PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Like those rubber eraser animals

You always hated to touch

The kind that melted where

You stored them during that

Heat wave last August.

Things passed, done and said

With only solemn reminders

To bring them back.

The good ones

Like the one about a

Rocking horse and the four people on it.

One that was you

And the one that wasn't.

Remember that, and the

Way he did this

The candle he found

With the markings of Christ

How you longed to have it

Because he had found it

But he gave you the other one

He held in his hand

And you kept it till it crumbled

Into pieces of wax.

And the day you brought your

Thirteen year old cousin to your school

And in German class

We talked of nothing but

God and abortions

And the day you went to Boston

With 2 people you liked

The pictures you took

And the people you encountered

Like the one at the Memorial

Who said, its a nice day

And do you mind if I sit

Here with you for a while

I won't be here long

Oh, are you here with your boyfriend

Yes, you said

And the way he automatically got up

And said the same thing

To a guy down the path.

Was it strange?

And the first guy you kissed

That hated to French

And the board-like feeling

It gave your lips

Or you real first kiss

In a treehouse in Alabama

With your brother perched

On the level below

Was it strange?

And the way you still felt it

Two hours later

And the time you tried

To write a poem in

The shower

'Cause you hair was dirty

But the thoughts kept on comin'

The way that guy found a

Cruifix in the field

And how his Aunt told him

That it meant death

And you knocked on wood

And the friend that

Dreamed of his pending death

And I knocked on wood

And the way the same friend

Wrote a poem from your

Memories of the rocking horse

Rhyming it with intercourse

Though you both didn't know why

And her writing of the "brown lines

Of love rolled up"

Meaning her hair up in rollers

Wasn't she wacky>?

The people you know

The people you met

The ones that you hated

And the ones that you miss

Wasn't it bad

Wasn't strange

The way the thoughts kept

On coming

And the memories keep

Continuing

And the paper getting

Wet from writing in the shower!!

And the bad ones you don't put down

In words for the fear of

Achnowledging them to the world

Isn't it strange this world we

Live in.  This mind we

live in with files of

Backlogs and issues that

We constantly subscribe to

Is it fair

To remember what we did

And the if's that come up

From the things passed, done and said

And the way you had to stop

Because there was no more room

On the wet  (piece of) paper

And the way your face was hot

From the memories untold?