ponytail
07-16-2006, 07:20 PM
Since people have been sharing poems and prose poems in threads, I thought I'd share a couple. They're from a collection of my sonnets that is supposed to come out in late fall or winter. I usually write free verse, but every now and then this form seems to be the only shape certain poems are willing to take (often when the emotions involved are unruliest). Over the years enough of them accumulated to do a little book.
This first one is about something I find hard to practice, as a child abuse survivor -- and find to be a difficult necessity rather than a magical solution.
FORGIVENESS
Forgiveness is a scarce commodity,
The price of which goes up year after year.
It’s given, but not handed out for free;
Both giver and receiver pay, I fear.
We mustn’t only listen, we must hear;
Both sides must be clear to each other’s eye.
The price is truth’s pain, and the price is dear;
And, sadder still, there is no price too high.
And so we strike dark bargains, by and by;
We struggle down the road to compromise;
Agree to bend, accept each flaw, and try
To cut our own needs down to size;
We put each other’s shoes on for awhile.
We made the error; now we face the trial.
The next one is about inheriting my mother's house, where the years of abuse took place. Had I actually "burned it down," I would have made more from the fire insurance than I ultimately did from selling it.
THE LEGACY
I own a house where I don’t feel at home,
Left to me by a relative now dead,
Where mouths would rarely kiss but often foam,
And all seemed black and white when we saw red;
Where tenderness would always have its price;
Resentment would go hand in hand with love;
And each mistake we made would turn to ice,
Reminding us no good was good enough;
With walls not just around, but in between;
With windows curtained off against the sun;
Yet every tiny nuance would be seen,
And noted like one more debt left undone.
I am the king there now; tight is my crown.
If not for neighbors, I would burn it down.
poems (c) 2006 by Jack Veasey; all rights reserved
Yeah, they're dark. But as I've said in another poem, "how dark can anything be /that turns a light on in your head, / no matter what it lets you see?"
This first one is about something I find hard to practice, as a child abuse survivor -- and find to be a difficult necessity rather than a magical solution.
FORGIVENESS
Forgiveness is a scarce commodity,
The price of which goes up year after year.
It’s given, but not handed out for free;
Both giver and receiver pay, I fear.
We mustn’t only listen, we must hear;
Both sides must be clear to each other’s eye.
The price is truth’s pain, and the price is dear;
And, sadder still, there is no price too high.
And so we strike dark bargains, by and by;
We struggle down the road to compromise;
Agree to bend, accept each flaw, and try
To cut our own needs down to size;
We put each other’s shoes on for awhile.
We made the error; now we face the trial.
The next one is about inheriting my mother's house, where the years of abuse took place. Had I actually "burned it down," I would have made more from the fire insurance than I ultimately did from selling it.
THE LEGACY
I own a house where I don’t feel at home,
Left to me by a relative now dead,
Where mouths would rarely kiss but often foam,
And all seemed black and white when we saw red;
Where tenderness would always have its price;
Resentment would go hand in hand with love;
And each mistake we made would turn to ice,
Reminding us no good was good enough;
With walls not just around, but in between;
With windows curtained off against the sun;
Yet every tiny nuance would be seen,
And noted like one more debt left undone.
I am the king there now; tight is my crown.
If not for neighbors, I would burn it down.
poems (c) 2006 by Jack Veasey; all rights reserved
Yeah, they're dark. But as I've said in another poem, "how dark can anything be /that turns a light on in your head, / no matter what it lets you see?"