Poetry

The white is waterfoam

Sore oral pain when reality hit

floral oils faine, in the rose field that day 

That grew in rows, trimmed to a pose

A jaunt through the middle 

On a fine evening night

Revealed a incoming thought

For young mister trained-and-abstained

On this perfect humid night

A bush on its knees, heaving and seized

Red roses drooping; like it 

A thought grew, would it be i

Who bloomed so beautiful

And ended with a brutal demise

This trained rose caught in agony 

Was not brining please

Although everything it needed

Was brought to it like a breeze

Pain, overriding the composure it need

Plan to separate beings from nature

And a hunch was a stature 

Like when consciousness was gained

And nobody ran, because walking was enough

The green tree top trimmings drew nature bare

Now he walked, racing thoughts;

No longer inside the head they needed to be

No longer in a garden of rows

No longer what law molded him be

No longer on a path carved into his dome

Free from the notch in the path through the rows

The head of a unhinged replacement 

A pressure to throw it all into a state of disarray

The only thought to run, run far away 

Tripping through trembling terrain, devastated

A tunnel through time showed a monkey this moment

The monkey approved

And that was enough verification 

For the plan to go through

I paused, looked up. At this moment I had come to my senses. What was I doing? I wasn’t far from home. But the damage had been done. Thoughts carried me like a helpless paper boat in a surging stream through a filthy sewer on a stormy night. I thought about my mom, who was surely wondering where I was. I looked down and the paper boat swept back into the stream, let go of its little catch from a stick poking into the raging water, holding it for just a moment, reminding it what clarity felt like, and letting it forget just as fast. The water was so filthy, the foam on the edges, the white foam letting me in on the water’s little secret, water with such filth in it that allowed the slightest stir to make it foam at the mouth like a rabid animal. This whole journey through the sewer showed no remorse, sewers didn’t end, they just led to other sewers, maybe into a stagnant reservoir filled with filthy white foam for a while, but then the current would pick back up and back it was into the dark tunnel and current of insanity.

How pitiful a rainy day was

To a finally dry piece of cloth

So carefully hung out to dry

After its much needed wash

The foamy white soap suds 

Cleaning the sheet to a crisp

Now all it needed was time to dry

But whether weather would allow that

Time also was left to decide

I remembered the roses

The rows of roses pruned to perfection

Well worn, but kept to be keen

How dare someone farm me

Make me the same as all the others

How insulting to my capabilities

How insulting to make me think 

A slight placement of branch differ

Could infer I was free to be me

“Ah” said a man

“Aha” said another

“Haha” he replied 

That was the sound of a rose garden talking

I don’t want to be mumble

I don’t even want to be talk

I want to be poetry 

I want to be a tree with a family of racoons

A hundred mushrooms painting my flair

Roots wrapping around an ancient chest

Full of diamonds, gold,

and a letter written with no address

A letter to be found, not to be given

I open it because why not

Abstract thoughts are my reality right now

And abstraction has no rules

Wake up iggy, it read

Your being swept in the stream of thoughts

Come to your senses 

And return to your home 

As I leave the storm drain I look at the river time allows it to become. I look out into the ocean, the crystal clear ocean, foaming with cleanliness, maybe the same foam that once stagnated the sewer, that same white foam. The river calmly strolls out into the sea. The night was young, the brain was excited. The night grew old, the brain grew tired. Home was far, now home was close, now home was here, and outside a mother waited, crying tears. Mothers were distraught, mothers were relieved. Embraces were made, conversations were had. Raging streams grew quiet and filthy foam swept into the calm, living sea. And slowly, every so slowly the little paper boat resting on the shore, dried out in the calm living sun. And in this peaceful resolve, an image I have painted in your mind, the next raging storm hides in a white foamy cloud of clean evaporated sea water, wrapping up the cycle, waiting for everyone to think everything will finally be alright, then keeping the cycle true to its meaning, and starting it again.

Whether in the flooded dead sewer

Or the calm breathing sea

White is water foam

And the world is what you make it to be