In Blurred Recall
I grew up near a sheltered glade
But where I once hid in the shade
A granite concrete jungle stands
Encroaching on the once green lands,
Where has my childhood playground gone?
The trees are silent and withdrawn
I still remember their whispers
Who stood laughing through all weathers
That gentle smile no longer shows
They stand bereft, forlorn, morose.
A half of them is withered, bare
The other half no longer there,
Planked and stacked along those walls
Where tender spring rain doesn’t fall.
Farms were torn down, homes erased,
The people, animals displaced.
Our neighbor’s dog who loves me so
The nesting songbirds, had to go,
We stole blackberries from their hedge
Eating them off the rooftop ledge.
The field where daisies used to glow
Is shops above, garage below.
My school bus stop is now a store
Where people throng for gains galore
The baker’s fresh muffins and bread
Is plastic wrapped, stamped and packaged.
And instead of wild races home
Are paved roads where strange faces roam.
I can no longer see the stars
A patch of sky is all that’s ours.
A passing glimpse of the white moon
And stray sunlight streaming at noon.
I reminisce, long days recalled,
The here and now and then and all..
I crave for the fresh breeze again
To run barefoot in grass with friends
But here the memories are lost,
In progress earned at childhood’s cost
And on the bleak skyscrapers grow-
But where did that place I loved, go?…
© CM
04.09.2012
A close friend once told me that I write with a strong sense of displacement. A lot of my work speaks on longing, of being somewhere else, of having left roots behind. So, that’s probably true.
It’s not something I work into my poems consciously though. I think all my talk of wanting to be someplace else, has to do with wanting to be at peace. I’ve been lucky enough to have lived in a few places and visited a lot more. But there was never a place, a city or even a house, where I could stop and park my mind and say, this is it, this is home. True, there are a couple of places where I could, but I suppose I’m just a wandering soul, always searching, always seeking something.. that I think I don’t even know yet.
I have a rich store of memories to draw from, both good and bad. I try to pin them down in my poems, and by that, in my head, but there’s always some part of it that’s left unsaid. Mainly because it would meaningless to try to put all those images and sensations into words.. And because some of them are mine, and mine alone. There is an untouched gleam to them that I would not dare risk tarnishing, by even saying them out loud.
I think what we miss consciously, defines us as essentially, as intrinsically as what we don’t know we miss. I mean, how many of us notice that our desks are organized exactly how our father’s desks were? Or that we always paint the mailbox red, like it was in Gran’s house?
The searching stems from something similar. There was, maybe is, a place or person where everything was bliss, a moment of pure, unadulerated joy, suffusing everything and everyone with a sense of calm. If we are restless, if there is something missing or something that we are missing… we will probably find it some day. But looking around ourself and looking within ourself isn’t so bad. So even if we don’t, that’s okay too. There is a certain peace in turmoil, and we can live happily with that.
Love and light,
Cookie ❤
Ps. This poem was featured as Poem of the week at Interact Blogs, Thank you guys!!! =D
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CALLIOPE'S LYRE 