| Topic: |
Religions > Atheism |
| User: |
"Uncle Buck" |
| Date: |
07 May 2005 05:29:42 AM |
| Object: |
Yet more poetry, but not entirely OT |
Okay, here I go again setting myself up to be stung. Sting me, sting
me, sting me please - it's the only way I can get better. ;-) I made
a post to alt.poetry.comments, but didn't get any - they seem to have
their group thang going, so I figured since I have a poem that's
actually on topic here, I might as well post it to y'all.
I'm posting two in this message. The first is very much on-topic for
alt.atheism if you catch the symbology of it (which I think most will
easily do). The second isn't so relevant, but I felt compelled to
include it anyway. It's a good bit more intimacy than I normally let
people see, as it involves memories that are part of the core of my
being - memories of my grandmother, of course, from two different
points in her life. I guess I'm just getting it out there as part of
my drive to "open up" to the world I've been trying to ignore to for
so long.
Anyway, I can explain these if you want, but I think they might go
better for you with your own interpretation rather than mine. :-)
L8r,
Uncle Buck
<poem1>
"Among the Fish"
©2005 by Bill Shroyer
Alone among the fish I slept
in silence for so many years.
They thought that I was one of them,
their oceans drowning out my tears.
The lies I learned during my youth
had slowly made my heart to die.
To for so long deny the truth
turns any heart into a lie.
Alone among the fish I crept
concealed behind a wall of fear.
They thought I was one mind with them,
they thought this for so many years.
I struggled to inter my heart
far and away from their cold gaze.
For too soon the truth to impart,
would expose a very fragile place.
Up from among the fish I leapt
from primal depths into the sky.
They thought I'd stay and swim with them,
but I couldn't breathe their sea of lies.
Restless, I rose to greet the light
that shines so very clearly now.
Mourn they who've been left behind.
I hope again we'll meet somehow.
</poem 1>
<poem 2 - a Non-Rhyming poem, not at all the same rhythm & meter as
the last poem so put that one out of your mind for now>
"Grandmother's Wound"
©2005 by Bill Shroyer
Tumblers locked fall one by one
as memory unfolds once more.
Opens - the door - to things forgotten.
(...a lonely bedroom, a lonely house...)
She sits on the bed with her medicine
a-toil by light of kerosene.
Propped carefully up, her fragile leg,
like a soldier wounded in battle.
(...she's hurting...)
Salve and ointments emanate,
filling the room with her pain.
(...a testament to the wound that will not heal...)
Turn a corner...
Chambers once opened shut one by one
as spaces within dry up and die.
Closes - the door - to places neglected.
(...a lonely bedroom, a lonely house...)
She lay on the bed with her child
as they read by the light of the moon,
careful to silence the bitter truth
of a man who needs too much love.
(...she's hurting...)
Tears and sadness emanate,
filling the room with her sorrow.
(...a testament to the wound that will not heal...)
</poem 2>
.
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