Of Monsters and Men
What voices? What sound? What words?
Turn up the volume……….
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It came to my attention that some people might think that the word tiring at the end of the poem, was a statement that homeless people are tiring, and it’s the same old problem. That was not my intention of the poem – I tried to say that he is tired of being cold. If some people understood that, that’s great. However, homelessness is something that is heart breaking; so I have attempted a revised haiku to try to better convey my message, and I apologize if any one thought I meant it in a negative way. Please forgive me!
But isn’t it interesting how one word in a poem can change a meaning, I guess that’s why good poets choose there words carefully!
The Homeless Man
on dirty cardboard
gaunt, detached mannequin man
can’t keep warm ever……
the synergic nest
now rooted to the branch, sways
the birds slumber on….
The Phantasm and Fortunato
of life; the mysteries of the mind
You are set to explore, you are ready
to explain – but just can’t
Your thesaurus not able to convey
what you really want to say
With words such as gentle, love, touch
but! The most important word of all
Life…
How do you conjure convey this?
Perhaps by using words like
precious, breath, or taking for granted
All I know are words such as beauty, grateful
and you, all you: humans, amphibians, mammals,
animals, and every every breath we take
It can all be gone so fast; unforeseen goodbyes,
crying, dying and regret
So I am saying now hold onto every second, minute
and don’t let go…..
juxtapose, so long
winded to say – it means? You
and me side by side?
He chips, he adds, he prolongs,
the dust from years past
blows away, blows into the nether
world of reality. Reality is! Everything
must go through the decaying and, slow aging
process. It catches up with us all!
As I look into the mirror – another line;
another truth, etches its way onto my flesh
my slowly decaying flesh of life.
He has to chip slowly at the wall
It is delicate! Must be handled with –
extreme care. The dust catches his breath
he coughs, then stops and surveys his work
I stay a while checking my skin
my reflection now making me sigh.
Whatever? I check my teeth. Shrug
and then just brush the moments, the
thoughts away, but I never get it all
Not with just a brush!
He uses a mortar and pestle
and a special, delicate kind of brush.
His day is over – my life goes on
as usual!
he found the bottles
rummaging through the garbage
a few extra cents….
during the dark night
the snow fell so quietly
unaware we slept….
The Truant Train by Lorraine Ferns 