[untitled]

when I remember my childhood

I think of bricks.

I think of bricks piled up in dirty dissaray

bricks that hummed and held

the crescent furrows of yellow forsythia

to the trammeled grandfather's garden

moss grass breathing in water and footprints

and the danger of summer dragonflies

 

I think of the brick building of my kindergarten,

bricks kissing bricks with dirty white teeth

bricks even enough to keep us in the lines

that are so unnatural to little bodies

stone to control and corner the frenzied mass

of orbital imaginations, all swinging and swaying

from tree branch to sunlight to ship to scream

until we fell like unripe flowers

into blissful sleep.

 

 

 

when I think of how I ended my childhood,

again, I think of  bricks

of the rusted morter lining the open ovens

in bill's pizza, where the neon italian smell

judged my uneasy drag of a broken cigarette

my eyes clouded in awareness

of the ease with which

hard foundations crumble

and track echoes in their dust

Reviews

[Markymark]

Well, this is an older piece I see, but I love the style of it. I peruse over writer after writer, 90 percent with no real love of words and carefully putting together ideas. Not so with you...you kept this piece interesting and I can really visualize some parts of the subjects childhood, and eventually innocence lost. Interesting take brick by brick.

Great write, hope you check in to the cafe once in a while.