The Six Seasons and the Way They Are
Author's Prologue: It always seems to start with summer doesn't it?
Maybe it's the promise of a better next time,
After each and every disappointment,
That keeps us pining for another summer.
Because in summer,
It's easy to forget
You're disappointing.
Summer:
Eyeless everevergreen dragons sweep lazily through the sky,
Showering amber stones alike upon the decaying and the spry.
No regrets for those they burn,
or those they turn to stone.
The half naked men and women dance and sing alone,
A vigil for the half starved children, 365 degrees,
And they give them candy,
Cold hard candy,
As they drain the blood from their knees.
Generosity that made this stanza rhyme,
Curiosity that got me lost in thyme.
A voice as sweet as yours that kept me falling,
Despite and because of my verity,
Summer, the season of careless and reckless charity
Autumn:
The plastic nymphs pounce in their lilting prance
Upon the wilting leaves,
Mourning the poor stupid souls crumpling underfoot.
They stuff them into their saddle bags
And move on to the next.
They only see the pretty colors and the pool of light
As the trees strip their children from their shoulders.
They don't even know
That life is love, and death is strange and sweet.
They don't even know
That the leaves are wiser than they.
They don't even hear
The leaves begging the branches not to let them go.
They don't even hear
The tree weeping softly,
Who knows it has to be.
Autumn, the season of ignorance
Winter:
Consumers sell their souls
To the Consuming
And the Consuming sit down at the table,
With their little plastic daughters,
Their face-painted sons,
And their price-tag wives,
With their trademark smiles.
With their copyrighted faces.
Crystalline cubes
And glossy fire
Glaze the stagnant landscape and
The little paper cutouts,
From all the old magazines.
The lucky ones sleep their lives to dust.
Only the foolish stumble on.
Red rosy cheeks, murmuring blue lips,
Veils of their lackaday hearts
And their lackluster minds.
I have to look at my reflection in the frozen pool,
Where the fish have forgotten that they aren't divine,
To recall why the icicles loathe me.
It's hard, in the frost,
Wrapped up in a thousand itchy woolen layers,
To remember that I am not beautiful.
Under the surface, a new world is born.
Where the coral dances with the seaweed,
And forgets that it is old,
Forgets that it is hard,
Forgets that nothing's right.
And I-
I don't know what to say.
Just keep faking it,
Pretending that I know anything.
One more day spilling words from my mouth.
Pretty thoughts.
Beautiful mind.
Winter, the season of forgetfulness
Spring:
Sitting on the bench in the forest
By the crumbling ruins of what must have been someone's home once,
I watch the last snowflake die on my finger.
And I can't help feeling that I've lost something beautiful.
A thousand little beating hearts, two thousand little trusting eyes.
Born just to close.
Shuffle home, hands in my pockets.
I pick the prettiest flower.
And I stuff it into my pocket.
To forget until laundry day.
When I will find it wilting and lifeless.
So full of regrets and forgotten promises.
Lather,
Rinse,
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
I wonder if it's even worth it.
If a thousand have to die,
To make room for one more.
And here I am again.
Sitting on the bench.
By the gaping hole full of flowers.
And I pick the prettiest one.
Spring, the season of false pretenses, and
All the things you forgot to mention.
My Left-Side Brain:
The grass, it only listens, but has no voice,
As it sways with the wind and bends
Towards lover's cliché.
It cries at night.
I know this because the grass loves me in my dreams.
The bird, it sings, and it's heart slowly dies,
Because it's words are fruitless and hollow.
I know this because a deaf bird still sings.
Ask yourself
Are you the grass or the bird?
Or the lowly despicable moss, which neither listens nor speaks?
Or are you the barefoot girl, white dress, running through a field of red poppies,
Hearing, but not understanding,
Speaking, but never heard.
Most people only know life is hard.
I've learned it,
While my third eye shed a tear and looked away,
While my fingers bled and my heart ached.
Turn left, harsh reality
My Right-Side Heart:
Look into my eyes,
What do you see?
A girls who's too happy, too silly.
And not a girl who has to tell herself everyday to smile,
So she won't turn out the way the charts said she would.
Look into my mouth,
What do you see?
A girl who likes to talk too much,
and doesn't know when to stop.
And not the girl whose afraid
That if she stops she'll never start again.
Look into my hands,
What do you see?
A girl who's to easy to like a person,
And not the girl who trusts over and over again,
Because she's so used to being hurt.
And who's learned that life's too short for hate
Even if you're surrounded by it everyday
Look into my hips,
What do you see?
A girl who's had a bit to much to eat.
And not a girl who's struggled all her life,
To be anyone but herself.
Look into my legs,
What do you see?
Waste and disuse.
And not the girl who was born without a point.
Look into my feet,
What do you see?
The same old pair of dirty shoes,
And not the calluses,
From all the time spent running from bullies and preconceptions.
Look into my heart,
What do you see?
A trembling whisper struggling to be heard.
Look into my heart,
What do you see?
A girl that cares more than she'd ever let on
Please just look into my heart,
And tell me, what do you see?
Turn right, insecurity
By Talia Goodman
Author's Epilogue: I always like to sign my name at the end of the poem.
So maybe people will read it through,
And won't remember that it's not supposed to be beautiful.
Thank you.
