I also wrote these poems for my creative writing class a while back but forgot to post them. My teacher suggested that I submit them to the literary journal in my school, along with Salvation. I did submit them but only Salvation was chosen. I don’t mind though. It was enough that one thing was chosen to get published. That’s enough for me. I’m really happy I took the chance to send my work in even knowing that they might get rejected. I’ll keep writing and improving and putting my stuff out there. Btw, the pantoum is supposed to be centered but apparently I can’t do that on here. So, just keep in mind that the way it is intended be read and viewed is with the orientation centered.
My mother told me they’re rotten,
That’s as good as they’re going to get.
The apple and orange forgotten,
She told me not to fret.
You throw them against the wall
And they’ll splatter and make a mess.
But the indelible mark on that wall
Will only make you stress.
What good is a fruit that has withered?
What good is one that’s destroyed?
If you look back and reconsider
You’ll see that there’s only a void
I cradle the wet fruits in my fingers
As my tender thoughts of daddy still linger.
Goat on a Leash
My grandfather gave me a beautiful alpine goat with smooth grey hair, and a black and white stripe running down its dish-face. I decide to walk the goat; strap a leash around its neck and step out of the rusty truck. On the cracked sidewalk now, my old apartment building towers over me. I climb the thick cement steps with the goat, zigzagging as it walks, from one end to the other, as if drunk with longing, looking for answers in the dirty ground. There’s a large air conditioner ahead of us spewing water, beckoning to my beautiful alpine goat. It gracefully makes its way there, its thin white legs tak tak takking on the aged concrete beneath us. As it steps under the air conditioner, it melts…instantaneously. I gently yank the leash in an effort to save it but now all that remains is a white puddle. To my right is the spot where the water from the air conditioner is splashing onto the stiff ground. It’s not a puddle of clear water I see on the ground, not the kind you can see your reflection and your desires in. It’s a green, murky liquid, bubbling, brewing, leading me to believe that it was not water but acid that killed my goat.
Pantoum for the Innocent Child
The innocent child,
the idealized world,
thrown into the wild
his mind unfurled.
The idealized world
deflating around him,
his mind unfurled
as his mask grows slim.
Deflating around him
the red tricycle and blocks;
as his mask grows slim
his mind they mock.
The red tricycle and blocks
thrown into the wild,
his mind they mock,
the innocent child.