I traveled with mom
Back where grandma
Grew up in small town.
Times had changed
An old road where nothing stood
Big shopping centers now dot around.
Old memories stir
Trying to find the house
And park where once
My mom visited long ago.
Little shards of memories surface
Seeing different landmarks
Stories shared with me
What life was like fifty years ago.
Where have the simple times gone;
The walking through dust cover dirt roads
Where skies are clear of smog
And only noise are animals and birds singing their song
Where no tallest skyscraper exist
Or tightly compact housing;
No problems of stress
While driving a car
Only the simple walk
Of enjoying nature,
Which is vast to what has happen now
Nearly destroy by modern, fast pace, stressful times.
Dry bones rattle witin
Trying to speak out
No one there to hear
Their long story from days of old
They lie deep in ground
Forgot through ages past
Present noise above drowns them out
Clink loudly they try,
No one hears their rattle,
Anicent dry bones from ages past
Short black wet hair which in few week may fall out
Eyes closed, perhaps only squinting
Chubby baby cheeks where in a few years later
Will have for a short time again because of a jaw operation
To fix what can not be seen in photo, an overbite
Covered snugly in clothes for warmth
Laying in an 80s baby car seat carrier
Who doesn’t know what the world would hold for them
April 22nd poem: Retrieve from files or from your memory the first photo that was ever taken of you. Describe yourself then, both what you see and what you do not see there.
I look out back window and a young child
of eight, running bases around the yard
wearing ball cap is my young self twenty-five years ago.
Laughing, having fun with cousins
chasing, hitting balls, playing baseball
not knowing in few years life will change;
puberty will come striking like a coiling snake
changing their life molding it into something else.
I want to step into the scene
tell myself not to worry;
to give advice about what will happen;
give hope to this happy child
before the happiness drains ways;
withering like a flower in hot dry sun.
I want to open the window
shout out stand up for yourself
but, no words come out of my mouth;
you are out of ear shot, as I watch
you enjoy your game of ball,
not knowing the hyenas will be nipping
at you heels in a few years.
I stand in quietness of an empty room
Peeling with age within in its dark interior
Musty smell lingers of many come and gone
Who once stayed their time
I close my eyes I can hear their voices
Shouting to one another through walls
Only a barred window and door they look out
I stay only long enough to take a picture
Before I feel invisible hands may want me
To be a part of their past too
So much depended on
Yellow number two pencil
Lying forgotten on
Old wooden desk
Where once used
To take tests
Now shoved over
By blinking, luring
With their clicks
Instead of scribbling
The answer on a page.