The stones that should have formed a stable base
were shifted out beneath your primal needs;
the wood that should have framed your living place
splintered from the weight of bitterness and hate
and left you wailing naked in the wind,
ambivalent at best and doubting every trust.
Tremors filled your soul with rolling dreads,
so that your own creations, wrought with care,
were shifted out beneath your primal needs,
reduced to disarray in manifest dismay
as wooden joists and girders in your mind
splintered from the weight of bitterness and hate.
And as you grew, you found yourself unsure;
you stacked your Lincoln logs and building blocks
so that your own creations, wrought with care,
were never meant to last and fell to every blast
that leveled self respect and left you stunned,
ambivalent at best and doubting every trust.
You strove to transfer fundamental shocks
throughout your play; depicting fell effects,
you stacked your Lincoln logs and building blocks
and with profound expression smashed at your discretion,
every symbol housing hope destroyed,
splintered from the weight of bitterness and hate.
Those first potentials of your intellect
were swept away by rage and disregard;
throughout your play, depicting fell effects,
your structures each collapsed as inspiration lapsed
until you grieved the wreckage of your hand,
ambivalent at best and doubting every trust.
And now you limp through life disabled, scarred;
the stones that should have formed a stable base
were swept away by rage and disregard;
the wood that should have framed your living place
rotted from neglect and left you derelict,
dwelling in the ruins left behind–
splintered from the weight of bitterness and hate–
ambivalent at best and doubting every trust.
Author notes
to learn more about the hybridanelle: allpoetry.com/Column/1086828/all=1
Written September 13th, 2006
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1 - 8 of 8
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spoken like one who knows. well mari, would you be willing to translate the portugese for me?
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I wish I haven't see this before, not the poem, but the facts.
They go and do without thinking or caring about the consequences. They hurt us, themselves and at the end they walk around lost, while we put back the broken pieces of our lives.
A frágil linha do amor
se quebra sob a força da traição
em pensamentos, atos ou palavras
E tudo o que nos resta
é encontrar a cura pra essa dor
dentro do nosso pobre coração
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Oh, this is wonderful. I love your play on metaphor in the sense of the builder. I've never tried this form of poetry. Seems tough but as I'm reading more and more I'm tempted to give it a try. Well done. I really enjoyed this one.
~Mary O -
dude! very perceptive comment!
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" as wooden joists and girders in your mind
splintered from the weight of bitterness and hate."
Sounds like a pretty cool kid frustrated with his lack of power over the world and having perceptions not in line with what he has been taught. Frustrating to be alone near the top. Loved the feeling of this, like it was yesterday.
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I like this title better...
KAY
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Great Expression
This is one of those few where I can actually tell where you are coming from with the material. I don't know about the title though. It would seem as if there would be something else there...i don't know...anyways this is a good write and i seem to feel them more when you write about the past instead of just research on topics of interest...there seems to be emotion on the screen instead of just facts...you did a great job with this one as many others of course...
KAY
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I really like this one, Trust is hard to come by especially when its been betrayed by a friend, or in a marriage, and you feel like every structure around you is unsafe, but you forge through and hope that you have learned something along the way and go to build yet again. Nice one
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1 - 8 of 8
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