Thursday, October 14, 2010

Romania I: Imperfect prose








Old man with a cane, tipped hat.
A skeleton dressed in sports coat and tie,
You shuffle the street with the steps of the aged,
Visions wash through watery eyes
When these buildings were a youth and a beauty
Instead of the bag of bones they’ve become.
An age when rectangles didn’t dot the skyline
And all you could see on a clear dry day were cumulus and sunflowers, bowing their heads
Waiting to dry and die.

You, bent over a stick
And they, only monument istorics?
Tombs marking ancient goodness
Just as big bloc buildings mark an old evil.

A folded paper stuck under your arm
A few steps until you reach a bench and
The pleats of your paper become the folds
Of your body resting on wood.

It all rests on so little a thing
As wood and bone and beauty.






6 comments:

C.C. and Double T said...

I think it is lovely! You captured truth!

Brian Miller said...

wow. that was a wonderful write...love the imagery you use...to bring the truth...tight.

alittlebitograce said...

i really liked the photos of the buildings. such beautiful architecture and imagery.

emily wierenga said...

you are a writer. really really stunning....
loved this:
The pleats of your paper become the folds
Of your body resting on wood.

keep putting words to the people you see. there is a book in there. and thank you for honoring us with your post, friend. xo

Beggars said...

I will miss you and your poetry!
Cristina

Jingle said...

fabulous poem.
your images speak and add credits.

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