Hot, sweaty night with stagnant air
The smell of stale beer
crowding up against the cracked walls
and peeling paint
A black and white Marlon Brando
screaming; Stella.... Stella!
from the little T.V. sitting
next to the window
I see the black and rusty fire escape
through tatted lace yellowed with nicotine
Pop's head lying upon forearm
his mother's face behind his bleary eyelids
A winter morning and frosted windows
fried dough and hot chocolate
hugs and kisses
and better days
He told me once...
His raspy voice cries; "I'm sorry mom"
I'm sorry too...
Comments
My intent...
in this poem, was to show not only the poverty of some, but the dreams of a man who in his drunken stupor, dreams of better days in the past, when he shared a winter morning with his mother. I don't believe that most rich people, wish to keep the poor poor, but just to keep themselves rich. ~ Gee
Dear Sir Gee,
I echo Ian's remarks. It is a terrible shame the way things work out.
love, cat
Thanks Cat...
Yes, a terrible shame that some people feel so bad about themselves that they maintain a constant state of drunkeness or intoxication on drugs and alcohol that they never escape their environment, and just dream of better days. Love ya, ~ Gee
Thank you...
I think you got it in one! As for the smell, sorry about that. As always, thanks for the read and comments. Love ya, ~ Gee
Yes
We all look to better days even if these better days are distinctly individual as we all are. Might we enjoy more of them for there is enough strife and trouble to each day and their offspring.
Amen...
to that! I think you came up with the same feelings that Shirley did, and that was my intent. Thank you, ~ Gee
Thank you...
I didn't know what it was called, but I felt it so strongly that it just flowed right out from beneath my fingers. Sorry for the lump in your throat, but that means that I did what I intended do; evoke images in your mind. Glad it was something you could relate to. ~ Gee
That is the point...
To make one think! I am glad to make people think. The reality of poverty, is that many become discouraged, and turn to drugs and alcohol, which then makes them even poorer. I see it all the time. Children left to fend for themselves, wandering the streets at night in gangs. Fathers and mothers, passed out in front of the T.V. or out in the clubs, with grandma babysitting, snoring on the couch.
Thank you for the comments that mean so much to me. I hope that I have come a ways. I have all the poets here to thank for that, especially some, who have encouraged me to write what I feel, and feel what I write. There is lots of grit to be written yet! Love and higgest bugs, ~ Gee
great write gee
very visual - sad and melancholic in its way
brings memories of my own....
one thing -
'from the little T.V. setting- ('set' or 'sitting'??)
and
'on a his and her only morning' - do you think 'his and her' need quotation marks ?? or to be joined by hyphens -
love judy
Thank you...
for catching the spelling error. I am looking at the suggestion of quotation marks or joining by hypens now.
Glad to see you here again. ~ Gee
Lovely poem, gee. Again you
Lovely poem, gee. Again you've touched me with memories of my own. I was sent to a rural school built of adobe. My friends were extremely poor, mostly mestizos, but I thank my Dad for forming my present mindset about poverty, discrimination and the greedy rich.
I shall return for another read, you've made me think a lot. Tx for that!
This was...
the result of a visit to my father after he and my mother split up and he moved to a seedy hotel at the other end of town.
~ Geezer.
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As I have said...
just a few moments ago, in a comment to a poem in the workshop "Titles". I had reconciled with my father a few years before he died. We were still working on our relationship when he passed away. I have made a couple of changes to the poem, just shortly before I put it on the list for you to read. Thank you for your most kind comments. I appreciate your time and efforts to help me make my series of writings on my pre-teen years at East Main St. a success. ~ Geezer.
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dear Sir Gee,
thank you for bringing this piece of work to my attention again. the rawness of the memory gives me chills. I'm reminded of the precious moments I've wasted on bad times...sometimes it is just too hard to let it go. I think it is healthy to write aabout it and get out.
*hugs, Cat
I fear that...
you are in for the whole bunch that I have written about those times. I went and revised the titles to reflect the East Main St.
and now they are showing up one after the other in the stream. I guess that is okay though; maybe I will get some fresh perspective on them and edit and prepare them for publishing. Thanks for all your great feedback. ~ Gee.
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Like a heartache-
This is good
In a sad way.
Yeah...
This is a true story, about a visit to my father at the seedy little hotel, he had moved to after my parent's divorce; where I found him asleep at the table with a half-empty bottle of booze. You will find some of the [East Main St. Stories] are about some sad things. [Sorry].
Nah-
Don't be sorry.
It's good to write sad things
Maybe even more than happy ones.
Poetry's good for tough stuff.
Thanks...
and smiles. ~ Geez.
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