I was walking through town
Alone
As always when I travel home.
The neighborhood along
The main road
Is an unappetizing sight, really,
(What with neon signs
Flashing advertisements
And the dull bustle of cars
And buses),
But for the graceful petite trees with small scarlet berries
That they are gowned in even in winter.
I once asked my mother
What type they are called
But she only gave me the name in the language
We speak other than English.
She said
When she was a girl
She made necklaces out of them
In her native country.
I ask a lot about her childhood
But don’t get a lot
Out of her.
My glasses have pinpricks of light
Reflections from the achingly sun too bright
To look at
That resemble the sparkling inter-locking crystals
In granite.
It is January
But the mild day makes my face
Warm.
Even the breeze is spring-like
And balmy.
With fine ridges like the Sahara
Although here the pigment is pale
And not the rich orange-brown of deserts.
Here the dunes are long gone
Tramped by beach-goers
With only one measly hill struggling to prolong
The inevitable consequences of erosion.
Farther down,
Where people don’t really care about the sea
Or even use it as leisure
The dunes are still there
Flattened out perhaps
But overgrown by green reedy plants
Like the grass father inland
And seagulls flock there by the hundreds.
I saw such a huddle and dubbed it
Unimpressive.
What’s impressive about
A white mass,
Where each individual doesn’t count?
In my mind
I picture
The spectacular bird silhouettes soaring outside stained glass.
Now that’s worth seeing.
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Someone Like Me {Poetry}
PoetryWith power there come words. And with words there comes music. And with music there comes joy. And that's why I write poetry.