Iron Windows Love Song For the Dead Two Poems
Iron Windows
Come Friend,
come one and all...
It will take but a few minutes,
I have a story to tell you-
Take note up.
Read what I have to say.
I hope your face is not of straw
and your heart not made of sorrow.
I sit in this fabric-back chair
in a corner of my writing room.
I have put to rest,
all the hurts, pains and regrets,
they seem to come and leave like
clouds with shadows,
as the rains come dancing
moving them as if they had wings;
these times I feel-we're ideal:
comrades in a world with
iron windows, holding somehow
this incurable age together.
Hence, again I say,
come friend,
come one and all...
It will take but a few minutes,
I have a story to tell you-
My hand to your hand, we have
made it this far, top deck, room 611,
although everything has happened,
nothing occurred, only wrinkles.
I am on my knees, in a cemented
lifeboat: the wind pulls, like chains
around my wrists, and ankles,
I need to be a stone pagoda to
survive in this world, to have
iron windows, holding somehow
this incurable age together. But you
folks all know this... can see them
rise and see them fall, some with
smiles, some without-characters,
thin edged characters, that only
live in a book, songs and tales:
that's the good news.
So, again I say,
come friend,
come one and all...
It will take but a few minutes,
I have a story to tell you-
Take note up.
Read what I have to say.
I hope your face is not of straw
and your heart not made of sorrow.
No: 2402/ 6-15-2008
(Written for the book "Voices out of Saigon)
Love Song for the Dead
(or, Vang's Love Song)
I was shuffled in life, with love and disgrace
I did what I was told, and took up little space
What poverty I first checked into, I didn't know:
To growl, yell and swear, and I just endured
He pushed away sin, under mud it laid for him
And I, I held my breath, and yes, just endured
Shuffled between him and them, and me, we
I took up little space, and did what I was told
And then death came for me, I died of syphilis,
With love and disgrace, under mud he laid it,
What poverty I first checked into, only he knew.
No: 2403 6-15-2008 (written for "Voices out of Saigon")
Source: http://ezinearticles.com/
Added: June 18, 2008
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