Poem #2 Tell me a story A what? A story Not one about the sad, but rather one about glory I was on a paradise like beach, Full of glittering sand, with the color peach This island had always been my family’s favorite spot. But however, on a map, it only resembles a tropical polka dot. On the beach, I was never quite at first ready for a wave, So at first, instead, collecting shells was something I crave. After a little while, my family and I jump in and make a splash And each wave is carried to the sand as they crash. Each wave would bring some new form of treasure And shells had each held a memory, or a simple pleasure. I look up at the sky, as if time slowly comes to a pause, And it is as if this paradise is waiting for it’s applause. One breath. Two breaths. Three breaths. I inhale “Goodbye beach,” I say, as the next memory begins to set sail. Childhood Home ...The House It used to be a pale yellow, with white shutters and a discolored awning over the front door Crimson and ruby bushes lined the front walkway separating the stone from the grass and when it was hot I’d pour cold water on diagonal stones and play a game of abstract hopscotch ...Asphalt The driveway was aged and had tire marks from the many years of bikes being ridden It was lined with large rocks that my parents had gathered from a stream down the road And if you looked to the left of the cracked basketball hoop you’d see a black tree stump used to split wood ...A Chair A metal rocking chair sat on the lower porch, it was colored like when copper ages for decades The view from the chair, along with a stretch of the neck allowed even the youngest of my family to see the traffic on the highway up the hill Long summer nights involved bringing a pillow out and laying across the rocking chair, falling into a deep sleep ...Rubber A tire swing adjacent to my neighbors shed sat swaying at all times and the slide to the right gave you splinters if you put your hands just in the right place On humid days we’d share our fortress with wasps and mosquitos, but their selfish sting would make us keep our distance ...An Archway An old and weathered iron arch separated the neighbors house from ours It was a wardrobe like structure that seemed to have been the gateway to narnia On the other side of the arch my father had cut back the shrubs and created a path On spring afternoons I’d meet my neighbor, We’d climb up the siding of the metal “n” and pretend as though it were a rock wall ...A memory As years go by the panels of the house had been changed to a green,and its shutters in a darker shade The asphalt has been paved over, indents and seven year old chalk stains have been washed away The rubber tire swing once seen from the kitchen window is no longer, the wood that held it had been tarnished and had died And the archway I used to hang on has fallen over, the once few vines and weeds have turned into a garden of shrubs and tall grass engulfing the entrance to a hidden world All a memory... Childhood home, time to move on. Letter Poems Letter to my long lost friends: My mind is swimming with hazy memories Of running through the grass. Racing on our bikes. The sun and your smile. I don't think we'll ever meet again. So I keep those memories in a jar on my nightstand, And when I can't sleep I watch them light up the room. Letter to someone I used to know: Love has never been a foreign thing to me. Loving you came naturally But so did falling out of it. I find myself wondering If your mind wanders toward Thoughts of me like mine does of you. Letter to the boy from my summers: You told me about the tattoos you wished for. Did you ever get them? I think maybe you were like a tattoo In my memory. You whispered to me about things you thought The others wouldn't understand. I hope they do now. Untitled Did you know that The stars we see are dead? Some of them at least. Light travels slower So hundreds of years After stars explode, We still see their legacy. You’re like that. Songs are like that. Movies are like that. They end But they echo. Untitled Parker Fariello Lonely nights and longing looks, Heads rested on shoulders, Smiles written across lips. We write wishes in the dirt Heads full of far flung hopes Of what could be, and shouldn’t be.
0 Comments
|
About usNorthern Lights is an art and literary magazine full of work from the youths of North. Have something to add? Email a submission of writing, art, or photography at |