04.10.02
Pi�ta
So those poems I mentioned in livejournal the other day? I'm going to post them. The second is the revised version of the first, but it's really different. Just so you know, all suggestions, critiques, hints and general inquiry are welcome. and please be honest. I've never written a poem like this before, and I don't know if I got the emotion down or not.
Pi�ta
Heart Heavy with Sorrow
I cradle my limp child.
You can't understand this pain
Until your heart has been completely torn in two.
You can't understand how there could be
any beauty left in this place
once your child's life has been stolen.
They expected him to be Great.
He came to me as a Dream.
Someone's Messiah - he's just my child.
He changed Synagogues with his Passion
surpassed what everyone had dreamed.
I only wanted him to live.
I am a hunble wife, a gentle mother.
His father a lowly carpenter.
I gave birth to something spectacular,
I gave death to someone kind.
Love was understood because of this innocent babe
who slept sweetly as the stars shone overhead.
Who wandered toward faith as a child.
Then grew into a man,
doing what he needed in order to believe.
Someone who doesn't know,
They don't really care.
Force Him Down.
Nail Him Up.
Rob him of this existance.
Then toss his body to the ground.
And I hold him
Feeling his body lose its warmth
expecting someone to come and hide him in the earth.
Dreading their arrival,
but waiting, anxious, just the same.
Here comes the true test for this man,
my child whom everyone has heard of by now.
To see if he can finish what he started:
open people's hearts to the unknown.
Or if he'll lie still in those hard rocks
the cold tomb prepared for him.
Either way my babe has died.
The thought of heaven's just a dream
at least as far away
as he would be
shut behind a boulder in the earth.
Pi�ta (Tragedy of a Ghetto Child)
The sound of the street echoes throughout
the alleyways between
these grimy buildings.
Waiting on a telephone call, waiting
for the news I know is going to come.
Another shooting in the dark of last night,
the sharpness of a gun was muffled by a dog's howl
turning through the blackness that is this ghetto.
And the heavy raindrops that rolled down the pavement
raced into the gutters.
The world around me changed with my precious baby,
dark skin tone stark against the white of soft blankets.
And as time passed that child's legs grew faster, longer.
Ran through the streets, eyes watching
What he did and I didn't want to become.
They don't know him,
only care about his colours.
Force Him Down.
Tie Him Up.
Rob him of this existance.
Then toss his body,
to be found nights later.
This long-awaited telephone call -
and I rush to hold him.
The skin of cheeks pale,
now soft against these harsh white hospital sheets.
Looking at his hand,
begging it with my eyes to move.
Watching the green lines on a screen slow, slowly.
Feeling his body lose its warmth,
expecting someone to come and steal what little I have left.
Dreading their arrival,
but waiting, anxious, just the same.
Here comes a true test of faith -
to see if he can finish what he started,
open my heart to the unknown.
Or if I will stumble,
Unable to accept what I have lost.
Either way my son has died.
The thought of Heaven's just a dream
at least as far away
as he will be
trapped beneath the heavy earth.
wunderwuman at