By: Jesus Roland Gatpolintan
February 19, 1999
As I walk with heavy boots
Dirtied by unshoveled snow
On Brooklyn's sidewalks,
I pull my gray woolen coat
Closer to my chin
Clutch my tattered gloves tighter
Pick my pace up a little faster
And yet I still shiver!
The sun has shone with reluctance
Only to give me a hunched, sullen shadow
And the old trees lining the streets
That bowed to console me
Are still frozen and leafless.
My breath is shallow and slow
As if to parry the wind chill
Seeping thru stoic brownstones,
So I gather my coat even closer
Clutch my gloves even tighter
My pace ever faster
Yet I know these will not
Temper the creeping cold
Engulfing my brown-skinned soul
Yearning for the warmth of a sun
That only shines in that very far
Far far-eastern sky.
3 comments:
Here's a polkished version of this poem:
Homesick
Walking with heavy boots
Laced by late winter slush
On these deseted city sidewalks
I pull my coat close to my chin,
Clutch my tattered gloves tighter
I still shiver!
The pale moon peeks with reluctance
Only to give me a hunched sullen shadow
And the old trees lining the streets
Bowing to console me, lay frozen, leafless.
My breaths are slow, shallow
As if to ward away the windchill
Seeping thru stoic brownstones.
So, I gather my coat even closer
Clutch my gloves even tighter
But could never conquer the cold
Creeping thru my brown-skinned core
Yearning for the warmth of a sun
That only shines in those very far
Far, far eastern skies.#
Here's another poem:
Beginnings
You breathe mist into my disquiet
Sea breeze to humid city air
As welcome as drizzle at dawn
Quenching my listless soul.
From residues
Of broken dreams, I wake up
To a field of a thousand daffodils
Van Gogh yellow aswaying
To lilting rhythms of the wind
Randomly strewm about the fallen trunks
Fallen headlong from the firmament
When the lightning struck my night.
#
note typos:
polished
Van Gogh-yellow
strewn
Dr. G
Thought your poem was great. You had a nice consistent tone, one that reflected a barren landscape with an equally barren soul of the narrator. There are death-like images thoughout that add power to the barrenness of the locale. Want to read another one by you.
Vincent Parker
Post a Comment