raw with track,
moving, a black train on ice
melting coal and causing rust.
This midnight train has one trip
untraveled.
Screeching to a halt upon a stop
just gravel.
Once it has reached its destiny of
folk
with a history of bulk,
will it puff its smoke
and relinquish it's next jolt
to the be the hero of this world and all
it's made out to be.
Sapa
The green patch on the rocks
right after a winter
a fuzz so tender the touch.
A stair case of water,
water buffalo in the horizon.
Rice harvest it over
yet the sweet dew of the mountains
is hungover.
A rock will fall and be
guided by soft cool mud
a tribal town above
making fires and weaving scarves.
Such a lovely place
you wish you could memorize each trace.
The smell of smokey damp wood
and a fog so thick your lungs are clogged.
It hides the elevation
for those scared of heights
and lets you appreciate fresh eggs and
marmalade and touch grass
so fresh.
The roots are happy to be where they are and
the rice harvest
will soon be ready
for that next sprout
with mist of fresh dew.
