Have you ever heard those words?
And ever told anyway and no on believed your story?
I see
an old woman kneeling and petting her fluffy orange cat
now the cat sniffs her pink shoes all alone
and all of her things packed away that made it a home
her dreams and plans and pictures one by one
left to dry and fade in the desert sun
what do you know and what do you see?
I see a woman that saw inside of me
I saw her pain and saw her joy
now she is ashes scattered
if I could pull again the memories to reality
I would embrace her in happy solemnity
and change time and be again the happy one in love
hoping
or if I could turn back time and be again in Africa and loved and cared about and not have to leave
if I could have had all my children with me then
and if who I loved was real
if I could tell him that simplicity is sometimes of so much value more than material things
and love and family more and friendship that is true more
lies people have said and promises broken
games and charades of facades
a house of dreams with wallpaper plastered so noo ne can tell who is the bastard
I have helped ot scrape away the pain
will I wallpaper it crookedly again?
or paint with fungicide so I won't rot
peel off my insides into plant parts
roots humped up old trees as I walk seeing indian paintbrushes bebd with the breeze
in Indian Summer
a false day of days between the cold and rain
outside of pain when cottony clouds freeze in the sky
steaked with orange light and an old man in bibbed overalls tells me of his plan of getting water from the lake to the house to surpirse Grandma
but he shushes me, it's a surprise
Don't ever tell
his shoes wear the mud of his last trip
he died
and my grandmother adopted was like the old woman too
telling me her stories and her skin soft as the rose petals that grew wild about her fence
I am the sky
changing by
a leaf, a stick on the water pointing the way of the current
the ower of the secret is not to tell and you wonder if there's anywhere or anyone who is honest or kind at all
and if they were not
would they hold up painted smiles
fractured souls with bandaids of runbber bands and glue so we sail or fly
trying not to crash
or fall
speaking and learning to blow dust like an octopus so that we
don't ever tell

G-I-TheAnswer, Why not try being more courteous by lending a poem or two rather than by groupings? Too much data.


Just a friendly suggestion.


Be well,

tommy boy moran / Ireland

'a house of dreams with wallpaper plastered so no one can tell who is the bastard'


oooh I love that line..

I love it all really, but I do agree with tommyboy - just because they need their own life and their own impact.


I think there is three separate tales here..

anyway - well done

Foursure,

Well stated. well done.

tommy boy / Ireland

I do not write groupings, just write when I feel like it and if it puts it in a group, ok. Sorry it offended you.

Thanks, it is a rough draft of feelings. Just putting stuff out there that is bouncing around in here. Thanks for the imput. Glad you liked the line. Sometimes I run into some relaly fantastic imagery in poems on here too from people. Way cool!

Thanks. It is good to get our creative juices flowing so we do not stagnate.

who said they were offended ??

no-one as far as I can see. We both said we liked it.

good