The first piece was given to his teacher.
She was tall and young, fresh out of college,
and full of ideas yet to be dashed.
She gave him things to occupy his time
and maintain his interest in the world today;
concepts well above the age of his peers.
The piece was a marker, fat and orange,
misconstrued as a racecar in his down time.
The second piece was given to his friend.
A young boy, petty but loyal to those loyal to him.
The friend let him sing to his heart's content,
of things from FM radio and his father's records
and high-fidelity reel-to-reels.
The piece was a mix tape, short and incomplete,
with terrible quality from being held to the speaker,
of songs and artists they both knew already.
The third piece was given to his crush.
A young girl, pale face and short, dirty blonde hair.
The girl knew nothing of him, but he didn't care;
he had in his mind an entire world built around her,
with computer passwords of her name,
and lists replete with the number one by her name.
The piece was a sheet of computer paper,
folded as narrowly as it could be
without disrupting the text, name never written
and mislabeled by its messenger anyway.
The fourth piece was given to his father.
A short man, a commanding presence, a great humorist,
and a pillar of studied, stoic belief.
Their disagreements were hidden often by hems and haws,
and discussions were ended sometimes by the declaration
of entering into supposedly dangerous territory.
The piece was a note of a small success,
waiting patiently on a desk for his approval
which would turn on him and bring shame
to a cause he stood for.
The fifth piece was given to his first love.
A slender woman of no tall stature,
devout in everything but learned of many wrong sources.
She lived by an older standard of living,
with an older understanding of life,
and relied on the teachers of these standards
for all of her life's necessities.
The piece was an ordinary gold necklace,
given to him by his grandmother,
given to his first love by him,
and returned to him years later
with a cold, business-like letter.
They could have hung it in a museum,
a pastiche brought together and made one man's pangaea,
sitting in the top drawer of an unassuming toolbox.
Author notes
Freswinn.
Antique green.
=P
A contest entry
- Round one of three: by islekine.
600 points, ended October 8, 2008, 10 entries
Bronze trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Well?
Comments
1 - 6 of 6
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Wow, if I could give you a gold for this one, I would. This is truly an amazing write! I just love all the characters in this and how you created them within my mind with tangible, practical things and solid emotion. Very real. No fantasy, but the objects we know in our life and can feel in our fingers. It makes me remember these important little details in my life and inspires me. What is most impressive is the thread that you wove through each stanza to keep the reader involved and interested.
I truly enjoyed this wonderful write, thanks for sharing!
Blue~
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Boy....
Now I know I said most unique theme...and for that ...you have captured this soooo well...BUT being a stickler for focus and flow...etc. I would really have you edit this...in one of those types of contests...The way you portrayed this is really great...I loved the thoughts...all of the "pieces" wove together nicely...after the contest...if you would like...I can help you "edit" this...and it will be a real winner....I may have to up the amount of people who go to round two...right now I have you as a possible...once all of the entries are in, I will make a final decision...Thanks again...this is really great...
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It depends on what you have in mind for the editing, I suppose. I liked the outcome but sometimes a writer gets caught up reading it how they mean it and not how it sounds like they do.
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p.s. no matter how many times i look at the word 'piece' it always looks like there is something wrong with it.
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beautiful simplicity
there is nothing too deep to understand or too complex to ingest on the first reading, however this poem manages to leave me with 101 indescribable feelings.
its depth, i think, is in the questions it raises. also, the final punch of the last line, simple though the line may be, has wide ripples that spread far beyond the reach of my consciousness.
incredibly well done.
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=) I don't feel that I am a complex person, so I tend to keep things very simple. I feel that poetry is little more than a concept written in any way you can manage that wouldn't fit in any other standard of writing (short stories, novels, etc). Which of course means that I wouldn't particularly enjoy reading things like Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's "Evangeline" if it didn't actually tell a beautiful story. Many of my poems are only somewhere between 3-10 lines, and I almost never use rhyme.
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