I wrote this poem a long time ago imaging an older man sleeping on a couch. It is a Sunday afternoon, winter and from a time when the Sunday newspaper was full of news, opinion and the like that you looked forward to reading from beginning to end, and typically had your fingertips glossed with dark ink.
I had a friend express that it was a useful poem for them to explain how they felt. It is my attempt to explain ‘what is going on’ behind the eyeballs of someone who has been abused, bullied from childhood, and why it can be tough for them to fall asleep. As an aside, I used to fall asleep in class because I rarely slept through the night. I had to learn to memorize everything because lack of rest does cause concentration issues. And why it can be difficult to express to another person, or a teacher, that your dreams are not their dreams.
It is my contemplation that each of us must face our life tragedies, and to allow ourselves to seek peace and happiness. The Willow trees, the fish and the plants are symbols that hook to a deeper meaning. I know this is not a classical rhythmic poem, however, I think the cadence and the story are what matter the most.
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Hugs and Kisses, Kisses and Hugs,
A far away wintertime Sunday afternoon, Underneath typeset ink,
A faint snore from a gray haired, Grownup … little boy,
As his sanity unwinds along a red leather couch,
Curled over his sock feet his protective Golden Retriever sleeps,
Warmth from the hearth blazes, As his childhood memories,
Crackle, Spark, Pop, And dark fragile memory shards,
Float, Fly, Hang-glide, From within his minds-eye,
A sunshine waterfall of frothy golden beams,
Cascade, To pierce through his souls black windows,
A pattern trapped within a Kaleidoscope of reflections,
To illuminate a broken heart prison, To entrance him – TO DARE HIM,
To sleep … To dream … To be a little boy – again,
To when he was, Innocent, Perfect and Pristine,
And the little boy emerges, From behind the foamy mists of his perceptions, To face humiliation … To face sorrow … To face shame,
Ragged his blue jeans, skinned at the knees,
Barefoot, he clutches a wooden fishing pole,
Dangling, dirty, a lonely pale spirit,
Over the cool running water, Of his shallow life stream,
As he fishes his mind, The newspaper pup tent disappears,
A fresh cotton blanket hugs him, An understanding hand brushes back his hair, A kiss on the forehead, unconditional love,
“Love always,” whispered from Heaven above,
Problems, A mans work, Written nomenclature gobbledygook,
Vaporize, As he drifts … he helplessly drifts, Within the tempest current of dark matter, On his homemade raft … lashed together,
With scenes of his childhood disaster,
And the barefoot little boy’s bare feet splash into his existence creek, Stocked with, Pebbles, Goldfish and Water Dogs,
Balanced with stones and rocks, Smoothed over by the wisdom earned from tragic experience,
The little boy patiently fishes, His remembrance depths,
He hooks, On his invisible Moirae thread, A transcendental Goldfish,
Curious why, The Pisces welcomed his catch,
The little boy giggles with joy, Pink skin, Tender as cotton,
Smooth as Chinese silk, Safe, Clean, Without the cloak of regret,
He lives here … He fishes here, Inside this slumbering head,
But,
Sadness slithers from the sallow depths, The forked tongue serpent,
Dagger bites the little boy’s flesh, Within his hands the fish turns necrotic – Amethyst Black as he quickly drops his nightmare,
Awake within his dream, He screams … He tosses … He twists,
Enraged, Naked, Raped of his dignity, Dead, Toxic Sea food,
Molted scales pollute his reality past, Degradation, A Flash!
A little boy seduced, Pulverized innocence, Evil tricks,
The little boy’s heart frozen in time, His burnt skin,
Forever glazed with an acid fire,
A little boy’s silent scream, Behind the eyes of him,
Terrified for mercy he forges his bare body,
Back across the celestial stream,
Diving through liquid time, To where the little boy hides,
He camps here … Isolated – Alone,
“Please leave me alone!” He begs to know one … but the Willow tree,
Under the canopy shade of the kind Willow tree,
Where he can laugh, laugh …
Play, be as a little boy should be, To be Free,
Hold fast my little forever frozen friend,
For gentle is God’s breath whispers, To glide, twist, sooth, seek,
Through the Willow forests leaves and branches,
As the pure white cloud enraptures the little boy,
And the kind Willow trees … all accept the little boy,
And the kind Willow trees … all protect the little boy,
Cloaking him from the Black Raven clouds of cruel fate,
He kneels at the muddy bank, translucent his tears,
His lost innocence long lost,
Flood the shallow depths of his life stream,
As plentiful Koi, feast to nibble away his pain,
A green leaf limb brushes back his reflection,
To wash, To cleanse … this childhood victim,
And near the kind Willows tree trunk, For the little boy to sleep,
A safe, soft, Daisy, Sunflower, Lotus peddle bed,
He begs the kind Willow tree,
For mercy, For peace, For forgiveness,
He whispers, “Please stop the nightmarish images …”
And under a Sanguine Moon,
Safe from the shadows of childhood death,
The quiet … grownup … gray haired little boy, Sleeps …
Camped all through the night, Near the hearths cooling embers,
With dreams of magic, Of fire flies, Of roasted marshmallows,
Of flying fish, Of pirate ships, And of adventures yet to be,
Hidden within the protective canopy of the kind Willow trees mercy,
And as the grownup little boy slept,
The kind Willow trees wept.
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