Sometimes, just like that,
they land--
no purpose, no excuses,
not even a clearing of the throat.
They just settle, and insist on being written.
No point--except the blankness of the night.
No value--except the nagging of the void.
Nothing.
And they lodge--
like her words, like that word,
like stuffed animals in tree branches.
Everybody is Pocahontas but me--
I clean chimneys,
I wait on the corner, expecting the rain.
Like that, just like that,
just like the words you never said because he's too young.
Meaningless, yet insistent.
3 comments:
i am pocahontas.
the first stanza is so true, and so true for any writer; but most significantly the poet.
it's nice when you write, and i visit after too long a time only to find you've posted something new only a day or two ago.
like i know when it's time for you to write soon.
The repitition of the no's in the first stanza I felt was weak, 'no purpose, no excuses,/.../No point--except the blankness of the night./
No value--except the nagging of the void./
Nothing.'
'like stuffed animals in tree branches.' I liked this one.
I wish I knew the story behind Pocahontas because I did not get it.
Love,
Ton frère Ahmad
Well, you had to be a Facebooker to get the Pocahontas bit. There was this chain personality test going around, and everybody seemed to be Pocahontas--rebellious and independent--except me, Cinderella!
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