APRIL 2021 = ANTICIPATION
Kassie J Runyan
Division so thick I can taste it
like a stew
that my grandmother used to make
Our hope is betrayed
working through flesh and bone
He made the waves
as he shouted
and spit hatred into the air
We’re spiraling into a deep dark hole
with no option…
but to lift our heads and climb
Shake off those shoulders
from the weight of the world
letting it drop into the scorched earth
Raise those worn out arms
and stand ready to fight back the dark
I WAIT FOR MARLENA
The awning, the same; red and
white gingham, a bit worn through
the years. Under its giant umbrella,
a medley of God’s greatest greens,
sharing the blue checkered tablecloth
with a rainbow of vegetables.
Sometimes, some samples of jams
that she’s made. Last Spring, she
put out some pies and the white
wicker baskets for sale, that were
wove by the seniors in centers.
I wait for Marlena, after the long
northeast Winter. I’d drive down
route 9, by the few farms that remain
through the flatlines of February, save
for some remnants of old jack-o-lanterns,
unfit for the crows anymore.
It’s June 21st, without sight of that
wood weathered table. And I worry. She’s
getting on with the years. Same thing
occurred several Summers ago. I need
her to be here; her and that white sugar
corn that I love.
THE DARK DAYS
Today I feel lonely, aloof and unheard,
Living in a world that can be so absurd
Today I feel mopey I don’t want to be,
And I’m not liking much about me.
Today I feel angry, powerless and sad,
Focusing only on all that is bad.
Today I feel like just hiding away,
And I haven’t much left I want to say.
Today I feel and I don’t want to feel,
I want to block out all that’s real.
Today I feel, I’ve lost my head,
And I just want to be in bed.
Today I feel this negative way,
But tomorrow, I know, I’ll be okay.
I lay your laughter in my memory vault,
I drape your smile like a silk veil across my brain,
soft to touch and paper thin.
I place them so that I can reach them easily.
And when the waves of grief threaten to drown me,
I reach for them.
and they pull me to the surface,
saving me over and over again.
WHAT BECAME OF HER
Kassie J Runyan
She slept in her car, they all knew.
But no one ever invited her in.
She cried herself to sleep most nights with her head
buried in the back seat of her worn out car
that smelled heavily of stale cigarettes and Everclear.
She couldn’t go home, she knew.
She had burnt that bridge already
when her mother called her a stranger
and she couldn’t admit that she was a stranger to herself.
She washed her hair in the sinks at the school before her
classmates came, happy and smiling.
What college kids should be.
She took her seat and smiled back hoping they didn’t notice her coming from the bathroom.
She learned they had always seen her when she heard
them laughing. The eyes darting towards her
as she ran to her car, tears burning streaks on her face.
She drove to a hidden stream to watch the water
flowing to match her tears and she imagined falling in
and sinking to the bottom of that cool water.
She didn’t fall though, not yet.
Even as she dreamt of monsters in the night
and tears flowed even in her sleep.
Huddled in her little red car
that was parked blocks from her home
as strangers walked by and thought ‘poor girl’
but no one invited her in.
Years later those same people would sit
at their table, coffee in hand.
and think of that girl huddled in her little red car.
They would tell their friends about her
whenever someone mentioned the plight of the homeless. Becoming a story to show value
and ending it with a far away glance,
“I wonder what became of her.”
ON THE EVE OF AN EVENT
as I sit in thin-walled protection
against the dense fog that blankets
water in the freezer
slowly turns into cold cubes
in its never ending metamorphosis-
as I lay (and lie) naked to the world
in shorts and a shirt
All others sleeping,
I start up
not knowing if I was dreaming
or thinking or not-
as I rest on the sand
watching the waves
of the Great Puddle
closing my eyes
listening to the open Ocean
its thunderous song,
my own inaudible, laudable,
as I eat up the vegetable world
with its zucchini and carrots
and rainbow loom
with microcosmic music,
inside of me
like a picture portrait
of the fantastic photogenic Earth-
as I breathe in the clouds
surrounding the sun
and spit into the wind,
eat the pie in the sky,
and squint my eyes
to twinkle the little stars,
the jealous moon
brags of its beauty-
as I sleep on the ground,
in my self-designed cage,
with its screens for summer,
and its walls for winter,
feel the fatal future,
of past people,
inside of Me,
setting up for the show-
as I’m living and dying,
I think of you,
and I smile=
HOLD YOUR TONGUE…
Hold your tongue
It can’t be undone…
Things slip out quick,
And the words, they stick.
You can’t take it back,
Once things have been said,
They become entrenched
Stuck inside of your head.
Those true micro-thoughts,
That come from the id,
That are best to let pass
Should have kept on the lid.
Hold your tongue
It can’t be undone
Now isn’t the time to spout,
And let that anger slip out.
Those who shout the loudest
Aren’t always struggling more,
And the words can cause damage
Shattering the recipients core.
Hold your tongue
It can’t be undone
The anger will fade,
Don’t release the shade.
Reflect for a second,
That, you won’t regret
Because angry words
They are hard to forget .
Mohamed El Houssaini
Never be devoured by the past
There will be nothing to last
Mournful or gleeful
When thinking about it
Nothing will change at all
Look at the future with a big smile
Like a small bird
Getting out of its nest to fly
Don't wait for people to give you flowers
Enjoy the bitterness of an oleander
And let them be surprised and wonder
How can you endure it with no hinderer
Sow your flowers wisely
Don’t Think you gonna do it easily
The future is always near
Don't lie on your bed and snore
Do as much as you
To take yourself to the next floor
Difficulties will always impede your way
But your desire must be strong enough
To put them away
I WANNA BE A WRITER
Rejection letters gather like junk mail;
I add the latest “Hell No!” to the stack.
Progress is made when you refuse to fail.
Like Arnie always says, “I will be back!”
I’m gonna be an author, just you wait,
and not the kind who’s famous when he’s dead.
Before this year is done, I’ll celebrate
as critics see my books are getting read.
Someday my books will sell across the Earth.
How dare they claim my prose is nondescript?
They simply fail to comprehend the worth
concealed within my dazzling manuscript.
Right now, I have a huge rejection pile.
One day, I’ll write a book that’s more their style.
I STAND HERE
Kassie J Runyan
I stand here
a testimony in stretch pants
that don’t stretch quite so far.
I stand here
skin growing pale
with a lack of sunlight.
I stand here
a tiny person
in a tiny box
in a great big city
on a large piece of land
on a large planet.
I watch the world.
I stand here.
Fires burn on the other side
of the windowpane.
On the other side
of the world.
People die and I testify
with a pencil in hand.
I stretch my slippered toes
and look out the window.
Tiny cars slowly sliding
through the narrow tunnel
that guides them underground.
Why do they wait?
I stand here
wanting to scream.
Wanting to laugh.
Wanting to find a voice
and lift my fist.
I stand here
wanting the fear to end
to go outside
and feel the sun on my face
and the MARCH in my step.
My toes wiggle
ready to move
fingers caressing the windowpane.
I stand here
LOVERS’ COMMUNIQUE IN THE PLAGUE YEAR
Out on a limb where whispers grow
I’m twisted in pursuit of your shadow
the wind drives me from here and gone,
your memory feeds my delusions.
I sang every song in your litany,
walked every corridor of your escape,
there’s nothing I can do, you’re inside
that cave of promises I have no entry to.
The midnight train arrives with some relief,
a promise held high above the fray,
I’ve lost contact with every rumor of you,
down the last alleyway I go.
When you cradle a bouquet of solutions,
forget about me, follow through on wings
the dream provided you; in faded white gloves
hold onto escape, then make your way back to me.
The beloved Creme Egg,
Diminishing each year in size,
I picked one up the other day,
And couldn’t believe my eyes!
Is it me that’s getting bigger?
I pondered, as my hands grasped the treat,
Is this the hint to put it back,
And pick something healthier to eat?
But instead I bought two,
To make up for the injustice that I felt,
I put them in my pocket,
And prayed they wouldn’t melt.
I got home and peeled the foil,
And I took a mighty bite,
Surely these can’t be the cause,
Of my jeans being too tight?
Illuminating the night
you surpass the masses.
Your brilliance begins.
Dancing with wonder, dancing with fear, moving in anticipation but not knowing why.
One day little spark you will glean
what makes your light so keen.
Spectrums of colour aflight,
shades of missed chances,
your radiant spirit wins.
Painting with wonder, painting with fear, turning with anticipation and quite certain why.
For now little beam, forge ahead for that peek, at the two who made you so unique.
WHEN THE REAPER KNOCKS
Nihilistically begun, his knock-knock joke was not for fun. “Who’s there?” The bait caught one.
“Nothingness.” “Nothingness who?” A pause, expecting more.
“Who’s there? Who’s knocking at my door?”
I DREAMT OF US
I dreamt of us. I awoke this night and went to the door.
I was alone. I opened the door. The shadows were the fragments of hope,
the shadows— as the words spoken in sleep.
I dreamt of us, and now, having lived a century apart from you,
experienced the emptiness, or calmness of thoughts as the lights of
streetlamps out there and our laugh, hands and breathe,
found they were fumbling at our fingers, and speech and time.
Shuffling to the outdoor, I felt I had left myself here alone,
in the twilight, where patiently we waited, and did not blame each other,
as if we saw a rainbow without rain, right there. I dreamt of us.
As the sightless with fingers searches for rays and as worn fresco
by prayer's friction. Each word, the heart of silence.
James Dean Rivera
I anticipate myself marrying you,
I’m in a black tux you in a white dress,
Walking down the aisle and saying our I do's,
We are finally getting married! Yes Yes Yes!
Eloping in Greece,
Just the two of us,
Being married will be a breeze,
Both of us so in love.
To build more of a life together and travel,
Spain, Mexico, Portugal, London,
Even go to Saudi Arabia and ride a camel,
And the adventures won’t come undone.
We will have generational wealth extended to our children,
They too will indulge in our adventures,
No matter where or when,
And they will have their own business ventures.
But the most important thing I anticipate,
Is us growing old together,
And that part will be great,
We will have a love that lasts forever!
TIME TO GO
I perched for years waiting
waiting for you to say I love you
back to me, just once (or hourly).
You did at last.
When I asked with a coy smile
Did I ever tell you I love you.
Then simply said, “I love you.”
You at last stunned me
with “I love you.”
…for the very first time.
I could die here and now
On the small Pacific island of Tanna,
where many believe Prince Philip
the only son of their mountain god –
Never mind 16,000 km to England or
that Philip was born in Greece, home
of many frisky gods. Fact: gods and
their kids are not bound by natural law
like us. Phil, who ‘retired’ at age 95,
is expected to reappear on Tanna
at any moment.
Tannese disciples have awaited his return
since 1974 when he flew in, with his woman,
for a brief stop. They believe when he returns
everything will be exceedingly good.
People won't get sick and the yam crop
won't ever fail. After all, paradise on Tanna
has been earned via prayer directed to Phil
and they even sent him a pig-killing club,
a symbol of their faith in his prowess.
Disclosure: While a member of a certain religion,
(aren’t they all?) I was asked to go to Tanna
as a missionary but declined. Who knows,
I might have converted them to a humorless
muddle-eastern god or conversely become
a follower of the wise-cracking Duke/Prince.
In the end my long dead messiah and I fell
out and now I have a hunch that Phil,
that son of a god, may be too frail to return
or has lost sight of divine duty and the yams
of Tanna may have to grow all on their own.
i meander among archives stacked along walls
stained of tobacco and saharan dust
my bicycle left to the corner in the quiet hall
i skip and shuffle the silent room open only
to the courtyard sounds of quietude
deep inhale of salt from dry breezes
and pages opening for the first time in decades
sand and grit flitter from parcels intoned in verse
unread and unspoken for generations
scripts as stiltedly translated lyrics in western tongue
i could not pronounce such a calligraphy albeit poetic
those dialects lost to the winds of fleeting nazarí
their whistle follows the wind in trembling pines
their whisper in autumn leaves on aging trees
songs in percussion of rain between portico arches
and my bicycle sheltered as I watch their words dance
It's that moment, isn't it. When you
Edge in closer, your breath on mine,
Eyes locked and the air loaded - there is
Static, needles in my lower lip, chin
Numb to all but the touch of your thumb
As your lips part mine. A tilt of the head,
A perfect 30 degrees to match my own
Sway, we are still, yet dancing.
My body sings its own song of longing,
My skin ablaze with the gentle irritation of
Desire; there is an itch of a sort that I
Need you to satiate, deep within me,
And the anticipation
After the city air hits us in the face
Your fingers lost in the hair at the nape
Of my neck as you explore me further
And neither of us aware of the existence
Of anybody else -
Of walking down to your basement flat
Slightly drunk, hands gripping the banister
Knowing that in minutes you will be bare
And so will I
Is almost too much to take
TRAVELS THROUGH KNOWLEDGE
Julie A. Dickson
A journey begins, mind opens
on a quest to collect information,
vast as a philosophical lecture
or a finite mathematical equation.
A lecture hall fills with brilliant
young faces, or zoom screen array
all prepared for a day of study.
Note taking, recipe for success,
like cake baking, measured milestones,
notes for exams or essays, instructor
travels through knowledge imparted,
ground yet uncharted, all will be clear
in plans for future, major decision,
later in position to deliver thesis,
path is forged, like blacksmith shapes
iron ore, artistic endeavors, college
student weathers in the rising sun.
Wrap me in the warmth of your smile
Shelter me beneath your loving eyes
Whisper my name into the restless wind
Hold me safe against the darkening skies.
Lift me up with your soulful song
Play your guitar and stroke the strings
Keep me hopeful when the night seems long
Caress my check as chill wintry blasts
Pierce the windows of my heart
Wrap me in love's strong embrace
Throughout this night
Throughout all time and space.
LIFE IS A GAME OF JENGA
Amanda Jane Bayliss
Life is a game of Jenga
One right move
Could strengthen your structure
Make you stronger.
One wrong decision
Could make you wobble
Weaken your structure
CRASH! You down to the ground.
Will you, or another
Collect the bricks
Pick up the gravel
Sling it in the box?
Never, to be played again.
Life is a game of Jenga.
Matt Cummings & Justine Nichole
"Watching you, no one was near
All lonely, my Dear
Lights on you
My lovely darling
Dancing your heart out for anyone to see
The scene of the lonely queen
Dancing with her shadows
Shades of rainbow burst forth
As you dance, we locked eyes
My heart melted, letting me know
You need me now
I pranced to you
We linked together, people joined us
Magically proactive, combustible reaction
As our night fades away into sweetness
The spotlight was on us, fireworks
You melted away with me, they see us
Your body and mine, our loving eyes
No fight against time under intense light
We got lost in the moment, felt like hours
Swaying to the rhythm
Of the musical chimes
Whirled and twirled
To the rhythmic rhymes
No words between us, only emotions were spoken
There was a beginning, an end
Thank You, my friend
For joining me in expression
We danced in perfect harmony
As if we were one, you and me
How beautiful, the impression
I started in deflection of introspection
But you, came along and saved me
A wonderful distraction from our demons inside
When you came to me, my thoughts did subside
Once a lonely night, now so full of life
And when it had ended
Such a colorful sight,
Rainbows in all directions
Your hand and mine
Wrapped up in time
What a magical scene
Just you and me, king and queen”
A SENSE OF READINESS
A sense of anticipation draws near.
The light is starting to shine.
With it a belief that things will
be just fine.
The beginning of a new dawn
is encroaching on us with hope
for the future for everyone.
Keeping us safe from any harm.
As things slowly open
and health is not an issue anymore.
Plans preparing for a holiday
Will give us a goal.
Smiling faces will appear the normal.
When meeting and being sociable.
Positivity is the message with
anticipation for a new life.
They say to me what she is worth:
She is a jewel
Who has power that amaze men
Like a necklace handcrafted with gold
Who seeks respect rather than luxury
Virtuous in her that can never fade
With a fertile womb which the earth relies on
But this are deemed to trash by others,
the society blames her for showing her pretty wings
what an overpowering sorrow
with a heart made of gold
a woman valued far beyond the mountain of doubts
with firm believer
I believe she is worthy
MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE
She walked along the beach, her feet sinking in the sand
Missing her lover, who had gone to another land
She had watched his ship, as it sailed into the sunset
Reminiscing of their last kiss, her lips still burning yet
With his fingers he had traced, the contours of her face
She was dressed in white, her wedding gown edged in lace
Their love was fresh and new, sealed with wedding rings
Signifying their love, looking forward to what the future brings
Although it seems like yesterday, it was a fortnight he’d gone
He had kissed her goodbye, and said, my darling I won’t be long
She could almost feel his breath, in the cool fall Seabreeze
She walked along the shoreline, and sighed without care and ease
She wrapped her arms around her, to ward off the chill in the air
She stumbled upon an object, she found a bottle laying there
She saw a piece of paper within, the bottle it was curled
She thought of it as a treasure, like an oyster that contained a pearl
She opened up the bottle, and withdrew the paper within
She saw writing on the parchment, was intruding upon it a sin
My darling, we have been sailing for a week, the ship hit something hard
I’m writing you this letter, then into the ocean I will discard
A rescue is not eminent, for no other ships are around
Unlikely I’ll swim to safety, we are far away from ground
I want you to know, death will not contain my love
I’ll be watching over you, your angel sent from above
Do not shed tears and weep for me, for I will always be near
Please go on with your life, you will find another who is dear
I only ask, you never forget, the magic that we shared
The love, laughter and passion, most important how we cared
When you close your eyes at night, feel my arms around you tight
Leave your window open, for I am the star in the sky that’s bright
I thought –I closed my pen
For no more writing poetry
Since your advent had snapped all
That pain , the separation pinched.
Ecstatic I felt,
Got relaxed of the stagnant state and
Felt resurrected as if in the pre-dawn lonely elate
The rippling smile on your lips
As if to dive deep in the depth of your eyes
So was the new sight
As a newborn child blinks its delight
Just like that kid
I tried to open the closed fist
As if to realize the lucky mist
Lo! The same spectacle reappeared
Of which I remained often-scared
And often prayed
With folded hands and covered head
To help me better my destiny instead
So has the fist unclasped again
And I have to write a poem again
Once again to realize and requite
The pangs of love-sickness
The pains of separation
How dolefully I invoke “SHIV” again
And feel bemoaned with my single self// soleself
I thought –I closed my pen
PRELUDE – THE MESSAGE IN THE MOVEMENT
A dance is a dance
but Flamenco is spirit in flame,
arched spine of strength
spreads shivers to stomping feet,
fingers caress castanets,
pulse out codes that hypnotize
with staccato rhythms
yet preserve a delicate beckoning
to engage in a rendezvous.
Petticoats of white foam
accent the illusive hem of a
dress sewn to entice the romance
out of the underground and into which
a body is poured ounce by ounce
to move to the wails and claps
of the cante flamenco.
A pericón behind which to hide her face,
a peineta to crown her head,
an unchained force that claims the stage.
A dance is a dance
but Flamenco is raw, unrobed romance.
in a narrow, hollowed,
of the pebbled unknown:
where do your nerves taper away?
do they derail themselves
off into milky granite,
or do they find themselves
in the mossy, bristled, over-tow?
the creak grows wider beneath-
it goldens to beautiful again.
a silken, guided missile,
sent from depths
necessitate your endurance.
how will your mere bones hold you up
in the enticing wake of calamitous fog?
anticipate better days
from the golden crag
will have emerged
in your will to
BEING / NOT BEING THERE
Remember that time you fell
out of bed screaming and I only watched
like you were a bad movie I’d seen
too many times/
that’s what I mean.
I wanted to capture
this morning’s sun
in the periphery
of my right eye
and give it to you as penance
in anticipation of the next time
I’m there/not there.
ANTICIPATION RUNNING HIGH!
Kathy Jo Bryant
Anticipation of that day….
Could never be compared…
To anything experienced…
Before love had been shared…
Anticipation held my heart
Within it's willing hands…
And I could not release my grip…
On all of its demands…..
A feeling of pure helplessness…
Enclosed my heart and soul….
And I reached out embracing love..
As ecstasy made me whole….
Could anything but this pure bliss…
Repair my broken heart?
And restore the years of sadness deep…
I'd endured from my very start?
O, yes, the power of love holds sway…
It's stronger by far, than death….
And all our failings of humanness...
Fade away with each eager breath!
Anticipating our wedding day….
Has helped us reach our goals!
Our past we've used as steppingstones…
As our future.. before us... unrolls!
True love is nothing but a mirage
one can pursue but never attain.
Your search may be eternal,
yet it always ends in vain.
The farther you seek,
the nearer it may seem.
But when the curtains go down,
it’s all just a lucid dream.
True love is like an illusion.
It promises you ecstasy,
until you finally realize
it’s an ephemeral fantasy.
Enchanted by perfection,
you crave happily-ever-after tales,
only to be let down miserably.
Alas, life’s full of thorns and nails.
Despite all these obstacles,
I know you’re still on a quest.
Dear dreamer in search of true love,
I can only wish you the best.
THE BIGGER WHITE DOOR
I have always been scared,
of a big white door.
Inside my head,
it kept things from me,
I shouldn't know.
I would anticipate,
One day, this one soul.
Would have to face,
whatever it has in store.
That quiet worry,
that little alone.
The big white door was coming,
it would swallow me whole.
The door has shrunk,
as I have grown.
Some of its secrets leaked,
some forever gone.
It still exists, of course,
tethered to my internal world.
I am no longer scared,
of a big white door.
As outside of myself,
into a bigger one,
I have walked.
Opening up life,
to have, to hold.
I live alone,
but no longer feel alone.
The first time I locked,
my big white door.
I felt the safest I have ever felt.
Anticipating a world about to unlock,
feeling proud, safe and at home.
THE STRIPPING YEAR
Kelly A Hegi
it’s almost over and i am
daring to hope just
caution pours into my ears urging
me to be careful to
not hope too strongly that
would be foolishness a set-up
for devastation it drips down
into my shoulders convincing me
to stay low to stay
measured funny how hope can be
both threatened and threatening
a hand reaching across the chasm
bridging the remnants of the
striping year restraint
seems silly now this is
the rainy day we’ve
been waiting for
The sun is finally out; it streams into my room, blinds me off the wall;
my cats and plants bask but my feet are still frozen. This house is an ice
box, like my old one. Every November to April I wonder if I’ll ever be warm
again. Summer feels a distant memory, but the sun always turns murderous
before my birthday, makes streets into ovens. Spring is that time when the world
is tired of winter but can’t yet put the extra blankets away. It’ll be warm enough to
walk the dogs at 5 AM when the trees’ new leaves grow stale and blooms tinge brown.
I Can't Wait
Last week test
I honestly did my best.
I can't find out until Wednesday.
It's only Friday
I'm going to feel so stressed
I'm going to get some rest.
I'm watching movies
it's half price on Tuesday.
Writing my fears
In my pastel pink journal
well I'm starting to get
spring arrives and the redwing blackbird's call
sets off the dawn chorus;
a ripple that precedes the sunrise
an avian musical race around the globe
a sonorous revolution
echoing our planet's own revolution
around the sun
to welcome the spring peepers
and the warmth
of hope reawakened.
Moments are so fragile in their passing
Each of them floats as a perfect sphere
A bubble incapable of lasting
Seeming real, but then no longer here
A heartbeat is a momentary tremor
Of muscle flexing to enable life
Its rhythm the body must remember
To forget will kill as certain as a knife
And so I float uncertain as a moment
Thanking the percussion of my heart
While coping with the syncopated torment
Of questioning will it stop or start
Heart beats allow all moments of awareness
And these moments are the entire universe
We think that love resides there like an ember
THE GOLDEN GOOSE
The Golden Goose was bitten.
Now, that goose is smitten.
With anticipation, of a journey.
The Golden Goose approaches with
as she walks towards the unknown,
she knows there is no looking back
for the Golden Goose has spread her wings
and opened her eyes.
Powerful and majestic
A. N. Keerthana Rao
Most often amidst the chaos of life, we ANTICIPATE the sequels and ends,
completely unaware of the direction where our roads or paths might take bends,
We comprehend and ANTICIPATE the future events,
when they aren't aligned with our dreams, we often lament,
Most often, we ANTICIPATE the gestures and actions of our beloved,
expecting the same quantum of affection that we give, from the crowd,
Oh yes , anticipation is actually tincture of excitement mixed with positive expectations,
It is ~ looking forward for the best manifestations
But ANTICIPATION ceases our ability to live in the present,
let's have an idyllic life , by just relishing the aesthetics of the moment,
Its always good to plan, but NOT ANTICIPATE that things will go our way!
Its good to look forward , but not let it purloin the beauty of today!
Let life be a one-way path, just giving our best and not ANTICIPATING the rest,
Let's enjoy every second, be a pluviophile, or a nature lover or a happy soul, everyday is for sure, a fest!
Let us replace ANTICIPATE with OPTIMISTIC in the process of creating an amazing life,
nothing can hinder as long as we are IN the PRESENT while battling the strife!
I wish I could anticipate change
Then maybe it wouldn’t make me go so deranged when it comes,
I can sometimes hear its tune humming in the background,
Spiraling around me,
But I’m never quite able to see when it will hit,
I could sit and wait for it,
Be in a perpetual state of fear every time I think it’s near,
Just waiting for it to happen,
For the change to be actioned,
It has to happen at some point,
Things can’t stay the same forever
However much I never want them to change,
When it happens, things feel strange
And I blame the world for it,
Even when things change just a bit,
I wish I could admit how much change scares me,
It’s because I can’t see what’s going to happen,
It pulls me out of my comfort zone,
If only I could be shown my future
Then I’d be able to anticipate change
So, when it arrives it wouldn’t make me go so deranged,
But change can be good,
I should try to just accept it
Instead of constantly trying to anticipate it,
Guess its next move,
Stop trying to remove it from my life,
It may sometimes cause so much strife
But other times be one of the best things to have happened in my life.
How is the spring
this year, My dear?
Has the oak flowered
in a million buds?
Does the maple tree
look green from a distance yet?
Do branches of the poplar
laden with leafy tips
pointed like painting brushes of Paul Cezanne
bend over the streets
and touch your shoulders
as you walk?
Dear friends and citizens
of my beloved country
do you think I can forget
the smell of your seasons?
The knocking of spring
at my own doorstep
was a joy most wonderful.
Do you think I can forget
the elation of standing there
listening to the bees buzz
and the birds chirp?
Was it a political battle
in which you gave me up?
My beloved country
as dear as motherland
was I just an alien to you?
My dear land of innocence and pride
I will be back to set
our story right
for you and I
walked hand in hand.
Kindly, stand by
as I prepare and pack.
Takes years and years
to undo the hack
they put in my life.
But dear all
and dear me
I will be back!
ANTICIPATING THE BLUSH OF SUNRISE
She scours the fiery sunset -
flames of wrath at the end of
a fierce day.
In anticipation, her heart ignites
a luminescent transformation
where hurt simmers to a dull ache
of drowned memories.
He was her sun -
in anticipation of a future beckoned
in prayer for days swathed
Hope swelled her heart’s passion
in anticipation for dreary days
of loss and longing to end.
Anticipation greets her forlorn self -
lonely crumbs scattered on pavements
when her eyes sealed pain
in footsteps trudging through a bewildered mass
of people thirsty -
a thirst for the death and decay
Hope filters in her gaze -
the blazing sun settles in dark skies
of nightfall’s oblivion with
the dream of anticipation nestled in a feathered pillow
nurtured in the comfort that the anticipation of dawn
will ignite the blush of sunrise in a smile.
Carl Papa Palmer
She watches the officer’s precise approach
in her rear view mirror,
grips the steering wheel tightly
keeping both hands in plain sight
at ten and two.
Not the first time in this situation,
she recalls emotions felt while relating
her same prior humiliating experience
to smug listeners.
He slowly circles her vehicle from the back,
around the passenger side
to stand directly in front
while writing on his notepad the whole time.
He moves methodically to the driver’s door,
taps the window,
“Please turn off the engine
and get out of the car, Ma’am.”
you parallel parked perfectly.
Here’s your license.”